Zugenia's Procrastination Salon

For the past couple of days, I've been meaning to post a very thoughtful book review (remember when I used to write book reviews?) about Richard Flanagan's The Unknown Terrorist, which I happened to read the same week as I was teaching Richard Brinsley Sheridan's The School for Scandal, which happy coincidence led me to think various deep thoughts about each that I might not otherwise have thought, but I've been too busy or lazy or distracted or some combination thereof to really write the thing, and now it's Thursday night and I've had one too many glasses of cabernet to write anything intelligent about anything, so in lieu of a book review or a deep thought or anything, really, I give you a link to my new Favorite Internet Video, which shows the former manager of the Wu-Tang, a.k.a. Top Flight Queen, a.k.a. Original Gangsta Bitch, telling the world why she refuses to stand for some snooty New York club's overt "racism, sexism, and chronologicalism."

WATCH ME!

Thanks to nkb_vp_ltl for originally posting the link on Is It Racist?.

The results of Wednesday's poll suggest that many of you are engaged in an evil conspiracy to get me in shape through the torture known as "exercise." At least now I know.

It's Friday and I'm not sure how I feel about Minus the Bear.

But I do know how I feel about the new biography of Joan Collins, reviewed by Jan Moir in the Telegraph. I feel, very deeply, that I must read it. I believe my fascination with Ms. Collins is fairly well documented among these pages, so this should come as no surprise. But even if I weren't already mildly obsessed with the green-eyed force of nature, the Telegraph's review would have sold me. Did you know, for example, that

During her first assault on Hollywood, Collins slept with so many men that she was known as the British Open. In later years, she would grandly claim that she was a proto-feminist exploring her sexuality and using her power to bewitch as leverage to get ahead in a man's world.

Others saw it differently. 'Joan's had more hands up her than the Muppets', was how one actress deftly put it.

And that

During the late 1950s and early 1960s, when she was living in Los Angeles and trying to make it in films, she was at her sexual peak, thirsting for young men like a vampire thirsts for blood.

Driving a pink Thunderbird – no, that's not a euphemism – she roared around Hollywood in chinchilla stoles and emerald bracelets and was rarely without a lover. 'It doesn't count on location', she remarked, of various saucy infidelities.

And that

Collins cheated on [cheating lover George Englund, apparently the great love of her life] with the son of a Dominican Republic dictator, who bought her a diamond necklace.

Her lover was furious, but Joan placated him by secretly buying a cheap copy of the necklace and flinging it into the Pacific on a romantic beach stroll to prove to George how much she loved him.

And that, according to Barry Cryer,

he was once commissioned to write a monologue for her one woman show, but claiming that she had been too nervous to remember half of his jokes, Collins only paid him half of his fee.

This stuff is simply too awesome. If I ever had any thought of doing something respectable with my weekend (which, let's be honest, is unlikely), such thoughts have been roundly spanked into submission by the prospect of spending the weekend with Joan.

The Scooter has moved on to that big Yankee Stadium in the sky. (Not the one I wrote about in terza rima for an 11th-grade English assignment inspired by Dante's Inferno, in which George Steinbrenner is condemned to an eternal home game in which the Yankees flub every possible play—under the management of the then-recently-late Billy Martin—and George is perpetually prevented from firing anyone by the divine intervention of baseballs that fly out of nowhere and down his throat every time he opens his mouth. No, I'm certain Phil is chillin' at the game further upstairs.) From the NYTimes obit:

Phil Rizzuto, the sure-handed Hall of Fame Yankees shortstop nicknamed The Scooter, who punctuated his extended Yankee life as a broadcaster with birthday wishes to nuns and exclamations of “Holy cow!” died today. He was 89.

...

He was a 5-foot-6-inch, 150-pound sparkplug who did the little things right, from turning the pivot on a double play to laying down a perfect sacrifice bunt. He left the slugging to powerful teammates like Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Tommy Henrich, Charlie Keller and Yogi Berra.

“I hustled and got on base and made the double play,” he said of his role. “That’s all the Yankees needed in those days.”

His career statistics were not spectacular: a batting average of .273, 38 home runs and 562 runs batted in. But in his best season, 1950, when he hit a career-high .324 and drove in 66 runs, he won the American League’s Most Valuable Player award.

Rizzuto was frequently compared with other shortstops of his era, among them Pee Wee Reese of the Brooklyn Dodgers and Marty Marion of the St. Louis Cardinals. But to DiMaggio, his teammate for eight seasons — each man lost three seasons to military service during World War II — Rizzuto was the best.

“The little guy in front of me,” said DiMaggio, one of the game’s great centerfielders. “He made my job easy. I didn’t have to pick up so many ground balls.”

