Bluntly Speaking

Da Vinci and Divine Dilusions

2006-05-19T17:16:00.000-07:00

Okay, I’m sure you’ve heard the buzz about The Da Vinci Code film’s release. Not only are some folks beside themselves – but some are (get this) protesting via a death strike. Literally killing themselves because they disagree with an idea ...

Um, ironic isn’t it that Darwinism is in play fighting a faith. What do I mean? Think about it Theologists' biggest nemesis the dreaded, “Survival of the Fittest,” is presently playing itself out over faith. Yep, the people stoo-pid enough to kill themselves over a film – that most I am sure have not even seen – a fictional tale that boohoohoo, disagrees with their beliefs. Misplaced martyrdom and pure Darwinism: themselves are weeding out the simpletons among the strong. Goons. And I mean that in the nicest way.

I have seen the film (full review at http://www.bluntreview.com) and it is first and foremost a thriller whodunit. But, yeah it’s kinda the anti-Passion of the Christ if you’re into the whole Jesus was a virgin born virgin died deal. But, I say why would a handsome Jewish fella be single in those days? AND what is the big deal if he was betrothed? Holy criminey – sex isn’t everything, and doesn’t the bible itself go on and on about the importance of union between a man and a woman. All others a sin? Hmm, seems to me it’s another case of reading want you want, taking what you want, and kind of pretending you don’t see what you don’t want to.

Truly isn’t it time we looked at this book – that pooped up after an emperor was loosing control of those pesky Christians - with an eye detached from mere faith and wonder a bit about its, our, origins? Please people. Faith is just that. Faith. The bible helps folks follow a faith, but in your heart is where the spirit lies.

Oops I’ve gone and perched upon my soapbox. But, right now as we read this or debate whether or not The Da Vinci Code is evil personified, every day – in the real non-fiction world - children and animals are abused beyond fathomable belief, woman traded like baseball cards, men are kidnapped to populate armies – sometimes to fight their own families in the name of “god.” This we can live with and pretend is not happening, but Ron Howard directs a film DARING to cover a best selling fictional BOOK’s deciphering of another best selling book (the Bible) and people are willing to kill themselves in protest? Stand up and fight for what they believe is unjust? What’s next Paris Hilton as Supreme Court Judge?

And speaking of decipher. Louis Cipher. Lucifer. FOX has been sending me alerts – press alerts – on that stoo-pid new OMEN film being released on 6- 6-06. Every day I get a fed ex’d postcard delivered at the crack of dawn at a cost of what? 15.00 per alert? The over perky Fed Ex guy shows at dawn (well 900am), and I assume (naturally) it’s my neighbor who has forgotten my “Not before 10:00am” Intrusion policy…I open the door in my blanket ala toga’d, sans make up, and hair in a twirly Tim Burton-esque grinched point. It’s not the “best” time of the day for me…the guy is mortified and dumps (stealthily) the poops for the press. Today he just snuck the package in the doorwell.

Oh, and ahem the date on the postcard warns that it is almost 6.6.06 Hahahah. Um, 2006 is not 666. Duh, It’s so dumb I cannot type one more character.

Wait? Did I just give the new Omen free PR?

DRAT.

Da Vinci Decoded at http://www.bluntreview.com

It Aint Angelina Jolie Lips She’s Sporting

2006-04-28T13:12:00.000-07:00

Okay. I have a friend in New York who likes to buy me beauty products. Expensive “finds” she discovers en route to the poor house.

She has been a friend since we were toddlers and knows, I am incapable of spending 40.00 for lip-gloss. I just wont do it. Call it the Scot’s blood that runs along side my Hungarian blood. The 5.99 stuff is the same in my eyes…and I have 34 bucks left over - burning a hole in my pocket - to frolic about with while sporting the reasonably priced version of the make-up. It just makes more sense.

So, she sends me some hoity celeb hawked lip-gloss in a swell cutesy bag – the fancy hand painted bag is used to blind the consumer of the high price tag for gelatin-based color… I place it upon my dresser and wait for a "special" eve to break out the good stuff.

Viola. About four days later I have this super fun event at the Egyptian Theater with coupla great guys: Eddie Muller and James Ellroy. We all just did the commentary for Warner Bros. CRIMEWAVE. I directed/produced and they spoke about the film – it’s gold and will be released within a Warner Bros. Home Video set …soon.

Well, Eddie Muller, who's considered the Czar of Noir, has a Film Noir Foundation he’s started. It’s a grassroots foundation developed to bring lost Noirs back to the public eye, and restore those films that time has abused. He and a group of cohorts also host a yearly Film Noir Festival in San Francisco. They were bringing it to Los Angeles for a weekend. I promoted it and got hundreds of emails from BluntReview.com readers that were excited to go. The opening night was sold out and Ellroy was to speak. Those of you, who know this cat, know that’s an event in itself. Muller was going to kind of reel the man in – KINDA.

The two were presenting CRIMEWAVE in all its glory on the big screen. Sterling Hayden 75 feet tall blazon upon a screen? I am there – even if I have seen the film ten times at this point. “You cannot get enough Sterling in a week,” is one of my mottos.

So, I get dolled up as depending on the evening perhaps we will venture out post viewing, grab a friend and head out – wearing the new fancy lip-gloss my friend sent atop some cool blood red Film Noiry plumper base.

I was not to see a mirror again till well past the witching hour as I am barely the female habit sort as it is…

Big mistake.

See, the new lip-gloss apparently has some sort of reaction with the bottom coat and creates a scary Lorre-esque clown-lip effect; I am swollen and have a ring-o-gloss circling my lips. Super creepy. I have no idea.

I also do not leave after the show – no – or it would be a story of escaped embarrassment – which never seems to be in the chess game Gad’s playin’ with my days. I have a “social” evening. I usually exit stage left and shimmy home in time for the hour of watching South Park re-runs strewn across the couch spoon-feeding bon bons to my elderly poodle.

Not tonight.

I waltz over to a few BluntReview.com readers to say hello, meet the PR rep I deal with at the theater and run down to say hello to Eddie and James – all the while video and cameras are flashing. I have no idea – and no one says a word – that I have this lip thing that looks like a five year old that’s eaten half a dozen red pops without looking at a napkin.

I notice about three hours after adding the lipstick – just enough time to be in full allergic reaction mode. I look, in a word, bizarre.

As this is Hollywood I suppose a few folks witnessing my lip faux pas figured it was botox gone bad. But, needless to say, I certainly made an impression with my readers – now many of their “caught-in-the-headlights” expressions become perfectly clear. I thought they were stoned or just strange. But, I may be safe from ridicule as I have MS – a disease no one gets till they get it – so many probably figured my lip protrusion was one of the many symptoms. Always look for the silver lining right? My horrific disease bought my a “get out of humiliation free” card. They probably thought, “Poor kid. Well, she does have a brain disease – guess she can’t quite get the lipstick between the lips, and on the actual lip part of her face. Poor thing. Don’t stare.”

I tossed the lip-gloss.

http://www.bluntreview.com

Just My Luck!

2006-04-06T15:48:00.000-07:00

Okay last week I had this wildly unique experience of being a part of an event that touched my heart. Director Julian Temple is making a documentary on Joe Strummer (who you may or may not know was very important to me). My gal pal was being interviewed for the piece and asked me to join her for a campfire chat/party. It was very special.

The “set” was peppered with Joe-style furniture; an oversized comfy-chair accented with cowboy pin striping, an eclectic collection of mod-meets-mexi thrift chairs, a ratskeller-esque couch and a few TVs with the fronts smashed out (I guess it’s punk and does not show the lighting).

Around this array of kitchi-kool hang-out furniture was Joe’s 1950’s Cadillac, a row of waving multi national flags, and a stunning shiny chrome Airstream camper. The centerpiece was a “roaring fire,” Hollywood style. That is, a propane gas fed psuedo campfire complete with faux woodlike logs set in a perfect circumfrence. where Joe’s family and friends laughed rememered and met for smile, as Temple taped and did selected one on one’s. This whole surreal serene spot was atop Griffith Park in a private heliport area (rentable to film crews) that overlooked the whole city of Los Angeles down to the ocean – a spectacular view I hadn’t even known existed.

This was a magical night. ‘Cept one snafu.

I am – and have always been - a sweet blooded buffet to the insects of the night. I’m the one you want in the group so the rest are safe from these parasites. As this was a protected area you could not drink, smoke or WEAR INSECT REPELENT. No eco-system finagling allowed. So, naturally I was being eaten alive once the sun set. And the sun had set itself fast, tucked in tight, and put a do-not-disturb sign across its dark horizon. I was getting miserable. I refused to give in to weeakness coming on from the depletion of vital fluids and sat trying to smile as if I had that extra quart-o blood still happily pumping through my chilled carcass. I was there for four hours…

So, shoot ahead a week…

I am at my new fancy Yoga class. It’s a non-schmoozy venue filled with really nice people – in other words…not the pseudo riche that speed through Yoga trying to suck in the peace and good karma like the class is a spiritual ATM and because they heard it’s very “in” to stretch and contort. Then post “ohms,” immediately reboot the cell phone, jump into the Hummer, and hook up the coffee IV. No. My place is truly relaxed, low key and not even a patchouli wearer in sight.

I wear big girl sweat pants and a Steven Segal sized tee. This paticular eve my hair was in my signature pre-shower Grinch twist and I skipped the mirror check en route to the front door figuring, “It’ll be the same middle-aged folks and me – I aint there to impress anyone.”

Now, my legs were bitten raw and welts had replaced mini-bites. The itching ceased, but my legs looked as if I had some sort of tropical rash or worse an S.T.D.. Getting the picture?

Naturally - what walks in the door of the place? A mansteak who looks as if he is some sort of experimental love child of Javier Bardem and Benicio del Toro from the Island of Dr. Moreau. And this slabo man heroin had the good sections of each. I immediately take notice. Then it, err, he speaks as expected – or wished for – in an Antonio Banderas-ish drawl. Oh no – the smit bug was hovering! This buck was the carbon-based definition of MY TYPE.

So I immediately ignore him and avoid eye contact of any kind while shuffling to the other side of the mat. These ploys are my signature way of showing I’m absolutely smitten.

He plops right next to me and says something like, "Hello" or "Hi," – I couldn’t hear through my heartbeat-in-the-brain that immediately started when he was within a foot of me.

