All of this Red Carpet Awards Season glamour has me in the mood to start my own clothing line, but not the usual sequins and satin.  That seems like too much effort.  I’m going in a different direction: A fashion line for the Depressed and/or Extremely Lazy.

The collection consists of a big gray sweatshirt with a Moon Pie neckline and a take-out menu imprinted on the sleeve.  The shirt is paired with Cheetos-dust resistant jeans that can be worn for two consecutive weeks and still hold their baggy shape.   And, because the Depressed and/or Lazy don’t like to exert energy,  the outfit becomes sleepwear simply by getting into bed.

Accompanying the ensemble: An audio version of ”The Secret” with all the ”action steps” skipped over,  a feedbag of Bacon Bits,  and sample messages for calling in ”tired” or “mopey”  to work.

Versatility is another feature of the Dressed for Depressed line.  Let’s say you’re on an emergency grocery store run and you spot an ex.  Simply think about pulling a cord and a billowy, hooded cape is released.  He’ll just assume you’re the Sith and be on his merry way. 

Thick, fluffy, comfy socks with Teddy Bear heads on the front will be available beginning in November, along with slip-on shoes  (No shoe-lace tying here!) that will accommodate the socks when there are no other clean ones because it’s impossible to load a washing machine and nap at the same time.

Evening wear consists of the same pieces, but comes with a couch. 

I hope to have the collection in stores by 2035-ish.  Then, I plan on creating a clothing line for the Happy and/or Energetic.  It will include bright colors, smiley faces,  and their favorite perfume, Eau de Effexor…

I’ve discovered the antidote to the Sad-and-Crankies: Kids’ cereal.  Specifically, Fruity Pebbles with a few Frosted Flakes thrown in for good measure.  As a kid, my favorite was Franken Berry, but there was always too much Franken, not enough Berry.

As I sit here eating a sea of colorful little flakes softened by the proper milk to cereal ratio, my writer’s block, career concerns, “man-alyis” exhaustion (Am I in, or am I out? Paging Heidi Klum!), and car problems disappear as quickly as Henry Paulson’s credibility.

I could have had salad or brown rice with vegetables for lunch, but neither had the potential to take me back to an era when back-of-the-box reading,  watching Wonderama, and repeatedly tracing one letter of the alphabet on line-and-dash paper were considered a full day’s work.  Hey! I just got a hankerin’ for Alpha-bits!

I remember when Golden Grahams hit the market; ostensibly a “healthy” alternative to Trix or the Toucan-fronted Fruit Loops, which never had the same appeal after I learned that in their natural habitat, Toucans are mean and not open to endorsement deals unless there’s a meal of a small forest animal involved.  

Now that I’m sated from the Fruity Pebbles (which I’m sure don’t contain even a mitochondriacal-sized piece of fruit),  I’m back in the adult hood where concerns like cholesterol and calories override the tasty time-travel piloted by the likes of Captain Crunch and Count Chocula.  But, grown-up rules can’t stop me from leaving my bowl in the sink and heading to the park where I can kick my feet up in the swing and woosh down the winding slide. 

Wait! Hear that? It’s the chime of the ice-cream truck!  Gotta go!

Celebrate the 4th with a 5th (of cake)…

Happy Birthday, America!

This is the day that condiments live for.  That bottle of Cajun-flavored BBQ Sauce, those impossible-to-open plastic packets of restaurant ketchup scattered around the car and cupboards, the lonely jar of crusty-rimmed mustard, a squeeze container of vintage relish…They will once again unite on the table, a condiment container skyline awaiting its fate atop grilled meat or-this is L.A.- tofu.

And then, there’s the red, white, and blue icing that graces sheet cakes and cupcakes and various other treats, evoking patriotism with every bite.  I’m sure that crumbs from a flag-motif cookie had to be brushed off the Declaration of Indepence before it was copied and sent around the office for signatures.  

Topic change ahead…

I owe all of my readers an explanation as to why I haven’t posted an entry in over a month.  So, Mom and Dad, here’s the deal.  I’ve been busy with lots of little things that I hope will add up to a big thing that will require a red carpet appearance in a strapless gown, an armpit Botox injection (aka: celebrity deodorant), and an oft-quoted awards speech about the trials and tribulations of becoming a Hollywood writer. ( “Although I never had to sleep in my car, I once took a nap in the Costco parking lot after carrying out a 100 lb. bag of Chocolate Turtle Chex Mix.  Does that count?”)

Additionally, I’ve been gallavanting around cyberspace, spending time with Facebook.  Although my blog will always be my virtual steady, I plan on keeping Facebook on the side.  When I’m out and about, making new acquaintances,  I inevitably ask, “Are you on Facebook?”  Type, click, send, I add to my people-collection.

Speaking of technological outreach,  I was at Urth Cafe sipping a Boba (which I order because it’s the most fun word to say), when my phone emitted a succession of gentle chimes heralding incoming text messages. The sender is a serial texter,  and I realized,then, that there are two types of people in the world: Texters and Non-Texters.  Texters are sustained by alpha-numeric communication,  while Non-Texters prefer interaction that does not involve a smiley face, wink, or other form of emotion conveyed by punctuation art.  For the love of Alexander Graham Bell, Texters, pick up the phone and dial, so we can all get on with our lives and into the potato salad!  By the time I tap out a message, wait for the reply, and clear up misunderstandings due to lack of voice inflection,  I’m dialogue-ically exhausted.  I don’t mind the occasional text,  but an entire afternoon of one-word messages in 20-minute intervals is the conversational equivalent of driving behind a bus.