Though he may have been the "little guy" on the field, Rizzuto towered over other commentators in the great game of Divergent Baseball Announcement. Quoth the NYT: “Rizzuto’s ramblings and pro-Yankee sentiments maddened detractors, who felt he paid too little attention to the game. But fans adored Rizzuto as they would a delightful uncle, and colleagues were fond of recalling his scorecard notation of 'W.W.,' for 'Wasn’t Watching.'”

If you've never read O Holy Cow!, a collection of found poems based on Rizzuto's broadcasts, now would be the moment to do so. A sample (courtesy of the Comic Baseball Association, which has considerately posted a few of the pieces online so I don't have to run home and dig out my copy of the book and come back and transcribe—they've got more over there, so pay a visit):

Chess

I.

A lot of money in that chess.
I'll tell you that.
It's gotta be..
Can't be...
Not a good game for television.


II.

I'm not knocking it.
But it's not a spectator sport.


[September 4, 1992
Texas at New York
Rich Monteleone pitching to Rafael Palmeiro
Seventh inning, no outs, bases empty
Yankees lead 6-3]

Hall and Nokes

So second time around
Mel Hall and Matt Nokes
Solve Tapani's pitch
Heh Heh
That's right
John Moore's on the ball.
It does sound like a good rock group.
Hall and Nokes.
Oh?
Hall and Oates?
Oh yeah?
That's one I missed.
I'll have to go out
And buy some of their records tonight.

[June 11, 1991
New York at Minnesota
Kevin Tapani pitching to Alvaro Espinoza
Fifth inning, two outs, two base runners
Twins lead 1-0]

Reversal of Opinion

And he hits one in the hole
They're gonna have to hurry.
THEY'LL NEVER GET HIM!
They got him.
How do you like that.
Holy cow.
I changed my mind before he got there.
So that doesn't count as an error.

[July 10, 1992
Seattle at New York
Dave Fleming pitching to Andy Stankiewicz
First inning, no outs, bases empty
Mariners lead 1-0]

And finally, in memoriam:

Prayer for the Captain

There's a little prayer I always say
Whenever I think of my family or when I'm flying,
When I'm afraid, and I am afraid of flying.
It's just a little one. You can say it no matter what,
Whether you're Catholic or Jewish or Protestant or
whatever.
And I've probably said it a thousand times
Since I heard the news on Thurman Munson.

It's not trying to be maudlin or anything.
His Eminence, Cardinal Cooke, is going to come out
And say a little prayer for Thurman Munson.
But this is just a little one I say time and time again,
It's just: Angel of God, Thurman's guardian dear,
To whom his love commits him here there or everywhere,
Ever this night and day be at his side,
To light and guard, to rule and guide.

For some reason it makes me feel like I'm talking to
Thurman,
Or whoever's name you put in there,
Whether it be my wife or any of my children, my parents
or anything.
It's just something to keep you really from going bananas.
Because if you let this,
If you keep thinking about what happened, and you can't
understand it,
That's what really drives you to despair.

Faith. You gotta have faith.
You know, they say time heals all wounds,
And I don't quite agree with that a hundred percent.
It gets you to cope with wounds.
You carry them the rest of your life.

[August 3, 1979
Baltimore at New York
Pregame show]

It's to see the SPICE GIRLS REUNION TOUR.



I believe a karaoke celebration is in order.

As some of you know, my research trip to Chicago has come to a somewhat premature end, and I find myself in Cincinnati relaxing and catching up on my procrastination. Fortunately for me, Hollywood continues to be populated with benign lunatics. From today's IMDb Celebrity News:

Horror movie mogul Wes Craven is suing funnyman Pauly Shore over a landslide at his Hollywood home. The Nightmare On Elm Street filmmaker claims Shore failed to maintain his garden, which backs onto Craven's property, and the Encino Man star's inactivity led to a landslide. In papers filed in Los Angeles on Wednesday, and obtained by Tmz.com, Craven states, "water from the Shore Property intruded and infiltrated the Craven Property causing a slope failure/landslide." Craven claims the neighborhood disaster took place last December, adding he "will continue to suffer severe emotional distress and anxiety." The director is seeking unspecified damages.

I would say something witty here about the particular brand of hilarity inherent in the idea of Wes Craven suffering "severe emotional distress and anxiety" over the state of his lawn, except that I'm still distracted by the surreal revelation that Wes Craven lives next door to Pauly Shore.

In other celebrity news, Kelly "Kiki Cohen" Rowan is reportedly "engaged to the richest man in Canada." Ok, then.

Will you just look at what I'm going to miss at our local Walton Arts Center because I'll be in New Zealand?



LEGENDS!
Starring JOAN COLLINS and LINDA EVANS

From the joancollins.net press release:

James Kirkwood's Legends! was expected to come to Broadway in the late 1980s with Carol Channing and Mary Martin starring as the two warring Hollywood divas being wooed to do a stage show together, Star Wars: The Play, by a producer with no credibility. The pre-Broadway tour of Legends! began in Dallas in January 1986.