I manage to some how seem semi-sane and get through the ordeal. But not before an embarrassment – topping the day my booby burst free exposing a breast LIVE at the 73rd Annual Oscars on the red carpet. I digress (cue cartoony memory waves and harp sounds)I bent over in my fancy schmancy gown, instantly broke the spaghetti string strap as one of the twins danced out doing a Jimmy Durante impersonation. Nervous PR reps wondered if I’d popped the boob out on purpose for publicity and began rushing their celebs from the paparazzo’s flashing frenzy. I didn’t, it was simply a bending in Gucci gone wrong.

Back to last week’s trauma and soon to be mental scarring.

I am feeling his eyes all over me. I was mixed with joy and shyness as the instructor asked us to, “Position 4,” our bodies. That is an ultra unflattering movement that involves hoisting your ass over your head and your legs up to the sky. As I do this, however, the big over size sweat pants I am sporting betray me and slide down toward my shins – uncovering my three-day-old mosquito welts. Welts that have aged to the point of puffy blistering syphilis-like craters. I just wanted to roll into position 12, “The Fetus,” and die.

By the end of the class some how the handsome chap had maneuvered to the front of the class, directly opposite of my area, and struck up a conversation with the mini-waisted big-breasted model with the cell phone clipped to her spandex. I couldn’t blame him.

“Why is god so cruel?” I begged silently towards the sky.

Then I heard it my answer – this man was asking the yogi master if he could LITERALLY sleep in the back as he was being evicted. Ah yes. Of course! This hunk was a Hoser. And I was saved and protected from myself by my guardian angel who has promised me NO MORE LOSERS - and looks like Nic Cage in my imagination. See, he was there because even though I know in my heart I always attract these creatins, and I obviously have not perfected my invention of sunglasses that probe into the inner-pre-scan-loser-spotting ray section of the brain, (aka The Dickhead Detectors - the prototype can be found in the BluntReview.com store), my clever the angel - who obviously has a sense of humor - chose a somewhat cruel, yet effective, turn of events to assure my safe escape from another doomed relationship, and provide a great Martini hour tale en route post experience. Brilliant actually.

I walked a little lighter towards my car. But just in case, still wary of my new found power-of-loser-resistance, I quickly switched the music in the car from a world beat mix to an anarchistic rebel yell of defiance via the “London Calling” cd.
This odd point was needed - beleive me. The seemingly unintentional musical switch was actually a proud salute to my Guardian Angel’s guiding protection, as I knew the wickedly handsome beau was right next to me – basically lurking – or perhaps perusing the alley for proper element coverage for the evening - and if he heard the world beat of the current musical selection he would have a perfect excuse to talk to me next week – I was not giving him that psychological edge. I am just not that strong…yet.

Self-sabotage or self-preservation?

Hmm.

http://www.bluntreview.com BluntReview.com

Bluntly Speaking: A Big Old Batch of Lemonade

2006-01-28T13:21:00.000-08:00

Bluntly Speaking

There are a few annoying - none the less true - verbal clichés in the world; the most notorious of these phrases involving the fact that life is sure of few things but you can count on death and taxes.

I ad to that conundrum of truths a special human phenomenon – if you will - Jon Brion.

It’s been a few months since I was able to sally forth to Largo – Brion’s Friday evening menagerie of mayhem. I asked for a four-top table for a few friends who were in from various parts of the world and doing the film festival/awards season.

See, I feel, a good-deed-for-the-day is done when one tunes in , or turns on , another person to a soulful slice of rarebit in this hectic, often homogenized, world.

This small gathering of mine for de jour was a nice group of what they call in LA ”creatives.” They were I a sort-of micro-social gathering of the cogs of a fine film's production.

We had the obligatory actor (– who caused people of the public to stop and look at him in that RCA dog pose, wondering where they’d seen him - gawking but not speaking). Though tonight, sadly, his handsome face was radiating no light comedy. He wore an O'Neill face of a harmed heart; he has recently lost his wife, best friend and lover of 18 years, and was trying to emerge slowly back into the fold of society. We promised him great music and booze. The other representation at the tisch was an indie director. His current film is in the festival farmlands looking for love and distribution. His new adventure will have him off to Hawaii to film a new feature among the beauty. Me, the dreaded writer. And, rounding–off bevy of talent, - who ordered her first drink as we entered the club (ahem)- is my sister friend who happens to dabble in cinematography when she’s not literally sailing around the world (film festival to festival) in her 1940’s yacht, to traffic the flow of films, from port to port like a Columbian overlord works heroin (though the films in question actually meet her via fed ex in the port-of-destination– no sea swells and scurvy tales of faring the triangles for these celluloid yarns).

For their audio and cerebral pleasure I offered up my style of personal heroin. Jon Brion. I had to do something with my guests. We started at my house. I had a great cd Henry Rollins had burned for me – French music circa 1964 café rue. I was sharing. Little did I know how apropos this musical treasure was going to prove to be mon cheri j'adore.

Hmm, what does one do with the Capote-esque crowd that culminates for two eves, once a year-ish? The entertainment gene in me felt the pressure. Plus, we were here within the city of phony baloneys, bimbo conversants, and the dreading landscape of stretch Hummers. Yech. Inside is safer. I for one was content (as usual) staying in sanctuary with a good cd and chatting about world subjects till dawn's light. But I was the hostess – and we were low on flavor enhancing aperitifs…they needed to vacate and mingle among the bees.

“Ah yes!” I thought, “Guaranteed, artistical refuge!” I shall take them to Largo.

I admit, I used a bit of clout to arrange the table. Hey, my name is still good for some things, and we all deserved a bit of special treatment...

It had been a tough year for me too. I lost my dog-son of seventeen years (and I had to “make the decision”). I have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis after a horrific motorcycle accident’s MRI revealed many answers to odd questions I’d passed over as quirky flashbacks. And started a dream job that will change my $25.00 a week living habit. Till now, due to demand, I "held on to pennies like a prisoner" as they say in the bonnie scotts.

Oddly, a guy I don’t even know has pretty much been my only reliable constant in the past year. I knew what was lacking in this Brave New – unmapped - World of mine, was an up-to-date shot of pure uncut Jon Brion music; I can count on this lad for a dose of smiles and giggles - without any relationship drama; the perfect date...
Hahahahaha. I digress.

We got to Largo sat and pre-show chatted.

The place was unusually electric – something was in store for the intimate group of believers. Brion’s play friends are of the exquisite set. I try not to scope the room; it’s so tacky ya know. There's always a recent celeb-of-the-week in the rustic shadows.

But, even though I was trying not to scope-out-the place, I could have sworn I saw Michel Gondry. Nah. “Hey,” I thought, “Is that Kayne West (again)?” Nah. Okay I had to stop half-sleeping/hallucinating and calmly sip the tall Guinness before me (served with the straw for my Howard Hughesian phobia of germ contact with the rim of the glass…). Chill-out chick.

Mr. Brion – who I have not seen in six months - gets up and has a terrible cold – of course that doesn’t stop him. Contrary. I instantly know this means (because I was a Friday-night Largo barfly-of-sorts over the past year and a half), Jon will be doing a lot of those wonderful head tripping solo-y guitar riddled self-feeding pieces. Of course the man plays alone any way – but I mean he takes a song turns it inside out, reverses a bit of its structure throws in a twang of cultural hoopla – a riff from another land for those listening – and trips the light fantastic into Sudafed land.

As an audience member while he indulges his throbbing brain - and if you are remotely into letting your guard down – it’s a bit of a journey.

The table of four horsemen were positively just in the mood for this kind of excursion from Earth.

Brion whips up a set of musical magic (per usual) then invites MICHEL GONDRY jam. He also asked a great piano player to join in the dream – but as I was sick myself I missed the name of the talent…

Jon’s “real” audience knew and went beserk. I was happy a few near me didn’t recognize Gondry (so my musican faux pas was – could be - excused…)

Okay. Michel Gondry is my third favorite – living - director. I actually paid retail for his dvd collection (unheard of for me…). Those not in the know, know now – Gondry does all The White Strips videos, Bjork, my all-time favorite video of dissecting music via modern dance, and of course, likes to direct Charlie Kaufman scripts; a Renaissance man extraordinaire. Michel also plays drums …

HEAVEN.

Then the set-break. My guests, the director and actor depart in an almost post-coital fashion; beaming and all glowy, their steps (for a while) a tad lighter despite life's cruel jabs. My duty done.

But Alex and I stayed – determined to squash the sleep fairies that were parading in, slipping past Mike the door guy, trying to woo us back to out blankets and pillows.

We made it – barely. At about - I don't know 1:00am - Brion returns to the stage. Rips out a couple songs and decides it’s play time kids. He beckons Adam Levine to the stage. Adam dutifully wiggles through the expectant crowd. Next Kayne West. And as I dared to dream – yes – Michel Gondry joined the trio. They did a few West songs and odd a Chip and Dale cooing amongst the talents. As tired as I was, some how I still managed to drink in the spectacle. This was (believe it or not) the second time I’d caught West and Levine playing in the sandbox here.

When Gondry left the stage, and knowing he’s French, I amused myself by yelling as he passed, “ I love you man.” Like a girl-fan at a Lynard Skynard concert sans the lighter in hand waving.

Post concertette Gondry was hanging out in the corner – chatting. Flash bulbs were going off. Instead of departing with my dignity (an act I am incapable of here – as I continuing pull a Stan and practically throw up in Brion’s presence) I made the executive decision (for what ever reason) to be geek chic and coo at Mr. Gondry.

I stood in that dreadful “meet and great” line. When I was in his audience my mind betrayed me as (trying to be cool) I blurted out like a fandork, “ Thank you for everything you’ve ever done.” Hey, at least, I didn’t say the ever-confusing deal, “ Thanks for being.” Which, I personally think says it all, but folks tend to wait for - being what?

He was beside, Patricia Arquettetcroques (who was in Human Nature and is on Medium). Trying to be polite. And realizing another talent was before me. I said, (like an ass), “ Oh, and congratulations.” Her shows like number two or something. Then, as if the hole was not sinking swiftly enough, spotting Patricia’s guest, Liv Tyler, I said, “Oh, and you’re just stunning.” I felt like a rabbit from a Carroll play.

I tried to quickly back up into the dark comfort of the club, trying to shake off that morbidly shy realmscape I tend to go to amid extreme talent and dissipate into the evening with my friend, who just looked as if she understood I was actually tongue-tied, but had to say thank you to Mr. Gondry. Of course I’ve interviewed him. Though in truth, during the interview, (ala The Ladder 49 red carpet Robbie Robertson spotting and meltdown fiasco) I simply grinned like Id’ eaten one of Alice’s special brownies, and left hi thinking I must know someone high up to be here…

Folks, there are few folks that bring on this morphing schoolgirl persona in me: Brion, Burton, Gondry and Bardem.I need interaction therapy.

