We all have our little vices, guilty pleasures, if you will. You know, the base reality tv show in which young women insist that they have real feelings for a decaying, way-past-his-prime music legend. Or that website you visit daily that is completely void of any intellectual content. You quickly navigate away when someone enters the room. We're on the same page, here.
We all have 'em. Mine just happen to be, formerly, Rock of Love, Desperate Housewives, and Kat Giantis's Undressed column on MSN.com. In general, I try to avoid getting sucked into the vortex that is celebrity gossip. But this chick is just so gosh-darn hysterical that I literally cannot control myself. My eyes glaze over and in two clicks and I'm reading her witticisms about a scantily clad Cortney Love. Today, I was digging through the archives and found this little doozy:
"No Guts, No Tori: In the chanteuse's defense, she was at Comic-Con, a safe place to let your inner kook out for a little air, although that doesn't give her license to gut an innocent beanbag chair, throw a belt around it and call it a dress. It also doesn't excuse the droopy black material surrounding Tori's calves and feet, although, curiously, not her toes. Granted, it isn't easy accessorizing a hollowed-out novelty cushion, but come on, at least try to find something resembling actual footwear, and not extra-thick leg warmers glued to a pair of sandals, or drafty moon boots, or -- and we're just spitballing here -- Batman's cross-dressing shoe of choice."
Check out the photog of Ms. Amos here. I'm quite certain that Kat and I would be besties. She's a woman after my own heart.
Speaking of addictions, when oh when is the fifth season of Rescue Me going to get rolling? That Writers' Strike managed to seriously cut into my Tommy Gavin time. I know it's horrible, UN-politically correct, and appalling--but I can't get enough of the guys from 62 Truck. I know I'm a little late on the draw on this one (after all, ever since they started selling series on DVD, my life hasn't been the same), but Denis Leary is my new fix.
But who knew that his wife, Ann Leary, was such a literary genius? She's written several books and has a killer blog on her website. She talks pretty candidly about the perks of being the wife of a famous actor, like gorgeous models flirting with your husband and being labeled 'editorial waste':
"And here’s something you might not know about red carpets: almost always, the people on the other side of it – photographers, journalists,etc are more attractive and more animated than the actual stars. You just never get to see them, but I do, because I am usually hustled off to the side so that they can photograph Denis either by himself or with another actor. I am what’s known as a waste of editorial space. Photographers will usually take photos of Denis with me, to be polite, but then will insist on some with Denis and somebody worth photographing. I hope I don’t sound bitter, because, in fact, the photographers are so gracious and good-humored about the whole thing that I’m usually thrilled to step up next to them, out of camera range. There, nestled in amongst the guys lugging the sound equipment and cameramen, I have heard some of the juiciest gossip and filthiest jokes you can imagine, and Denis usually has to drag me away."
Love! Lady writers, keep makin' me laugh. It keeps me young.