Plagued by negative press (including mostly harsh reviews), by the time it folded in Palm Beach in January of the following year, the tour was better known for the backstage drama between Channing and Martin than anything that happened onstage. Kirkwood later wrote Diary of a Mad Playwright about his harrowing experience on the road with the show. In this new production, Collins will play Sylvia Glenn, the acerbic star originally played by Channing. Evans will play Martin's part, the seemingly sweet Leatrice Monsee.

...

Ben Sprecher will produce the Broadway mounting, which will tryout in 2006 in Toronto. About his decision to produce the piece, Sprecher told the New York daily, "I was looking for a play for Joan [Collins], something she would feel comfortable in. I read the script and thought it was very, very funny. I was prepared for her to think it was too lightweight, but she really enjoyed it."

Collins, who made her Broadway debut in the revival of Noel Coward's Private Lives, will play Sylvia Glenn, the film star modeled on Joan Crawford, while Evans will play the Loretta Youngish Leatrice Monsee. Legends! will mark Evans' Broadway debut.

How is it possible that this extravaganza is taking place in my own backyard and I will be on the other side of the world? Joan Collins channeling Carol Channing as Joan Crawford? Alexis and Krystle reincarnated in a revival of the celebrity deathmatch between Channing and Mary Martin? It's enough to make one's head explode.

I cannot believe I'm going to miss this. Those of you who will be in town for this glorious event absolutely must obtain your tickets NOW. This would also be the ideal opportunity to debut the Joan Collins cocktail we discussed this summer. Now taking recipe suggestions.

But I am delighted that you seem to be living it up as only The Celebrity really can. From IMDb celebrity news:

Fiennes Caught in 'Pool Romp'

English actor Ralph Fiennes incurred the wrath of a Belgium hotel boss after he reportedly frolicked naked in a swimming pool with four women. British newspaper The Sun reports The English Patient star, 44, and his female companions disturbed guests at the Hotel Tuilerieen in Bruges. Hotel manageress Patricia Homble says, "I wasn't happy about it." Fiennes is currently in the stunning Belgium city filming comedy In Bruges, which also stars Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson. Last month, Qantas flight attendant Lisa Robertson was fired from the airline after she admitted she had sex with the actor in a lavatory during a long-haul flight in January.

Am I the only one who didn't know our dear Ralph was a naked-frolicking member of the mile high club? How did I miss this? I guess it's because I still confuse Ralph with his character in The English Patient. With whom, I might add, I would be quite happy to frolic naked in a swimming pool, or anywhere.

I didn't watch the Oscars this year for a number of reasons, foremost of which is that I forgot to. But I've thoroughly enjoyed the Oscars Aftermath at Go Fug Yourself and IMDb Celebrity News—especially IMDb's piece "Boozy Stone Auctions Up a Storm at Elton's Party":

Wannabe auctioneer Sharon Stone can whip up a pile of money for charity - even when she's a little intoxicated, as she proved at pal Sir Elton John's post-Oscar party in Hollywood on Sunday night. The actress, who has become famous for taking charge of celebrity auctions of late, took to the stage of the bash to help sell off prizes and raise cash for John's AIDS Foundation, but she admitted she was a little drunk. Slurring Stone told the celebrity revelers, "I've been sitting at my table with P. Diddy and Jon Bon Jovi, and I'm a little messed up." But that didn't stop her from making a cash splash - at one point she managed to land two $250,000 bids for tickets to John's upcoming 60th birthday party. Stone helped the singer raise $4.2 million for charity at the party.

Apparently Ms. Stone failed to receive the memo on how "we dropped the P". Nevertheless, I would have given my right pinky to sit at that table. Gettin' boozy with P. "I Said We Dropped the P, Bitches!" Diddy, Jon "Livin' On In My Seventh-Grade Prayers" Bon Jovi, and Sharon "Right, a Little Messed Up" Stone? Seriously.

Look, we all knew it was going to happen one day, we knew it every time he taunted a tarantula or straddled a disgruntled croc, and I know I'm not the only one who found it impossible to watch his shows without yelling "Oh you are SO asking for it, dude!" at regular intervals, but that doesn't mean it's not a little bit shocking and a lot bit sad to hear that Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin was taken out for good by a stingray today while filming a show off the Great Barrier Reef.

And I don't want to hear any "I told you so"s from the peanut gallery, not even when you learn that the show he was filming was called "Ocean's Deadliest," because as annoying as Steve Irwin could be (I've always preferred that South African guy Nigel Something who swims with the sharks), I demand a moment of respect for a guy who loved scary animals with such fervent lunacy. For reals.

In a much less amusing place, I can tell you that. The BBC reports that Foxy Brown has admitted to attacking a manicurist, kind of:

Rap star admits nail salon attack

US rapper Foxy Brown has pleaded guilty to assault charges in a New York court, only to change her mind minutes later.