I slept with sugarplum notes and creshendoing backbeats wailing in my head; in other words, like a babe in a toy factory with a thousand dollar gift certificate during a 75% off sale.

Sure, there’s been a heaping helping of sucky mold infested lemon deals in my life this past year – but then this impish cusackmccartney styled man hits a few instruments and reminds you why you actually bother getting up everyday. Because, we lose a few we love, we trip through these sitcom like scenarios that convince you God’s playing a game of chess (for fun) with your life and then viola. You go to Largo; a womb like world of wonder – and Guinness on tap. Brion helps you make lemonade with life's sourest of lemons.

Go Buy Gondry stuff->

Emily Blunt's : Jon Brion CD Reviews/Interview and way more glee than should be legal->

Fear of Flour

2005-11-24T09:27:00.000-08:00

An Emily Blunt Rant

Fear of flour. Yep. It’s true. As we grow older and more comfortable with ourselves, we admit things. My fears and phobias are simple and not necessarily rational; are these things suppose to be?

My mom is to blame – as are most of our adult traumas of the psyche.

She loved to cook – as do I. She did however tend to maintain a kind of post-war attitude about foods. My brother and I noticed, while unpacking at a new home mom’d bought, this Morton’s Clam Juice Bottle.

I’d sworn I’ seen that bottle in Wakefield nearly three years prior. And, my brother, who has five years on me, recognized it from a small place we lived in Melrose ten years back. Gross. So old was this bottle of clam juice it had actually started to evaporate. Shudder.

When we asked our mother if we could finally throw it away she said, “ Vat, und vast da stuff? You tink da food grows on trees!” Up into the cabinet it went. I tore a smidge of the label as a way of "tracking it."

Our first reaction - or protective instinct - was to never eat her signature Clam Sauce with Linguine again, the second thought was, “How would you dispose of the bottle?” I mean really. By now there’s bacteria and so forth that Steven Hawkins would ponder over. If we dumped it down the sink it could harm the city’s water supply. If we threw it in the trash it could break and exude fumes, or seep into the city dump's soil and innocent little moles, while feasting upon the remains of some succulent Twinkie circa 1972, that had been "tainted" with a drop of my mother’s long-expired sea (<- the start of life as we know it claim many) product would morph into some kind of half clam half man carnivorous six-foot beings with death ray eyes and elongated fangs. Or the juice could sprout a new kind of mold that would - over eons – populate he Earth and claim our little planet as its own.

What ever. It sat on the shelf (though now I swear I saw a Jolly Roger in place of the corporate logo!). It's still with mom - it's now in Florida retired on the shelf - lurking.…

But, back to the flour.

So, you get the drift; my mom saved everything and tends to not waste food.

We always had bags and bags of cooking flour around. Somehow it fell upon me to get the flour while she was creating.

A sweat would break, my palms itch. What would I find in the flour! I must have been a pirate in my past life. I have an unnatural fear of scurvy, love the open seas, and despise flour.

Why? Read on...

See, there’s these…. these…. weevils or something that seem to appear – suddenly – even in fresh flour. WHY. They are like beetles or something. suits of armor and quick as a fan to the side of George Clooney.

My mom is also a Felix Unger personality; you can literally eat off her floors. This is not a dirty woman’s cupboard – yet there the beasts were. Scurrying. Trying to disappear into the sands of time. Yet, they seemed actually willing to be baked into the Swiss-apple pie de Jour. Was it some twisted master plan to invade our inner beings? Or were they really just dumb little bugs thinking if they can't see us, we can't see them; I lay awake at night...wondering.

When I’d complain about the brave new world thriving in the flour, my brother would advise, "It’s extra protein," and my mother would say, “Nonsense.” It was obvious they were lost to me. Their minds filled with weevils running the cogs and gears.
To this day, I am the only member of my family that does not eat, ask for, or covet, my mother's "apple pie."

I was convinced recently by a so-called friend to buy flour. I explained, “I’m not a big flour person. What would I use it for?” They went on about the glories of flour. I bought the stuff; man, it’s cheap.

Sure, ‘cause the “others” want you to hide them in your cupboard so they can spring to life from nowhere as SeaMonkeys do – their master plan.

I’d forgotten the flour. Made sure it was in the non-frequented area of the cabinets. Then one eve I was making Weiner Schnitzel. I remembered, “ That’s right, I have flour to dredge the meat through…”

Dear readers, I am still semi-catatonic. There they were; a thriving community of tiny creatures, in their powder-white metropolis with cavernous subways and northpole-ish skyscrapers. Oh sure they tried to rebury themselves – but it was too late. I was on to them. I swear I heard a low hum of morse code from the sack.

Dinner was ruined, naturally, and I threw the whole bag away. Wasted the whole bag. Double bagged it and slipped down to the trashcan a tad guilty about the other end’s new problem.

As I dry-heaved up the stairs, I swore, “I will never ever own flour again.”

Then my friend said, the weevils – or what ever they are – are actually in the cabinets and feed on flour PRODUCTS of all kinds – my brain scanned the ingredient lists present in the house as we drove. Then without a care in the world she says, “Why, they’re unavoidable,” smiling as if straight out of a scene from Pod People, as I recalled many a flour induced meal at her home; I felt ill and betrayed, alone and on guard.

I now live in a flour free home. Thank you. Today is Thanksgiving and I am en route to cook and serve, assist and devour at the very same friends' home - you know the smiling Judas of Breads…I shant be leaving her alone in the kitchen for a nanosecond. And, if she reaches for "the flour" I do not know what I am capable of.

-Em
http://www.bluntreview.com
BluntReview.com Movie Reviews, Celebrity Interviews, Music and Mayhem.

Just When Ya Start Feelin' All Bad For Yourself...

2005-09-27T12:05:00.000-07:00

Good things can come from the oddest of circumstances – truly. Okay, so I’m dating this tall older guy. Not “my type.” But, no one really seems to be (excluding apparently Oliver Stone…but that’s entirely another tale). Back tothe tail, er, tale at hand...so,"Super-Plus Tampon Man" is what you’d call fun and adventurous, and had a smart brain - so one forgives the other stuff - for a while... The downsides were manageable (especially since it was a light-no-frills to-do 'tween us). He had a few, shall we say, idiosyncrasies – a weird twitch, apparently one dress shirt to his name and an obsession with motorcycles (<- but swell fancy fast machines; the sexy kind...the evil sexy kind).

You always gain something even from the most mundane experiences or bad dating soirees and faux pas. Here I gained the knowledge that I adore driving really fast in the wind (motorcycles are really a kind of convertible heroin), and I was willing to giggle at truly bad jokes, and partake in lame conversation centering on sprokets, knowing - always - this tedium would have an end result; which was a road trip at 100 MPH in the backwoods of America.
*sigh*
In point? I dug the motorcycles – as in stayed past the point of even really liking the guy, just to ride with him - well, have him chaffuer me around at high speeds. Shallow I know - but guys do it all the time no? Did I mention he looked swell in skin-tight leather to boot. Now, who's shallow there you!

The good news is after we had “an accident,” as he kind of liked to drink and drive too (told ya before – bad taste in men is a gypsy curse in my family – see rants at bluntreview.com for that whole sad-story. The lighter-side of near-death is my new found ability to dump him guilt free – and without any real “excuse” development! He hadn't really done much to "upset" me - he just kind of "was." Breath was starting to grate on my nerves...But I was out scott-free! Well, less the permenant damage and all. Hey, it’s pretty hard to be the heal dumper after the guy cripples ya right? I’d found my silver lining in traction – who woulda thunk it. What's he gonna say, 'Sure kid . I crippled ya. But, look on the bright side...I drink too much, have luggage Vuitton wouldn't label, and I'm mediocre in bed. How could you leave me? HOW?" Tah.

Then they did a brain MRI post accident “just in case” that weird new leg numbness and eye twitch was something blood-on-brainy. Guess what? They found MS. Yep. Multiple Sclerosis. I was still okay with their words – NOT happy, natch. But, I remembered thinking, "At least it’s not a brain tumor.” Though later I would learn a tumor may have been better; they cut it out, you have some rehab and viola your back on a horse. Or your not.

So, I adapt. No more kickboxing. Period. And my mountain bike has an inch of dust. I then lost my dog – I know kick ya when your down right? So, I slid into “cheesecake mode.” There’s very little a cherry cheesecake fed ex’d from New York can’t help heal. It helped but alas left me fluffy. Yep. Twenty pounds in two months. Yech. The Dino was blasting, Darin was wailing and Rosemary tried to audibly help - all to no avail. I jhad the slumps. Bad.

Just as I was starting to get all dramatic about the woes of my life – my nephew – the semi-secret agent – pulls one of his calls and says, he’s out of Korea and en route to Iraq – sniper division. I am in a n MS meeting when I get the call...his message says, "Oh, and the cell phone number wont work in two hours – so call soon or perhaps it'll be a year." I'd gotten this call a few times… What is this an episode of 24? Well, yeah kinda actually. I ring him during the relaxation segment break; It’s true – he is leaving on a mission in the 0500am to “take care of some things…” That’s double talk obviously. So, I said, ‘Just promise me you’ll stay safe.” He says in the worst Bogart I’ve ever heard, "Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.” Dear god this little boy I love is now some manly-man off to fight in this ass war. But, he choose to do this – he found his calling – and he’s an uber Democratic patriot; so he must feel the work’s important enough to get involved. I spared him any of my thoughts and reiterated how much I missed him and he has to come back so we can chat about film. He is (ironically) always blown away that I meet celebs. Too cute really. My hero thinks I’m a hero. So, I tell him quickly (as he's checking his equipment) about the George Clooney interview. he knows my mom is a HUGE George fan - he asks if I got his aurograph. Silly goose - no. Clooney's quite cool I tell him - a regular Joe under he looks and charm. Pishaw he insists. He wants me to interview Jessica Alba; and yes he got the Frank Miller hamdcuffs I'd sent to some "location." He's still a boy.
I have o get off the line - I am just gonna wail; and there isn't enough Jazz in the house for this call. So, as shopping is a viable distraction (and safer then cheesecake and valium), I head out today spend my birthday gift certificates at Trader Joe’s. Then it hits me. I may limp, and get tired easy, but you know what? I aint gonna die of MS - it's a new chapter; hard but acceptable. I was able to break free of an increasingly annoying relationship, and most important - for one's perspective on the truly bad parts of life's swirls - I am not on my way to some country to kill or be killed. And, I am not his mom. Or frankly, I’d probably be fit to be tied long ago with his shenanigans. Oddly he’s the spitting image of Jim Carrey- so how exactly does he “slip in” places? That always piqued my interest – but, I’ve probably already said too much. (que Mission Impossible Theme....)