The 26-year-old admitted to assaulting two nail salon workers in August 2004 in a dispute over a $20 (£10) manicure.

Shortly afterwards, however, she asked to withdraw the plea, claiming she had been rushed into making a decision.

But Judge Melissa Jackson refused the singer, telling her to make a written motion ahead of a formal sentencing hearing scheduled for 23 October.

According to a spokesman for the Manhattan district attorney's office, the plea requires her to serve three years probation and take anger management classes.

Brown - real name Inga Marchand - rejected an earlier plea deal last May, demanding the assault charges be reduced to the lesser count of disorderly conduct.

At a subsequent court appearance in December, she was handcuffed and threatened with jail after she stuck her tongue out at Judge Jackson.

Brown had been due to appear in court on Monday morning to plead guilty to the misdemeanour assault charges, according to the Reuters news agency.

But did not appear until later the afternoon, blaming her delayed arrival on a hurricane in Jamaica where she had been performing a concert.

The judge noted the case was 18 months old and said the singer did not come to the court "completely pristine".

Earlier this month the rapper - best known for her 1999 album Chyna Doll - missed a court hearing in New Jersey over separate charges filed by a former colleague relating to alleged "terroristic threats".

I would like a.) a photo of Foxy Brown's "not completely pristine" court appearance, and b.) to award that judge a prize for Outstanding Deployment of the Wry Euphemism.

ETA: Thanks to grendel1031 for providing the link to the WaPo coverage of this story, which contains this delightful description of Ms. Brown and her recent behavior:

Prosecutors said the 26-year-old rapper, who once appeared in court wearing 4-inch hoop earrings and 3-inch stiletto heels, kicked one employee and smacked a second in the face on Aug. 29, 2004, in an argument over payment for a manicure at Bloomie Nails.

If you read it quickly, it sounds like she actually attacked the manicurists with her stiletto heels, which, now that I think about it, she probably did, because she is Foxy Brown.

I seem to have inherited Z's cold, which is simply charming on the eve of the fall semester at a new school. I'm sucking on Cold-Eeze and trying every home remedy in the book, from garlicky chicken broth to slices of raw ginger. My throat still hurts.

Otherwise, my life currently consists of boring details like getting a computer and a parking permit and making lots of photocopies, so today we shall focus on the glamorous lives of the rich and famous. According to IMDb Celebrity News, James Woods has called it quits with his insensitive 20-year-old girlfriend:

Veteran actor James Woods has dumped his 20-year-old girlfriend, Ashley Madison, after the stress from the May-December relationship sent him to the emergency room. The 59-year-old star was distraught after his brother Michael died unexpectedly of a heart attack last month and was shocked by Madison's insensitivity during his funeral. Woods' friend Scott Sandler tells the New York Daily News that Madison showed up for the service dressed inappropriately "in a 3-inch miniskirt and chain-smoking." He explains, "At the funeral she was concerned about the amount of magazines she was in. Jimmy was on his knees with tears staining his shirt, and she was showing pictures of herself. Jimmy was so overcome by grief his blood pressure went through the roof early last week, and he had to go to the hospital. When he came out, it was like he had seen the light." The actor has known Madison, the pal of a golfing buddy, since she was five-years-old. Adds Sandler, "She's the anti-Christ. She truly has the soul of a moth and the brain of a dead trout."

If that's not poetry, I don't know what is.

Also, Jared Leto has gout.

While we're on the topic of noteworthy evil, I'd like to share the Most Disturbing Story Since The Announcement That Jared "Jordan Catalano" Leto Has Gout (an affliction I associate with Dr. Johnson and other lumpy Englishmen of the 18th century): Maine Residents Wonder If Dead Animal Is Mystery Beast:

TURNER, Maine --Residents are wondering if an animal found dead over the weekend may be the mysterious creature that has mauled dogs, frightened residents and been the subject of local legend for half a generation.

The animal was found near power lines along Route 4 on Saturday, apparently struck by a car while chasing a cat. The carcass was photographed and inspected by several people who live in the area, but nobody is sure exactly what it is.

Michelle O'Donnell of Turner spotted the animal near her yard about a week before it was killed. She called it a "hybrid mutant of something."

...

Mike O'Donnell, who is married to Michelle O'Donnell, said the animal looked "half-rodent, half-dog" to him.

It was charcoal gray, weighed between 40 and 50 pounds and had a bushy tail, a short snout, short ears and curled fangs hanging over its lips, he said. It looked like "something out of a Stephen King story."

"This is something I've never seen before. It's an evil-looking thing," he said.

This creature has terrorized Maine for "half a generation" and was brought down by a car while chasing a cat? Much like James Woods's 20-year-old ex-girlfriend, such a beast must truly have the soul of a moth and the brain of a dead trout.

(Today's assignment: work that line into conversation at every opportunity. Extra credit if you also invoke Jared Leto's gout.)

The NYTimes reports that pioneering Asian American actor Mako has passed away at age 72.

Mako, who used only one name professionally, was born in Japan and came to the United States as a teenager. An Academy Award-nominated actor, he was also a distinguished presence on the Broadway stage, winning a Tony nomination in the leading role of the Reciter in the original cast of “Pacific Overtures.”

Mako earned an Oscar nomination for “The Sand Pebbles” (1966), in which he played opposite Steve McQueen. Among his other films are “Conan the Barbarian” (1982), “Conan the Destroyer” (1984), “Seven Years in Tibet” (1997), “Pearl Harbor” (2001) and “Memoirs of a Geisha,” released last year.

My family and I saw the revival of Pacific Overtures with B.D. Wong in the role of the Reciter—it was pretty awesome. The only one of Mako's films I've seen is the recent and forgettable Memoirs of a Geisha, but perhaps we'll watch The Sand Pebbles tonight in his memory.

From IMDb Celebrity News:

Madonna Tour To Feature Disco Crucifix?

Pop star Madonna is having a massive "disco-fied" crucifix made as one of the centerpieces for her upcoming tour. The singer has raised eyebrows before with her controversial use of religious images and now she'll shock again with the flashing cross. A source claims Madonna will descend to the stage on the glittering disco-ball crucifix, covered with diamonds and Swarovski crystals. The ball is rumored to cost $10 million, and is being constructed at a well-guarded airplane hangar in Los Angeles for her Confession On A Dance Floor tour. According to the source, "It'll create a blinding light, like she's landing on the spaceship from E.T."

Let's pause to consider some of things that were actually said here:
"massive 'disco-fied' crucifix"
"glittering disco-ball crucifix"
"a blinding light, like she's landing on the spaceship from E.T."
"DISCO CRUCIFIX"

I'm afraid I can never read the news again. It will only disappoint after this.

P.S. Note "glittering disco-ball crucifix." Coincidence? Clearly not.

Item 1: The NYTimes reports that scientists found fossils of a fish with a "transitional footlike structure" and went WILD:

In an interview, Dr. Shubin, an evolutionary biologist, let himself go. "It's a really amazing, remarkable intermediate fossil," he said. "It's like, holy cow."

It's like, totally holy cow. Dude.

---

Item 2: According to IMDb Celebrity News, "Cruise Denies Adult Pacifier for Holmes":

Tom Cruise has hit out at reports he has bought an adult pacifier to keep fiancee Katie Holmes quiet during childbirth. The heavily pregnant actress plans to adhere to strict Scientology rules and give birth without screaming, crying or making loud noises, and Star magazine insisted Cruise would help by providing a specially designed device to bite. A source tell the magazine, "He commissioned an adult-sized 'binky' for her to clench between her teeth, hoping that it'll squelch her screams. In keeping with a Scientology silent birth, Tom is prepared to do whatever it takes to muffle Katie's moans and groans during the delivery." Cruise's publicist Arnold Robinson has dismissed the reports as nonsense. On Tuesday fellow Scientologist John Travolta lent his support to the controversial birth plans.

I have only two comments: 1. If anyone ever attaches the modifier "heavily pregnant" to me, even if it happens to be true, I will kick that person until he cries; and 2. For some reason I can't quite figure out, I find the phrase "Katie's moans and groans" strikingly lewd. Also the word "squelch." It's grossing me out.

OK, I have one more comment: Tom Cruise is totally nuts. Dude.

---

Item 3, perhaps the most shocking of all: The New Yorker's Shouts & Murmurs is funny for once! Thank you, George Saunders, for this tidbit of cultural commentary:

I used to love music, back when it had melody and chords and lyrics. But now it has no melody and no chords, just thwack-thwacking, and they even seem to be cutting back on the thwack-thwacking, so now it’s sometimes just thwa, and, as far as lyrics, do you consider these lyrics?

Hump my hump,
My stumpy lumpy hump!
Hump my dump, you lumpy slumpy dump!
I’ll dump your hump, and then just hump your dump,
You lumpy frumply clump.

I’m sorry. To me? Those are not lyrics.

I believe I snorted my coffee at "my stumpy lumpy hump." There, I just did it again.

( I just noticed that Michael at Bookslut quoted this same piece. Does that make me cool?)

I realize that it has been some time since I actually wrote anything in, like, paragraphs here at the Salon. I suppose I'm in some kind of mid-semester slump, and I suppose I'll snap out of it soon and get back to, like, using language. Maybe.