This Friday starts GEORGE CLOONEY WEEK at BluntReview.com: Interview, Film review (good night, and go0od luck) and a few retro-dvd Clooney reviews, and his dear Aunt's early works cd gets a nod. FRIDAY http://www.bluntreview.com

over and out of it

Emily Blunt

Heard Em Sing...Heard Em Say ; Kinda

2005-09-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

Those who read Blunt Review (or my life-diary-bloggy-deal) know a few things about me; I am often very lucky, get rockstar (aka "Kojak" in-the-front) parking spots, tend to get real emotional at and about film, and presently (post Strummer death) dislike 95% of the music out there (hence the music reviewer at BluntReview.com aint me - soundtracks aside - it wouldn't be really fair to the music people who do seem to like the homogenized crapshit pushed on them...).

I also, socially, go to musical mecca Largo just about every Friday night to see Jon Brion. I'd say,"I have my own table," But, door guy Mike doesn't care who ya is- 1st come 1st serve - which I respect. But, I digress.

So, I reserved a hightop table (not an easy task mind you)last Friday eve. I wanted under a certain photo on the wall(Kurt Cobain's) - it's the table which has the best stage view - but I was placed at the first high-top table (tah). It's under Lennon's photo, so, who's complaining? My fellow Libra and demi GOD...probably a good-luck omen.

So, Jon Brion does his usual maniacal 1st set; tonight running about the whole mini-stage, using most of his "toys." JOY.

I'd brought a friend this eve who'd come, basically, to see what the h-e-double hockey sticks, I am constantly attending the "same guy's" show for; "Isn't it always the same set ala every other musician out there?" She thought aloud. Ah, two songs in - she got it. I knew our post-arrival deal (to get her to go) was to simply stay for the first set...not till the wee hours of the morn (my usual stint) - even though, it's the second set is when Jon's friends show and play...

Fair. I'll suffer half-a-fix if it means turning my pal onto audio nirvana.

Okay, today's tale: the table next to us, marked "reserved," suddenly has a "posse" sitting (ascending) upon it. The group is big, loud and done up in that hilarious P Diddyish Gucci wear with car-hood necklaces, except for one smart dressed chap. Also thrown into the mix is a slight-if-cute nebbish sort of guy in a Starsky and Hutch-style sweater. It's dark; and even if I could have full-light, unless Jon's secret guest(s) de jour is Elvis Costello or say Steve Tyler, I dunno who they are...

Here's the fun part (you knew it was coming...). I see this table of obvious VIPs using the cell phone DURING Jon's playing - which is tre taboo. I mean this is UNHEARD of at Largo. People have been tossed to the curb for even shutting the damned things down inside while the maestro plays, er, creates. Yet, Mike the door shark does nothing. The owner Flanagan - a Guy Ritchie mobby sort - does nothing..."Hmm," I thought - these guys are big - BUT WHO in the heck are they?

Break time.

I run out and ask Mike (who's usually mum). I don't really care who the star is (he knows that in me by now), but what was with him NOT jumping on them like a rabid Rhesus monkey about the Snoop Dogg-like cell phone messaging commercial going on?

He tells me, " That's Kayne West." I admit folks I semi-blank. Then I remember he's the guy who TOLD OFF PRESIDENT BUSH during a recent interview regarding the folks down south and the horror of our response from the government; wasted lives, blatant molasses-like dispatches and terror-end-of-world meelee; super power my ass...But, back to Kayne, I think he said (and this was LIVE on air - before they could edit for west coast so I am paraphrasing from friends' information)when asked what he felt President Bush was doing about Katrina, " He doesn't care about black people." Um, or poor white people, or elderly, or gays, or cats, or chi;dren (the U.S. is number 37 in health care benefits for families and "the common folk" people! # 37).

Plus, Jon Brion co-produced West's new cd (that nugget o'info I'd just read and stored in the "possible purchase item just because if Brion's involved it outta be good" area of the cranium).

I didn't ask who the second "guy" (the sweater hotty) was...

I go and tell me journalist friend - she explodes, "That's impossible, Kayne West is doing a marathon in New York how could he be here" blah blah blah. Maybe he flew? The telethon was delayed after his outburst on Bush...but I said nothing. I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I got the name wrong." It's not like I know any names post Who/Clash/Beatle references (at which point I am Trivial Pursuit good at the minutest of facts...).

Jon gets back o stage - beaming - He beams anyway, but this was a "cutey with a surprise gift for his friends" beam; that parent has a "Puppy in the box" for you smile...

Then after sipping his signature coffee chased with Guiness, Jon introduces, "The man who told off president Bush ladies and gentlemen - Kayne West (West comes on stage - handsome fella)and (continues Mr. Brion)...Mr. Adam Levine."

"Who the hell is that?," I thought. My friend knows and as well as 99.9% of the club - as they erupt in deafening applause! I find out later Adam's from Maroon 5. Blank.

Well dear readers, ya know how you always hear about Dylan's earlt pre-legend days, when The Band, and Janis would "stop by" in his local bar/play spot and do a song or two in the Village - just for shits and giggles? Or when rock-music clubs like Boston's "Tea-Party" would have surprise sets by the Who (Keith Moon era)? The Musical Urban Legends of our music loving fore-fathers?

That was this evening. The trio of oddly unified souls "freestyled" a coupla songs for the few witnesses... West did a impromtu rap on the Katrina disaster ( wildly beat poetic - that's what rap is right - 'cept perhaps a tad more urban and rough 'round the edges?) Then Adam did a rappy-Princy voiced Beatles' song, "Nobody Ever Done Me." while Brion, played on...

Just wild. Later, Brion tried to get the two back up by starting the back-beats of "Under Pressure" the rap version. Only to be advised West had left , to which he quipped, 'Yeah, they're probably over at the Mondrian with some prostitutes..." Adam leapt from his table, "I'm still here!' Jon, a tad read faced, but not skipping a beat (pardon the pun), invited Adam up to do the Bowie version of "Under Pressure" - all harmonies and musical creshendoes. And, as always when the "guest music celeb" forgets the words of the non-rehearsed song, Mr. Brion - who is "an encyclopedia of lyrical knowledge" assisted the rockstar while we in the audience chuckled at our leader. The claw is our master...

Go check out the Amazon cd of Jon and Kayne's . Adam Levine from the fab 5 is on the first song, 'Heard Em Say." Or go to BluntReview.com - read and know Brion and order his work (in the interviews section under Music Folks) - you're only helping yourselves...

Everything Happens for a Reason...or Does it?

2005-09-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those "always there" folks. If you look to the right of something in the photo - you see me. Usually cropped out - but like Zelig - I am present. I seem to see things others are oblivious to. Perhaps it's the writer in me; always observing.
I know strange things too. Like, where to get cheap eats (good cheap eats) in basically 80% of the world. Yet, it's not like I have a morbid fear of not being able to find food - I just "find" things.

My dear, now gone friend, for example. He was in rehab when we were teens. We had stopped for food in the cafeteria. I learned non-inmate hospital food is super cheap, very clean and extremely good- if you order right. Watch the interns...Average lunch w/ all the trimmings (enough to take home) PLUS all the napkins and single-serve packs you can shove into your pocketbook runs about $4.85 in today's world. I stopped at a hospital for lunch today(free parking), after I just didn't feel like preparing. I wanted a Cobb salad, and a real Coke. Hospitals ALWAYS have "gourmet" salads... and 19274534 napkins, mini-salt & Peppers, and about 50 mayonnaise packages (it's a holiday weekend and I wanna make potato salad.... I was in bargain hunter heaven - the bonus? Cute doctors running around in their scrubs talking about the patients they swore secrecy to. I heard strange and wonderful tales while I pretended to be enthralled with my "World News, rag I parlayed from the waiting area en route to the foodski. One guy was so cute I thought - for a moment - about faking a choking. But, that's just the wrong way to flirt...Don't you think?

I also discovered places like say, The Louvre, have "cateterias." Ha. They are like five-star joints in Fargo! There's even soft violin music pumped in! I still remember the 3.00 lunch; it came with some sort of cheese array and a dessert that would make Emeril request the recipe. Yum-o-rama. Even if they doubled the prices by now - the point is museums often hide great eateries.

I am boiling things for the picnics now, opening all the procured goods and slipping them into containers. I aint cheap- I am a creative. This means I am perpetually broke for my craft. I have links up for BluntReview.com into Amazon- you buy stuff through the links maybe I wouldn't have to supply myself with condiments...
New at the site: a film review of The Constant Gardener, Terry Gilliam Interview a new CONTEST and a link to the RED CROSS for Katrina assistance.

http://www.bluntreview.com

Do try to have a nice holiday

Vanilla Flavoring: The Good Kind

2005-08-27T09:25:00.000-07:00

I have spent the past few weeks incarnating a heavy noir dolloped scene from a Mitchum film. I wander aimlessly; catching a bazillion extra-happy people sorts in in tableaus I'll never share. You know, that general fellin' bad for myself stuff that comes with the loss of a loved one, and the series of flashbacks; guilts, joy, smiles, and tears the loss conjures up and into your soul.

Then it happens! I'm post- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and half way into Eddie Izzard's Circle dvd when it hits me. I can not stand mushrooms anymore.

I don't mean druggie mushrooms - I mean the bobble headed run-of-the-mill sorts, the Asian sorts and the pickled spiced sorts. I leapt from the couch, wiped the crumbs off my carcass of gloom and decided ! Aha. I am back.

My mind was "wandering." I was sub-dividing my attention. I was thinking about shopping for "real" food again - while Mr. Izzard pointed out clever blatantly obvious facts for the hip-audience (the bible starts 65 million years post dinosaurs - yet...the Adam thing is the "beginning?" or the World Series which is only American). Still I went "elsewhere..." I am me again!

I have been surviving on flavored coffee and granola bars; okay and mini-pecan pie servings...

I believe this to be a sign. A lifting of the fog. The Carpenter-like dranatic fog I have been lost in...