In the meantime, I urge you to check in with today's IMDb Celebrity News, which features such gems as "Dancer Sues Musical Over 'Breast-Related Dismissal'" (apparently some Broadway starlet's boobs got too big for Billy Joel's music) and "Is Longoria Teacher for Parker?" (apparently she's had to coach him on pleasing a grown woman in bed). But the real item is "Bruce Lee Musical To Hit Broadway." Yes, there's a Bruce Lee musical in the works. And it's being written by David Henry Hwang. And the music is being done by David Bowie. And I am not making any of this up.

In other news, I walked into some store the other day that had its front windows plastered with those decorative little pledge cards for some fundraiser to feed children or cure cancer or something, and I stood there staring at them for a full minute before it was clear that they each said "I GAVE HOPE" and not "I GAVE UP HOPE." That organization needs a new copywriter.

If I were the kind of person who cracks callous jokes about painful and untimely deaths, I'd respond to the news that former child star Jack Wild has succumbed to mouth cancer by saying let this be a lesson to children everywhere never to put a talking phallus named Freddy in your mouth, even (or especially) if it claims to be "magic."

But, of course, I'm not. Rest in peace, Jimmy.



Those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about have never watched Sid and Marty Krofft's H.R. Pufnstuf, which is probably for the best.

According to IMDb Celebrity News, that paparazzo who harassed Reese Witherspoon and her kids at Disneyland has turned up dead.

A paparazzo who was charged with battery and child endangerment after attempting to get a photo of Reese Witherspoon and her children at a Disney theme park has been found dead. Friends of photographer Todd Wallace discovered his body in his Brentwood, California apartment, but his identity couldn't be confirmed because of the state of the body. Witherspoon was celebrating her daughter Ava's sixth birthday at Disney's California Adventure, along with a group of children, when Wallace attempted to take pictures of them last September. When the group declined to be photographed, Wallace became enraged, shoving one child and hitting another with his camera in an attempt to get shots of the star. Two theme park employees attempted to restrain the irate photographer, and he reportedly struck them, while cursing at Witherspoon and causing some of the children to burst into tears. Wallace was subsequently charged with six misdemeanor charges and pleaded innocent in October. After Wallace failed to show up at a bail hearing in December a judge issued a warrant for his arrest. The photographer was also scheduled to be arraigned December 27 on an unrelated charge of petty theft but it is unclear from court records whether he attended.

See, Reese looks sweet as a cherry cupcake, but anyone who's seen Freeway knows the real deal.

Also in today's celebrity news: The Roman Catholic church commissions Michael Jackson to memorialize Pope John Paul II in pop music. Now that's what I call Christianity Wow!

I was just scrolling through bits of yesterday's news that I'd missed and came upon something that made me gasp aloud, bring my hand to my mouth as a gesture of true, old-fashioned shock and horror, and cry, "No!!!" sillygirl84, who is visiting for a few days and and currently sitting all the way on the other side of the room, said, "I know, isn't it sad?" I said, "How did you know what I just read?" She said, "I could tell."

What I'd seen was this: Jon Spencer, who played Leo McGarry on The West Wing, died yesterday of a heart attack.

Now, I gave up watching The West Wing years ago. It was my absolute favorite show for four seasons, but after Aaron Sorkin quit, I couldn't watch it anymore. I tried a few non-Sorkin episodes and it was like witnessing the takeover of all my dearest friends by weird prime-time television aliens. It was deeply upsetting and I haven't watched an episode since.

But I still remember the characters from Sorkin's West Wing like we went to college together or something, and though life intervened and we had to go our separate ways, I think of them often, wonder what and how they're doing, and look forward to an inevitable reunion in the future, perhaps when I get around to buying the show's first four seasons on DVD. So you can imagine how horrific it was to discover via the NYTimes obituaries that one of these dear acquaintences has been taken from us in the prime of his career.

Jon Spencer was so excellent as Leo McGarry.

I also remember being in love with him as Tommy on L.A. Law when I was but a wee girl.

RIP, Mr. Spencer.

According to IMDb Celebrity News, Spielberg Enrages Hungarians. That is the actual headline. Here's the story:

Director Steven Spielberg has infuriated the residents of Budapest, Hungary with his disrespect of their daily lives, while filming new movie Munich. PageSix.com reports fuming locals have faced an array of irritations since Hollywood came to town, including having their cars, which were in Spielberg's way, towed with barely any notice, endless traffic jams and severe warnings should they attempt to take pictures of the proceedings. And city-dwellers are particularly amazed by the Americans' arrogant attitude - as they assume Budapest should be honored to be the Oscar-winning director's chosen location. A source tells PageSix.com, "The best part is (Spielberg's people) keep saying, 'This is the biggest thing ever to happen to Budapest,' which is true if you discount the whole Roman and Ottoman Empires, World Wars I and II, the fall of communism and the European Union's accession."

No wonder people the world over think Americans are arrogant pricks. And dumb as bricks, to boot.

While we're on the topic of celebrities, does anyone else find it creepy that Paris Hilton's fiancé is also named Paris? It seems distinctly unnatural.

I'm in the midst of preparing my opening remarks on Hobbes's theory of the passions and humoral theory in general. Ever wonder why you get so sad? Too much black bile. Pissed off? Yellow bile. the early modern body is wonderfully disgusting.

Stop the presses:

P. Diddy Shortens Name to Diddy

Rap mogul Sean 'P. Diddy' Combs has unveiled his new stage moniker - he wants to be called just Diddy. Combs - who changed his name from Puff Daddy and Puffy before adopting the name P. Diddy in 2001 - announced his moniker change in New York City yesterday. He tells MTV News, "It's five letters, one word. The name is changed. We made it simpler. We removed the P. The P was getting in between us. We're entering the age of Diddy. A lot of my peeps in music been calling me Diddy, so it's not a drastic change for them. But people around the world didn't know what to call me. We was at (Madison Square Garden) rocking with Jay-Z. The last time I was there, half the crowd was chanting 'P Diddy', half the crowd chanting 'Diddy'. We gonna stop the confusion. 'Diddy. Diddy, Diddy!' Simple. To the point and it sounds strong. It sounds like something is about to happen. It sounds like something is about to go down in history." Combs plans a special "unveiling of Diddy" ceremony when he hosts the MTV Video Music Awards in Miami on August 28. He adds, "You gonna see that in the entrance. You gonna see that swagger. You gonna see how I'm gonna navigate you through the journey." [courtesy of IMDb Celebrity News]

I find the statement "We removed the P. The P was getting in between us" too challenging for my barely caffeinated brain. It would make more sense to me if his moniker had been "DiPddy."

After spending yesterday ruthlessly taking the piss out of Providence, today the pre-emptive nostalgia is starting to set in. I've been living in Providence for seven years, which is the longest I've lived in any one place since leaving home to go to college. When I moved here from New York, I loved living in a small city—low rent, a cool arthouse movie theater you could actually get into on weekend nights, and the day-to-day diversion of getting to know a new home. After a few years (three, to be exact), I began to gripe that Providence was making me feel claustrophobic, that everything was tired, that all the interesting movies never came here, so why even bother going to the arthouse theater, no wonder you can always get in, but the truth is that I probably would have felt that way after 3 years anywhere. I was young; I had The Wanderlust. I had broken up with my British boyfriend two years earlier and had no excuse to go to Europe twice a year anymore. And I was in grad school, which will make anyone tired and cranky, even in the Funnest Place on Earth, wherever that is.

I neglected to mention the items I considered for my list yesterday but omitted because I will miss them genuinely and unconditionally:
( Things I Really and Truly Love About Living in Providence, and Will Miss when I'm Gone )

I leave on Saturday. (fsr44, we must meet before then!) Of course, I'll be back. Z is staying for the year, and holding all of my belongings hostage to make sure I return.

Whenever I hear Z chuckling over his morning coffee, I can be pretty sure he's reading the IMDb Celebrity News. Then I have to go over there and try to figure out what he's laughing at. There are usually multiple possibilities. Take today's items, for instance. It could well be this:

Actor Christian Slater has rejected a plea bargain deal from prosecutors on a charge of allegedly groping a woman in a New York street. The Untamed Heart star was charged with forcible touching after he allegedly grabbed a woman's buttocks as she was buying groceries in Manhattan in May.

Or it could be this:
Johnny Depp is busy constructing a special cannon so he can blast his late pal Hunter S. Thompson's ashes into the sky.

Oh, but wait—then there's this:
Movie legend Sir Michael Caine fears the height difference between Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes is a bigger threat to their much publicized relationship than their 17-year age gap. The Alfie star is concerned Tom's relationships with taller women are doomed, pointing out that Cruise acrimoniously divorced tall Moulin Rouge star Nicole Kidman in 2000.

That had me laughing so hard I nearly missed the final headline, which may indeed be our winner:
Alba Credits Blonde Hair for New Relationship

I believe this is a Sloganizer moment: "Celebrity News, Better Than Sex."

Today I'm catching a bus to New York, to accompany my dad to the midnight Harry Potter release party at the local Riverdale bookstore. My dad insisted that I go because if he went by himself it would seem "creepy," so he wanted to be able to say he was taking his daughter. I asked if that was any less creepy if his daughter is nearly thirty years old. He said yes, a little. Maybe we can find a kid somewhere to take with us. There are kids in New York, right? We went to the midnight release party at this bookstore when the last Harry Potter came out, and it was great fun. Lots of sleepy little Harrys and Hermiones. My dad bought two copies of Order of the Phoenix, which sillygirl84 and I promptly snatched up and squirreled away. He's been secretly preordering multiple copies of The Half-Blood Prince to make sure there are enough to go around.