I grabbed my confused poodle Taylor (named for Johnny Eager's Robert Taylor) and went for a walky woo-woo as we use to do. We went down "those streets." The new "only kid" seems to be okay too. The constant treat flow , and the bi-polarish rants of his psycho mother grabbing him in the middle of the night - just to be sure he's still breathing; and the quiet (ahem) weeping into a pillow probably made him a bit weary about his own future. His little doggy brain warning, "Hmm. Clyde pooped in the house...and now he's gone...This lady's finally snapped! Just smile, give doggie kisses and do the poodle-eye thing when she catches your eye....I'll be okay..." Or he just knows something we don't about death and realizes his brother's just ceased to be after a full and happy life.

We are going to the park today. It will be our first time since...I think he's ready. And I am so pleased I thought of the mushrooms and my new found guilt-free admission of disgust pre-purchase. Besides hating wasting food (a New Englander thing I think), I dare not watch the mushrooms declining stages.You ever see a mushroom that's rotting on the third shelf? They are ALREADY fungus - so they go to levels that make an MIT student tilt their head - trust me - it aint pretty. Well one stage is a bit cool - very Peter Max-ish, but it's followed by goo and a smell unequal (on this earth anyway).

New at my BLUNT REVIEW.com ? Terry Gilliam and The Brothers Grimm review-> http://www.bluntreview.com Plus SIN CITY is available through the Amazon clip- this is one you really must own. I pour the rich vanilla flavor syrup into the coffee and it's actually sweet again.

The Swell and the Swill of Life...

2005-08-03T00:26:00.000-07:00

My sister-friend (as best friend is a demeaning term to the other "close-ones" in your circle) lost her license in the projects of New York the other day. This set into motion a terrible stream of events: panic, police reports, anxiety about theft identity and so forth.

The precinct she went to wasn't filled with the post- 9/11 heroes we all read about - it had the back at the desk, "punished cops." The ones who take glee in the small inkling of power they have over the misbegotten that walk through their doors. Though NO one was around the clerk/copper made my friend and her posse wait about an hour - then jump through hoops like some evil David Spade-ish character; including an attempt to get her to go to another precinct deeper into the depths of despair within the "hood."

Meanwhile, my friend's like an unknown saint sort. She works now as a clinic nurse - one of those souls who does good in the "rough part of town" for people who have no insurance so - apparently - they don't count. But, they do to her and her co-workers. Enough that she makes 1/2 the pay she's worth, and schlepps across town to do the work. This kid was even at ground zero on 9/11 working for 72 hours - just doing what she could; and being told not to tell the press they were finding no "civilians." A special person is what I'm saying. One that deserved a heaping helping of "karma."

Well, she called today. A guy in the projects found her ID at the deli she stops in once-in-a-while. He mailed it back. See, good things do happen. Poor doesn't mean bad. People are nice (for the most part). It's an Ebay state of mind. It really kinda made me think. Smile for a minute. Some stranger went through the "trouble" of sending her ID back - with a note. She in turn responded, with thanks and some money for the guy to get dinner on her. Decent and right.

Me? Oh - well, I am presently on the other end of the happy chain gang. A film noir is playing in my neck of the woods - emotionally at least. In fact, I'm pullin' a Judy tonight; pills and booze - in a "don't care state of mind," Joe & The Mescaleros a-blasting.

My 17 and 1/2 year old dog is in full-fledged "end stages." In a mostly traditional family-style manner (the PEI and Gypsy union DNA in me) I am literally self-medicating the "pain" away. Trust me - it's best for all around me...With the help of a valium, a 1/2 a percecet and the chasing down with some swill beer called...Sam Adams Light (yech) - I am, functional. Barely. But, at least the self-pity heave-crying has ceased (my neighbors really think I'm mad as a hatter) .

As for the "swill?" I drink Guiness. Well, when I'm out-n-about. A friend left these behind after an outing at the cemetery films of Hollywood Forever last Saturday eve. It was that or Vodka chasers - and I'm depressed not suicidal.

I watched The King of Comedy - which I finally found on tape at Eddie Brandts haven for filmaholics. I'd been saving it for the right moment - like a special bottle of wine one finds. Then, I broke open the Murder by Death film; both STILL hilarious. And, as hoped, both films (and I imagine the pill combo) took a bit of the edge off tomorrow's dreaded phone call.

I must call in the vet. It's time. I promised my little guy I wouldn't make him stick it out for my sake; the old operations, induced life-support etc etc. He's sad, and weak and starting to lose "control." He deserves better and - because he's canine - has the right to die with his dignity. I called last week to see if they'd come to the house. Linda McCartney always said don't eat meat - she had said an animal's last glimpse of life was the slaughter house and their sense of smell ignites the fear which fills their last moments, and muscles (which we then eat) with the fear endorphins. I figure, if Clyde's last minutes are in the cold room of the vet - which he hates to the point of frothing at the mouth for a check-up - then I've failed him. It's only money after all- they will come here. I keep running some twisted Mastercard commercial in my head, "Monogram dog dish $14.00....New rhinestone collar that matches his eyes $25.00...Home euthanisia....priceless." Hey! It's how I cope.

He will lay on me and I will hold him as he goes. EASY? No way. RIGHT? Absolutely.

And my vet-like friend says they give him a kind of valium/sleeping pill....Then an injection which stops his heart. Dear god. I keep hoping he'll "just go." But, I have to be a big brave soldier. He's had THE greatest life a puppy snagged from the depths of hell (the pound a day-before his time) could have hoped for. Hell he stayed in The Elvis Suite of The Westward Ho in Las Vegas! Trekked the Everglades. Ran with wild horses in Kentucky. Hiked to the Hollywood sign, had two cat wives, a brother who always shared his chewie toys, and a "mother" who fed him sauteed garlic shrimp - just 'cause it's his favorite. He even learned to say "I love you" in dog/human. He was spoiled each day he spent as my friend - I saw to that. Even when i was SUPER broke - they ate and I hit the oatmeal.

He's sound asleep now - for the time being peaceful. Snoring away... His brother Taylor (the poodle) is by his side...Checking and rechecking stressed - apparently also aware something's goin on.. It's all quite weird - this death decision thing. Maybe He'll bounce back? He's done that three times in three months. But, ya know...ya really do.

Well, this was a fun chat huh? I think I'll go see Wedding Crashers http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/weddingcrashers.html again tomorrow night and cheer myself up. Unless they come to "get him" - then I plan on just unplugging the phone and disappearing a bit...

Psst! Hey Kid Wanna Buy 300 Cloves of Garlic? Cheap?

2005-06-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

I adore a deal. I always have. My mother use to actually take me trash picking in the rich neighborhoods (and we were not that bad off) on bulk trash day. We'd find treasures upon glorious treasure. She still has these all-silk floor to ceiling designer curtains in the living room we parlayed at about 100am from a swanky house where the new bride said, "Off with their heads." And curbside they went! We were waiting (<- mamamahahahay evil/maniacal laugh). I also later, on my own searches, found a pair of gaudy lamps which were signed and paid off half my college loan debt! True.

That same, "look at this!" feeling is had when I go to the 99 Cent store here in Los Angeles. Oddly, my friends never quite have the same experience. It is as if a walk through a different door and enter an enchanted world filled with goodies and special bits. I find Yoplait yogurt, Pedigree dog food (in Chicken-the only flavor their royals will eat), Freeman hair products, Knorr Swiss stuffs - even Clif bars! They are always remarkably low priced; at least 1/3 their "value" at the high falautin' joints.

So last week, in the refidge area, there's an industrial bag of peeled garlic - 99 cents. I mean like a six pound bag for a resturant. "So what," I think, "It'll make me cook."

Boy, truer words...I roasted, and toasted, and pureed - yesterday I PICKLED six jars worth - and i still have about 100 cloves! I have it stored in this cool actual Tupperware brand container <- so we shall see if their "no smell sticks" advertisement is true. So, here I am gettin all domestic. The poodle is by the feet waiting for dropping nums as he always is when I am by the stove creating. How disappointed he was. Do you have any idea what a hasle pickling is? Argh. You have to gather something like 4000 ancient ingredients (half of which you will use for NOTHING else), sterilized jars, and do mathmatical divisions to calculate a "large" batch, and spin three times in prayer to some Harvest God. And, the smell - oh-my-cricket! It's like sour socks after a football game (my brother was captain for six years - I know the smell when I smell it).

The Preserve Book, left over from the ex-husband called "chef," is a retro how-to book. It has a series of fun-to-do things (<- I kid). As I stir the foul mixture I read half-attentioned. You always learn sumthin' - I did not know ketchup is a word meaning a kind of chutney - swear.

Not that I ever gave it ANY thought mind you. But, you can make about 12 styles of ketchup without a tomato in the room. One was called "Oyster Ketchup," another, "Prince of Wales Ketchup."

They had a whole "meat" area which I shall be kind and not describe - but I really should take the photo of "how to peel the skin of the tongue" (<- they speak of beef)out to place on the fridge - it would make such a great diet tool. Even Tim Burton would wince at the horrific sight of the "peeling" I tell you. Imagine boiling, then physicaly peeling a tongue after carefully removing the bones in the severed section - the gal in the photo had no gloves on either! I'll stop...

Anyway, I shant be doing that, or any of the anal retentive fivehour preparations , some of these "preserves" requested - anytime soon (ever). Though, the jerky section was neat...I fell into sleep (after steeping myself in girly bath to scrape off the garlic/vinegar scent), so thankful there's a market these days that have "preserves" and "pickles." And I will never - ever - even for a dollar, buy an industrial sixed anything anywhere.

John Cusack Interview up at Blunt Review.com -> http://www.bluntreview.com

The Joy of Life Can Be Poo

2005-06-15T00:52:00.000-07:00

Life's strange...it's amazing what you'll do for someone you love. I always watched in horror as my brother gleefully changed my nephews icky diaper. I just didn't get it. Sure, I got the kid was cute and a joy, and the apple of the eye stuff...But poop is poop and I literally got sick when I was given the honor of "the diaper change" one afternoon - you try saying no! You look like Mommie Dearest or something...

But, I digress. Having decided long ago I wouldn't be a breeder type. I have two canine kids. I admit I use to marry a lot, now I don't. I enjoy the whole bed, and the toothpaste properly squeezed...and I managed these maritial shenanigans without reproducing!

But, I sure could use a hand about now - even if it was a (shudder) husband. See, one of my dogs - they are both 17 years old this year, Clyde is heading towards the grave. He's a chow/lab mix, and twenty-five pounds of pure love. When I adopted him I was told, 'You've got nine years with the lad." Well, it's been 17 glorious years of toy-toys, walkie wooos and general grandness. Now, my handsome boy, nicknamed Barrymore - 'cause he's as dramatic as John - has started to "pace." It's as if the Grimm reaper is following him with a cookie,"Come here little doggie...icecream, candy, lolipops.." and if Clyde stops the end will come.