Z just alerted me that there's a kind of creepy article on kids rereading Harry Potter in the NYTimes. It spotlights a teenager who lugged all five volumes around in her suitcase during her family's vacation in China. Her mother has had to set limits on how many HPs her daughter is allowed to carry around with her.

Harry Potter inspires creepiness all around, apparently.

In other news, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory opens today. It appears that all the Oompa Loompas are played by one guy named "Deep Roy." Today is wonderfully bizarre.

Z has become obsessed with Katie Holmes's conversion to Scientology. I'm more interested in the fact that Tom Cruise sounds positively insane in all the interviews about Katie Holmes and Scientology. For example:

In an interview in the June 17 issue of Entertainment Weekly, the 42-year-old actor was asked if Holmes is curious about Scientology.

"Yeah, absolutely. She digs it," he tells the magazine.

In response to a question about whether he'd asked Holmes not to do "Factory Girl" -- about Edie Sedgwick and Andy Warhol -- because of the drug use in the movie, Cruise says: "I don't even know what 'Factory Girl' is."

In other news, last night I received an email from a dear friend of mine, with whom I've had little contact over the last ten years. Sean and I were in a woodwind quintet together when we were in high school—he played clarinet to my oboe. He also drove me around a lot in his minivan since I didn't have a license, despite the fact that I lived absolutely nowhere near where he lived. Sometime when we were in college (I think), I received an email announcing that he'd met the woman with whom he'd spend the rest of his life, and it looks like he was right: The story of how Sean proposed to Anne, involving love, pain, tragedy, and, of course, sharks.

I haven't met Anne yet, but she's clearly a woman after my own sharky heart.

Scientists have announced the discovery of a new species of rodent: the Laotian Rock Rat. Laotians have been eating these creatures time out of mind, but Western science has just "discovered" them. According to the NYTimes report, "The adults have bodies about a foot long, with a six-inch tail that is not as bushy as a squirrel's. They knew immediately that this was, as Dr. Timmins [one of the discoverers] said, 'an oddball rodent.'" "Oddball" being, of course, the preferred scientific term for all things that are "definitely not rats or squirrels, and are only vaguely like a guinea pig or a chinchilla."

So here's today's question: If you were a college freshman, would you be inclined to sign up for a course called "To Create More Worlds, or The Literary Art of Becoming Other"? This is the Introduction to English Literature freshman seminar I'm designing. (Incidentally, "To Create More Worlds" is the second half of the line from Paradise Lost from which Philip Pullman culled the name of the His Dark Materials trilogy.) The course looks at the interwoven projects of defining the "human" as an essentially mutable category and defining "the world" as a thing that must be constantly remade. It's about reproduction and transformation, and the paradox articulated by Percy Shelley, that "Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; / Nought may endure but Mutability." readings include Ovid's Metamorphoses, Othello, Paradise Lost, Robinson Crusoe, Frankenstein, a bunch of Romantic poetry, Mrs. Dalloway, Einstein's Dreams, and, of course, The Matrix.

Too think-y?

The new FannyPack CD arrived yesterday courtesy of psychoprince, who, by the way, is one of the handful of esteemed teachers who really taught me how to think. He fed me Kafka when I was a freshman, and I've never been the same since.

Oh, and because I know you've all been following the story, you'll be pleased (or disappointed) to know that Demi Moore Denies Belittling Kutcher's Bedroom Performance, according to the IMDb news page.

It seems the thing to do, today, to honor the now-snuffed lives of Hunter S. Thompson and Sandra Dee, is to take several hits of acid and watch Gidget movies till the sun goes down.

Hmmm. Well.

Quoted in the most recent BUST magazine: "I have a ferret named Dolce & Gabbana. Ferrets are illegal [in New York], but whatever. I just bought a bobcat yesterday."

What Z said when I read that to him: "She named her ferret Dolce AND Gabbana??"

I didn't mean for this journal to be so scattered and sketchy, but I've been kind of a zombie lately. I forgot to shower yesterday. I might have forgotten the day before as well; I don't remember. I really need to get back to work. I'm squandering all the OCD energy I need to propel me through the next chapter of the diss on internet shopping, chatting, and downloading. Maybe I need to stop biting my Lexapro tablets in half and take the full dosage. I halved it in response to what my drug dealer and I like to call "sexual side-effects," because we can't have those, no no no, as the great sad Billie Holiday once crooned, They can't take that away from me, and anyway, I had convinced myself that the prescription is pretty cosmetic anyway. I mean, honestly, now everyone and her mother is on antidepressants, and we can't all be that fucked up, and if we are, then it's not fucked up, it's just normal, right? Right. But as getting onto the meds was the one major accomplishment of my run of psychotherapy last year, I'm not willing to give them up just yet. Just to bite them in half.

What I really need is a hit of Focusin.

I'm going upstairs now. You can do whatever you want. I recommend subscribing to BUST, if you don't already.