Clyde doesn't want to go. He loves life. Who doesn't.

So, I bring him to the vet - scared to death mind you that they'll give me some malarky about him being "ready." I warned my friend I'd go Resevoir Dogs on them if they try to pull my boy from me...

I figure, he eats, walks, and poops - hence my joy of poop. If it poops it's okay. Poop is grand! It means things are all in working order. And the type of poop is important too. This is all stuff I now know.

Clyde's got the heartbeat of a five year old the vet tells me. He's thin due to age, but he's remarkably chipper for a Yoda dog. He not only tells me Clyde has perhaps a year left, but that he;s simply losing his mind. He has doggie dementia. That explains his "distance" sometimes.

Clyde's now on Zanex - a kind of "take the edge off" medicine. He's walkin' around like Keith Richards circa 1972, and every once in a while I swear I see him frolicking with "something."

I'm ready - well, not ready -- but not selfish. We have a deal. I agree to let him go...You know none of that 19 operations prolonging the inevitable and making him stay. He agrees (at least in my conversations with him) he will fall asleep one eve and cease to be - he will be an ex-parrot. But never ex-loved.

We're heading out for a quick walk now...I'm all excited to see him poop.

Bat Secret Information Leaked - Well, Figured Out...

2005-06-04T23:40:00.000-07:00

A friend - a high powered friend - rings me and says in their best Sam Spade, "You'll wanna find yourself down by the Groundlings theater by say 730pm on Thursday see." Okay, they didn't say "See" but it was that mysterious. "Just be there...there'll be a certain someone, who shall be un-named, you'll wanna be seein'" I said, "Oh, just tell me who it is?" CLICK. They went Ipswich clam on me.

See, every Thursday night the Groundling Theater does the Gas Show. It's a wildly entertaining Improv show riddled with themes and spontaneous brouhahas. And, the cast - like Mindy Sterling, Patrick Bristow, Tim Baggley, Jim Rash - and so forth call upon their "comedy friends" to step in and play...I've seen gaggle of guests that would make comedy hounds weep.

So, I had clues. I knew the friend knew that I wouldn't schlep over the hill for just anybody. It had to be Jim Carrey, Mike Myers or Will Farrell. Hmm. Jim's filming...Mike doesn't "feel" right. And Will Farrell is scheduled for all sorts of Press todos this weekend for Bewitched. Who - WHO could it be?

So, I am getting ready - contemplating on canceling - and I'm blasting the 'Edward Scissorhands' Score...when viola it hits me. Eddie Izzard.

Duh. He's my favorite "comedian." And after spending fifteen years in dank theaters with my stand-up comedian sister, he (and perhaps Emo Phillips)is the only "comedian" who still gets upon a stage - that any true friend of mine would dare assume I'd travel to see - let alone break "hush-hush" stoopid Hollywood no-tell trusts. Like I'm gonna send out an all-points bulletin- geesch!

I arrive a bit early so the friend and I can grab some chow. We get pizza. She's still all mute - mum as a Tut exhibit piece...

Poker faced, and sure of myself, I waited till she sipped her soda and said, 'It's Eddie Izzard." She choked as expected...looked shocked, and agreed. She said, 'How'd you know???!!! This is all super secret - no one knows he's coming.' I said, 'Deduction dear Watson. Jim is filming - and I interview him all the time, I love him, but it couldn't be him...Mike Myers seems anti-guest player type these days. Will, (though an ex-Groundling )has a busy PR week." and the I paused, and said, "Besides, Memorial Day when we were discussing the lending of Izzard dvds to one of soiree's guests, I was asked to do Izzard's "pear routine"...as the host quoted, 'he's her fave.'" My dinner friend said, "That's ridiculous - you couldn't know from that!" I says, "Well, you're super secret tone ment I was to be shocked not only at it being a "fave." But there had to be a lark behind the timing...Simple."

Eddie did the show and was, as expected, superb. They played with his British differences - to the glee of an audience. But, Izzard quickly caught on they were purposely using "Americanisms" to throw him off his game, and retorted with a bazillion accents, breaking the fourth wall, and diving in throwing back Britishism - while good heartedly allowing himself to be "the joke." He was not in "drag" but in sexy black boots (manly man low heeled)old blue jeans and a tight-side-ish purple and white striped shirt with a punky hair do. The shirt was all wrong- the talented lad really needs a stylist. But, again, I'm the one walkin' the dogs in my swanky neighborhood with the crusted tee-shirt from some bad movie inside out with my hair in a Tim Burton swirl - each mornin' - so who'm I to pass GQ Faux Pas-dom judgment?

Next Thursday he's at the Coronet I discovered with my bat Hollywood tuned hearing whilst ease dropping backstage. Being Ms. Blunt I was able to shimmy into to the show. Eddie's "Testing" material - so I am afraid, I can not review. He'll be on tour soon - then you'll all hear the scoop PDQ!

But, I am excited. I mean come on! It's like sitting in on a mental Mozart rehearsal for the Izzard convertees - like my self.

Know him? Well, here's a review of an Izzard "collection" deal at Amazon - I highly recommend the man. Super smart - while not talking over-your-head (Review-> http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/eddieizzard.html

Girly Girlin' Up For Da Stars....

2005-06-01T12:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, today I'm off to interview cast -n - crew of Shark Boy and Lava Girl - Robert Rodriguez's latest green-screen extravaganza for kids. I loved it...the mans such a creative genius.

So, I figure I'll bring the bring the "big" pocketbook (purse) as the swanky hotel I'm heading to has delightful toiletries...and I turn into a Film Noir dame pocketing the loot - see. I am, I confess, addicted to miniature smellie dohinkies for the bath. Small enough to explore, little enough to steal, and easy to trash if you hate them.

So, I head into the shower for my pretty-up stage and open the new sugar vanilla scrub. Okay, once again my girl gene and I have been scammed. I realized, for all my tough facade I am just a gurl. And a media snorting girly girl at that! I bought, for something like 10.00, sugar - SUGAR folks. HARD sugar. That kind they serve on sticks in fancy restaurants trying to be all French - ROCK CANDY swizzle shove into a fancy glass container with artful deign beckoning me. SUCKER.

I reach in and get a glob of rock and oil (now balancing the GLASS container so as not to have a scene from Psycho - accidently. Still, I precede. I rub (read: as if with sand paper) this pastry topping upon my leg. HA! Exfoliate...Exfoliate - ya sure 'cause it peels a layer of skin back towards the marrow! OUCH. Obviously, I didn't dare shave me legs...

But the painful accrument did smell quite nice - like cookies Christmas morn (literally). Then I threw on a bodywash of "Cotton Candy" - I am staying with the whole candy store theme today in honor of Shark Boy's kid stars ya know? I step out and my dog starts to sneeze in disgust. I have overdone the bakery body bath.

Now I must get dressed and pray wasps and bees leave me be en route to my car...I smell like a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory escapee, and a huge dollop of butterscotch. It's weird but kinda fun. Though the "sugar" scrub faux pas shall not be ventured into again. TRASHED it.

Gosh, I hope they have the verbena body wash at the hotel today...LOVE that stuff. And hey, if I'm schlepping over the hill to chat about their film - the least I should get is a nice self procured gift ensemble right?

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Alice Cooper and Stewart Copeland? Yeppo.

2005-05-25T16:43:00.000-07:00

There's a new documentary heading to theaters called Rock School - not to be confused with the Hollywood production: School of Rock - thank you very much. It's about an after school venue where young minds learn rock and roll music (review up next week at BluntReview.com).

So, last night my friend and I headed to the LA premiere...after the film everyone skadattled to the "after party" at The Knitting Factory. The Knitting Factory is a dive- circa 1983 cheapo rock hall- but it's cool when you're party "owns" the venue.

Tonight several of the talents in the documentary - and a kid name CJ who is simply a wiz/legend-in-the-making in particular - would be entertaining us with their lessons learned. It was - basically - a recital. BUT these kids don't learn 3 chord Beatle ballads at this school - they learn Black Sabbath, Metallica and when they reach a higher level - Zappa.

Okay - this is NOT my kinda music. Nadda interest. But, I do understand that as musicians it is the music (technically) that is harder to create and more soul herion(like Sashimi for a Sushi fan, or perhaps like Johnny Depp directed by Tim Burton - it puts them in a happier place mentally). And these Zappa songs especially, are truly fun for the player...not so much for the non-pharmaceutical popping listeners I am afraid (again -- I speak of ME). It just seems to be eight instruments playing four songs at two different beats to me. No offense to Zappa fans - I get it - truly - but don't dig it.

So, the rock school kids get up do a few pretty good standard metal covers - then Alice Cooper and Stewart Copeland join the youngsters on stage for 'School's Out For Summer." Alice looks EXACTLY the same...and Stewart looks like a cute Borders' Book employee all in khaki and those nerdy glasses and smart guy shag-cut (YUM). Then a weird thing happened though. As Alice turned the mic towards the group and begged the audience to sing the creepy lullaby chorus (..no more pencils ...no more teachers...) NO ONE sang! It was sad and hilarious at the very same time. I - of course - was waving and singing, nay bellowing, aloud in the back like my old 17 yr -old front row concert-going self.

After the song - we were done. The kids played on but my friend and I said, "You know this?"..."Me neither..." Meanwhile Zappa's Napoleon Murphy Brock was standing with us - he told us he "may be coaxed into playing...," but the PR folks just walked by him and the 20-something "White Stripes is the strangest "rock" they know" audience had no clue a legend walked among us - well for Zappa fans.

We'd had enough and exited stage left. I said to my friend, 'That was the lamest rock audience I have ever been in - they just STOOD there." He said, "Dear, it's Hollywood - no one wants to break out of the pose and show individuality - or godfabid sweat off their MAC make-up." Touche....touche.

I dropped him off and BLASTED true music (Streetcore by The Mescaleros & Joe Strummer - Review&Link) through the canyon on the way home.

And for those into '24'...did that ending ROCK or what. Though, didn't the CTU folks appear just a tad calm after the missile got hit in mid air -- basically over their heads? AND what was with the whole trying to kill Jack the hero deal? Argh. Well, as Keifer, err, Jack walked off into the sunset all I could hear was" everybody's talkin' at me...can't hear a word they're sayin'....just the echoes of my mind...."

We must now wait till January to revisit with the lad.

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Wretched Regency!

2005-05-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

Okay, I waited all week for the "climax" of PBS' Regency House (<- I already told ya all I am secretly a stay-at-home hermity geek when not schmoozing among the stars).

So, I stop for food at Handy Market - the BBQ I am now addicted to - with a spring in my step I get a round of treats for both of my hounds, and myself (calories do not count on Saturdays - did ya know that?).

I tell each group of friends I am afraid I can not go see so-and-so, catch a film at the cemetary (Cinespia.com), make a dinner party and so forth. I suffer through a bad BBC "Mystery", fighting off sleep from its odious elements of pure obviousness, all in the name of my addiction de jour.

Aha! Here it comes. 'Regency House.' I have questions: Will Capt. Glover get the chick? Are the other guy and the older lady gonna get together? And what about the head of the house? Man-o-manechvitz is he HOT. Will he bed anyone???

AN ASIDE: For those not alone on a Saturday eve, watching PBS (or who have cable and more than 3 stations that are actually visible), 'Regency House' is one of those "put the people of today back through time for a few weeks in a historical spot and tape them for jollies" shows. Yes, it is (I am afraid) a reality show - but, in my defense, with realistic historical elements as they all live as-they-would-have.

Pure historical bliss. In the show all these couples are "courting" as they would have in 1815. So, we learn all about the period, stuffy ettiqutes of the day - the gloriously snobby facts about social ranking and the set-up marriage plots they would have been put through! All while you're watching a catty sort of dating show....It is a sinful joy.

But, even though I had the house chilled perfectly, the BBQ buffet set, my super comfy (equals=terribly unsexy) robe upon my carcass - I was let down. It's as if they rushed the ending. BAH! How could they? Actually - it was well done (technically) as all the episodes were...but lacked in prying details one watches these sorts of shows for in the first place. Naturally, the head of the house and the Countess did schtupp---but were they planning on "hooking up" in our times? The sleazy 1960's looking Davy Jones meets Mr.Darcy pauper guy didn't get the rich chick- the handsome rich guy won after all. And he "won" after the woman basically ignored the man all eight weeks and made him cry (on camera no less) about ten times...Whadthefu? I once asked my ex-boyfriend to mow the lawn (literally- as he had no JOB, to you know "help out"), and he left me. This episode left me with hardly any ANSWERS. Maybe there will be a post show? A "what/where they are now" deal...I really need a boyfriend no? Eh-at least my Saturday eves are free again.

Next week there's a bunch of premieres. Cinderella Man on Monday and Rock School on Tuesday. Rock School is a documentary on a real Rock School - not the Jack Black flick. This is probably where that film came from. The cool part is after the film premeiere we all head over to The Knitting Factory to see CJ (a child guitar wiz) and secret guest (Alice Cooper) play a gig of Zappa music...I am missing the Anmerican Idol end - but it's Bo's gig anyway...and Alice Cooper doing Zappa? Um, how could I pass THAT up???? I shall be sporting a classic rock-chick ensemble and spiked hair circa 1983. My escort is a HUGE Cooper fan - I am a HUGE Zappa fan - so we shall be in for a unusual thrill. Sometimes my "job" is tre cool.

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John Lennon's Jukebox

2005-05-18T22:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, how many folks caught the PBS special on John Lennon's Juke box? I had just finished watching Immortal Beloved for the fiftieth time, and needed to decompress, as IB is a heavy and emotionally burrowing film.

Viola - a weird Beatle special...Just when you thought literally all there was to have (any micro-info on the fab four) had been had, here comes a comes a documentary on John Lennon's jukebox. It's almost like an SCTV sketch, "The Beatles Toothbrush." Okay, that's cruel - it was well done - but you get my drift.

It just - kind of - made me giggle. I mean, as an avid collector of music myself, how'd they know this box of 45s was actually handpicked by John, and not bought in one swell swoop at a local yard sale (I'd missed the beginning)? Or were these songs truly inspirations of a legend and his band mates? Or his musical loves?

The jukebox choices were all older rock and motown - and many seemed likely to be of John's interest (generically speaking)...but then, just as I started buying in to their "how cool is this" scenario, the filmmakers show the "traveling" un-ornate box in various places - in a warehouse being perused by Sting, on a lawn somewhere...The funniest tableau being its placement precariously upon a ledge in front of the infamous Chelsea Hotel sign in NYC. Maybe it was me...but I just started to laugh.

I positively tuned out, after the guy from the 'Lovin Spoonful' made some bizarre remark about music having nothing to do with our lives and politics...WHATTHEFU? Um, isn't music exactly what life is - a refracted reflection? An artful interpretation. Ass.

So, off the TV went and in popped the dvd. I decided to do my homework...

I am being interviewed for the new Fight Club DVD and its messages of the Gen X struggles with self worth and such next week - so I needed to remind myself of the funnier, and more brilliant scenes - I wouldn't want to come off like an uninformed fool.

Man, I forgot how much I loved that film. REVIEW:-> http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/fight.htm

In Fight Club, Edward Norton and Brad Pitt along with Helena Bonham Carter, under David Fincher's direction, really made a wildly unique and darkly humorous film that was way ahead of its time. AND it's not an independent film. Love it or hate it , Fight Club's a helluva film.

Tomorrow it's Star Wars and a restaurant opening - I have a new swanky get up to parade about in...so I should go and force sleep. I wonder if the evening's odd mixture of Gary Oldman as the vile van Beethoven, folded into a Lennon piece, with a touch of Brad Pitt's uber buff bod will induce any fun dreams...

Gosh, I do so hope.

Perhaps Bein' a Star aint so Shiny...

2005-05-16T17:52:00.000-07:00

I was interviewing Penelope Cruz last month and she - of course - really didn't want to talk about love and men. I mean everytime she skanoodles and gives the schnook the boot-adles it's on 'Entertainment Tonight'...she said she's like any girl looking for love, and she tries to find someone with a sense of humor (it's all in the Elle Canada interview)But, I made her laugh by telling her an edited version of my last marriage...believe me, Pen's glad this aint her story:

Five years ago I came home...la-de-da...and there it was: "I want a divorce. There's chicken in the fridge for you. Love Kev." A culmination of denials scribbled haphazardly upon a tiny yellow piece of stickup pad, that basically contained a Haiku of our last four years together.

There it was being defiant. Proudly, dutifully, and a tad wimpy, performing its communicative mission stuck on the side of the livingroom's centerpiece (by sheer girth), his high-holy obsession and hobby, the saltwater fish tank.

It was this quiet, tiny, blink-and-you'd-miss it, square yellow mini-tile, like blip of sea-trash on the beautiful waterscape - a fake waterscape, like our marriage. Its expensive fluorescent-like light purposely designed to exaggerate the scale colors of its kidnapped finned inhabitants from world's far off (like Hawaii, Polynesia, The Cayman Islands) and make the bewildered things not only look happy, but as if this ten foot existence was the end-all last-word in fish condo living - a Shangri-La of the fish world. I always found it cruel - yet beautiful.

Oddly apropos, the serene staged study in managed utopia, like our marriage, was a pretty lie.

Finally the final blow had been made - what now? Should I eat the chicken first? He was a lousy husband, but his cooking was exceptional. And, why can I even eat at "a time like this"? Oh, right - we both knew it was over, each waiting for the other to make the move; call checkmate, lower the boom, surrender to the obvious. It happens...

I couldn't actually be the boom-lower-er. I had one marriage (albeit a drunken accidental anarchist-young thingy faux pas) under my belt (so-to-speak). And, I was not facing my family with another amour defeat extraordinairebesides one had their pride.

I grabbed the plate of chicken cutlets, fed the fish, took a deep breath, and called my mom to gage the sympathy level.

There was none. "What did you do to him?" she shrieked into the phone. Of course, I was guiltyhe was her gardening friend, her son-she-always-wanted. What was I thinking? But, I reminded myself this was only a phone - she could not see I was less than distraught and dining on gourmet fare.

I explained it was fore coming, we would remain friends, we were not really the marriage sorts, and I am actually relieved.

Silence.

It was hard for her to understand there was no hate. Just a separation of the hearts and interests with interest.

Then she had an odd, almost, deranged (and certainly unexpected) epiphany. I was her daughter - and there's apparently some sort of maternal law, you must side with the blood relative if said kin is from your womb - she became almost maniacal in what I should do next. My own sweet little mother said I should grab the credit card and shop till I wanted nothing moreshe'd always wished she'd done something like that to my father. Her voice somehow unfamiliar at present...

I realized she was projecting her own evil resentments - of which I had none - and I certainly was not that kind of person.

I managed to placate her - in mid conniving - hang up, get a comfy blanket, gather on the couch with the dogs, a bottle of wine, some cheese and crackers (I would let the crumbs fly without his Felix-like mumbling and broom at my side), and pop in favorite "healing" dvds (Singin' in the Rain, then The Grinch (Carrey version-natch), followed by The Apartment). I also decided to enjoy the peace of a house without continual hammering, bad-guitar playing and perpetual whining about who did what to him that dayand I now had the whole king-size bed all to myselfand the toothpaste would be properly squeezed from it's bottom...this was not so bad after all. I keep hearing 'I'm Free' by The Who...is that a normal reaction?

Hmm. I am, I'm afraid, a bachelerette through and through.

I framed the stupid stickup note though - 'cause this stuff you just can't make up. Well, unless you're the Star or The Inquirer...they'd love to take this tableau and make it an A-lister's scenario no?

BluntReview.com - my sanctuary.

Friends Come in 31 Flavors Too...

2005-05-14T15:14:00.000-07:00

You always hear, "If you can count your real friends on one hand - you're a lucky person!"

I must be blessed. Oh, sure I am perpetually broke and need to shop at the 99 Cent store to make ends meet....but I am filthy-rich in friends.

Take today. The McLouds downstairs are moving. There's the usual banging and aggravation but today, I needed to be out and functioning a bit early - and I have an important appointment regarding my Red Carpet Segments ( http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/inter.html ) being a part of a major motion picture's DVD extras. My interviews for their extras....this is big and a no brainer.

Ah, but nothing is this simple in my life...

FIRST, My printer poops - literally - in mid proposal print -out.

PANIC.

I think quick and call my friend - who's a computer gal. Solved. She'll print it up and meet me in front of the big-wig meeting spot -- no one will ever need know of the printer mishap...

PERFECT.

I doll-up. Kiss the dogs and fly down the stairs. I have "plenty of time."

Um - no. The ass McLoud family parks their SUV from hell one foot into the area of my garage door. ONE Foot --just enough so I can not open the door --- in an ALLEY that has 30127946 other spots to park, mind you.

I run to their door. The weirdo wife says in her bellowing, "My husband with the keys is no here" WHAT???? CALL HIM!!! NOW!I admit, I was not my usual well-balanced, diplomatic, self.

She does and he's en route back - should be half an hour with the traffic.

That leaves me - late for my very important date...oh I was getting as mad as a hatter.

SO, up to the apartment I go to call my friends, who themselves are now en route to the meeting-- there's a change in plot plans:Iadvise -- they need to get me, to get me, to the meeting. Sweetly - and without skipping a beat - they comply.

I am about to cry.

Meanwhile, I don't have my cell phone or wallet 'cause last night I got home very late and left them in the car (it's safer) Of course, never - not for an instant - thinking that the McLouds would be SO RUDE as to block ONLY my garage when there's oodles of room as far as the eye can see for their Gas Guzzling Gargantuan pig-car)

They call and tell me they are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic....of course they are. BUT, being natives, the jump off to do surface streets. It's now a half an hour to the appointment and 108 in my small dwellin. I am starting to sweat. I pick up the phone and call the meeting secretary to "feel the temperature" for tardiness. Ever-so-calmy I explain my neighbor is moving and has blocked me in (giggle) I may be a minute or two late...

Diverted disaster - and it was the truth after all.

They come and get me as we speed off onto the main road - WHAM - a annual Street Fair! I kid you not - I had forgot. The whole street is closed from where I am....to where I need to go. Hahahahahahaha. I basically have a melt down - careful not to smudge my mascara.

It was just too much ya know. So after a hearty laugh-n cry. I pulled myself together and by the door I was presentable and professional - and the scream-crying fit actually calmed my nerves. After all anything these very powerful producers had to say? Paled in comparison to the last hour of circumstantial brouhaha.

When we left the meeting - my friends hidden down the street "on the look out for me," decided we'd stop at Handy Market's BBQ pit - a tradition that's a Burbank legend. I was told about it by Mr. Clint Howard and always wanted to go. He did not fib - it was truly delectable. THEN we hunted icecream for an hour...it was a an exceptionally hot day and everyone seemed to be needing icecream...each place had lines out the door. Of course. I mean after all it was one-of-those days and I had dragged them right down into it with me:)

FINALLY, we found a Baskin Robbins without a bazillion folks in our way;)
Joy of Joys - except they put a Libra (me) in an icecream parlor with more than three choices. I finally got the pistasio...damn...I wanted the praline....argh.

Oh, so my point about friends? These two super angels, picked me up, drove me, didn't laugh when I cried from the remarkable sterss, waited an hour for me through my meeting, THEN treated me as I still had no pocketbook) to lunch and ice cream like a little kid....

That's what being a true friend is all about.

I am out the door now to go trim their dogs hair - Parker bites, but he and I have an understanding, and in a past life, I was a professional dog groomer...
My official site: BluntReview.com has all sorts of fun awaiting you... toodles

Debussy Lives...and he plays every Friday eve....

2005-05-14T02:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have already proven a tad addictive in these diary-like rants. So, my obsession - the real - one....the one friends now basically just sigh at: Jon Brion. Since Joe Strummer, whom I adored, died I was left without music (new music) that really touched my soul.

Then a PR guy says, "Hey, can you cover a score for 'I Heart Huckabees' and our client Jon Brion? You may like his music - it seems very you." I said, "Send it over - lemme see if I dig it."

I now have in my possession a treasure. It's Brion's "samples" for David O. Russell's masterpiece (that no one saw). It's about an hour and half of him "tinkering" - looking for the theme... I could not believe what I was hearing.

Brion's already converted fans would probably freak to even know I've got it- and that such a cd even is in the universe - let alone in my possession! ...but I digress.

So, I go to see the guy live - before our interview - I was with my then boyfriend. Well, a guy a was schtupping - he looked a tad like Count Chocula for my tastes but he was smart, and tall - so I kind of put-up-with-him. You know what I mean...

Meanwhile, I expected, a lame ass typical guitar snob. Figuring the cool music I had heard was just fandangled studio trickery - after all, no one can be that great...

But, I am wrong, and positively blown away by this Jon Brion guy. He plays all the instruments, and does a ton of songs (besides his own) with odd twists (Like Bob Dylan hues for Queen, or Cole Porter ala Metallica-style). Meanwhile, the beau de jour turns to me and says, " Do you think he's cute?" Okay, guys, never ask a chick you're dating if a Paul McCartney-like mega talent who is obviously making her toes curl ('cause he's so good) if she thinks the rock-star on the stage is cute. DUH.

They have to lie. Well, at least if they are in that state of nirvana brought on upon some rare soul that's upon a stage wielding music like a Debussy reincarnate or something - like this Jon Brion chap was. Ha. Mr. Insecure had to question me. So, what could I do? I smiled, and said, "15 years ago I would have." LIE. Jon Brion is ah-dorable.

But it's really his music that I am drawn to. Brion's music - which - because of his utter passion, just makes him glow. It's almost a sexual experience. And, I do NOT mean that in a sickly, or fan girl freak-way. Have you ever seen a true musician, the pouring from the pores type? It's like, if a time machine placed you at the hall as a young undiscovered Mozart started a show, and you knew "this is different - this is special"...and you were there...That's what I mean.

So, every Friday night I am at Largo, watching Jon. It's like a soul feeding - and I am NOT alone. Many of the faces there are always the same...for the second set at least.

Naturally 'cause I'm a girl, everyone assumes I am smitten with Jon. I am not. He's a musician - I know what that means...I've been there ya know? But I sit there all smiles diggin' the music and folks seem to figure I'm just a groupy. Me...a groupy - I love it.

The reason for my babbling on this particular day, is to tune you in. Go read the interview and / or the soundtrcak review (Eternal Sunsjine & I Heart Heart Huckabees) w/ Jon Brion and myself at BluntReview.com in the music section - discover folks. Discover. If you're the type that digs a Debussy piece, or even into an original genuine talent among the mishmash of homogeneous crap out there...know and love Jon Brion.

Okay - good deed of the day done - I must walk the dogs, and go to bed....

Hope you entered the Life Aquatic Contest at BluntReview.com ! Only a week left;)

72 hours , Through Canyons, Into 24

2005-05-10T10:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, I already admitted to being a crack-baby for Idol and House...did I mention my affection for 24? I have a life - I swear...

The heavy guy in the show, Edgar, eats at my sometimes-sushi place at the bar next to me. We sit together a lot - I said to him a few weeks ago, "Thanks for saving the world." I'm polite, I only watch the show so I can say I've seen his work - Ya, that's it, I watch it for his sake.

(Aside for fellow enthusiasts->) This past Monday I was so thrown when the missile went off. Um, why are there like 4 agents working on this end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it situation by-the-way? Is CTU the only branch of the Gov. in this TV world of theirs'. Plot faux pas aside, you know I was genuinely upset, like it's real (see - a goon am I at heart).

But Chloe will fix it -lips perpetually angry and brow furrowed - AND!!! HEY, was that a crush/love triangle angle emerging from the Frost Queen raising its brow towards Jack? She told him (and I quote), "They could talk" about his picking the terrorist with the info over what's-her-name's husband (thusly ge executed the character Paul in-a-way) any time Jack would like. She just wanted him to know, "IF HE NEEDED A FRIEND." The oldest girl-ploy in the book kids. Hmm.

Okay- so...

The weekend preceding 24 was stupendous and as grand as the word itself! It started with visiting friends from NYC and I dining at Le Petit Four on Sunset Strip - it's a great restaurant. We laughed for hours and I had (yes, I admit) steak tar tar. They each had a delectable dish as well; pasta with a decadent creme sauce, and a strange Willy-Wonka-ish salad with a slab-o-tuna atop. The place has mirrors all around on the walls above the diners - so you can people watch properly. I spied a handsome fella alone...he was waiting for someone and had that "dumped" look. We created a mini-biographic for him; straight (he was wearing a dirty Nike shirt), waiting on a blind date from LavaLife, his friends talked him into it, he liked Bob Dylan - but always said he was into Radiohead to seem cooler, and his dog, "Sasha" was his only true friend as he was a boss at a snooty PR firm down the street and everyone wanted his job...

Well, his very-tardy party showed and I was el wrong wrong wrong. He was indeed gay. Apparently retro trash sports shirts are "in," perhaps considered "manly?" His dinner companions made Nathan Lane look rugged, and he giggled like a periwinkle caught in a morning storm as the eve expanded, OH and the melange of bullet proof? He OPENLY adorned lip gloss as they had even just arrived and stood at the maitre d'. Hmm, I may have to give up my Sherlockian membership - though he was on-the-other-side of the restaurant, and I could only see the top half of him, and the wine had diluted my sleuthing skills.

Saturday I frolicked about in the house - trying to unclutter. But I just ended up sorting my 106243 soundtrack and musical cds in alphabetical order - high on a valium. I had no plans for the eve - I was awaiting Regency House (my Saturday night addiction), hanging with the hounds, Taylor and Clyde.

Sunday I was off to Malibu to visit. My NYC friend was staying in a bluff-side guest house. The owner - who swaps with her New York pad - is into Ganeesh and yoga. The house was serene and filled with that "happy soul" feeling. We went to Paradise Cove restaurant(forgetting it was mother's day - mine's been called, gifted and burped -- she's in Ft Lauderdale) for dinner...We had to sit on the beach dining area -- poor us. Aha- but the secret is BAD SERVICE out their among the rabid seagulls. As my friend was about to go New Yorker-style blunt on the waitress, our other friends called - they were down the street! So they met us.

By now the ocean breeze was an arctic wind. The 16 year old waitress (with the BMW) parked in back no-doubt, told us the heat lamps had no kerosene - never did. I said, "They're what, props?" She said, "Basically yeah - we have no place else to store them." OH, how we laughed at her adorable honesty!

Our friends really didn't want to stay in the cold - and I was already half-way to hypothermia. We finished our dinner and left to go to the next dinner at Marmalade Cafe about a mile down-the-road. On the way out we saw Bela Lugosi, err Martin Landau and his family cruisin' in a golf cart in the lot.

At Marmalade, celeb spotting: Garry Shandling looking like he was whining at his friend en route back to his car...

Once in the restaurant, we sat next to a literal Beach Boy-- though I am not sure who. We chatted and he's Swiss like me, so if that identifies him... The bread pudding at Marmalade is to-die-for good. It's just bread sugar, butter and apples - but MAN....

I left everyone about 1030pm and decided to take the canyon road back. I could blast a score cd and no one would be on-my-ass. chose Edward Scissorhands...it makes all around you simply magical. Like this past weekend....

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