Another excuse for not blogging is that I recently moved.  By the time I thought about packing, procrastinated packing, decided which of my “when I lose 10 lbs.” wardrobe items to toss, and actually packed, a lot of time had passed.  Now that I have to unpack and find room for the stuff I may or may not need, my wish for myself is this: I want to be successful enough to afford all the material things I’ve ever dreamed of, and evolved enough to not want them.

As for celebrity interviews,  I covered the Daytime Emmys and BET Awards.  Nothing like a gathering of soap stars and recording artists to make me feel like I need a make-over and cool-school.  A few days later, I got really excited when I saw a celebrity at Target.  (It’s always interesting to see someone in an environment other than the workplace, isn’t it?)  I was shopping for a storage container (total pre-move procrastination tactic) and I spotted Jack McBrayer from 30 Rock!  He saw me struggling to reach the top shelf and gallantly took the container down for me.  I thought about saying something to him along the lines of “I really like your show,” or “I hope the entire cast gets Emmys,” or “Here’s my shruken-down, pocket-sized 30 Rock spec script.”   But I didn’t.  I thanked him and ran to the nearby frame aisle to report the sighting to my sister.    

I’d better go.  It’s time to squeeze in a work out so I can squeeze into my summer BBQ outfit: shorts and a t-shirt made out of Wet Naps…

In case I don’t write before the next holiday,  Happy Everything All the Time!

Carpet Recap

I covered several Hollywood events recently and even did some socializing, which means I went through a lot of mascara.

I think every woman has a beautification habit that’s unbreakable (unlike my poor eyelashes).  For me, it’s several coats of mascara and black eyeliner.  I’m not even sure it looks good, but if I don’t wear it, I feel unfinished.  Eye-enhancing tools, you complete me. 

So, there I was, me and my eye-shadow walking down Weyburn Avenue in Westwood towards the movie theatre where “What Happens in Vegas” was premiering.  There was a huge set-up with bleachers where fans sat on either the Team Ashton or Team Cameron sides.  (The movie is about two strangers who marry in Vegas, decide to divorce, but first, they battle over a slot machine jackpot.)  The group of fans who cheered the loudest got to go inside and see the film.  Team Ashton won the tickets, everyone else lost their hearing.

We settled into our spot towards the end of the press line.  I hoped that the celebs wouldn’t be suffering from interview hangovers by the time they got to us and decide to head straight into the theater.  Turns out, I did have to coax a few of the cast members over, but Ashton Kutcher gave every outlet a salient sound bite.  And, yes, ladies, he’s attractive.  And tall.  And funny.  And attractive. 

A few weeks later, I saw “What Happens in Vegas.”  It’s romantic -comedy brain candy.  I liked it.  Lots of pitfalls and pratfalls on the path to soulmate-ville, just like real-life, except with much better looking people, and an affordable Manhattan apartment. 

Another event I covered recently was the Race to Erase MS to benefit Multiple Sclerosis research, an annual event that draws lots of celebrities.  Awkward moment of the night: I asked Howie Mandel what he thought of the orange-inspired Tommy Hilfiger designed theme.  (It was on my list of assigned questions.)  No deal, Angela.  Howie informed me on-camera that he’s color-blind.  So, in addition to being on a do-not-shake list (Howie keeps his hands to himself.  He doesn’t like germs.), he’s in the do-not-ask-about color category. 

A few days later, I donned my golf-y outfit (khaki shorts, a collared shirt, and one less layer of mascara) and stood in the media section of the George Lopez Golf Classic to benefit the National Kidney Foundation.  I talked to Andy Garcia, Ray Romano, Kevin Sorbo, Dennis Haysbert, and a bunch of other guys who love George and love golf, and were happy to talk to the press about both.  Their favorite golf tips: Keep your head down and follow through on the swing.  My favorite golf tip: Hit the ball.  Even if it doesn’t go where you want it, it’s best that the club actually make contact.

Between work, writing another comedy spec script, and wishing broccoli tasted like cheesecake, I managed to go out to dinner a few times.  Not date-dinners, but friend-dinners, which are way more relaxed and fun because I know that in the middle of the meal,  I won’t wish that I could teleport myself to a planet where a protracted dating ritual doesn’t exist and that we figure out who should be together simply by comparing political beliefs, favorite Seinfeld episodes, and agreeing that socks should never be worn with sandals (and that sandals, in general, should be left to those with bare-able feet).

Gotta run now and do Saturday stuff!  Be back soon!

angelagetsemail@yahoo.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Iron Man – if only!

In a perfect world, Iron Man would not only be a high-flying, weapons-wielding superhero, he would also be the guy who gets up early to iron my blouse.  Yeah, yeah, I know we need to save the planet from evil-doers, but we also have to rescue the world from wrinkled shirts.

As I stood in my assigned spot at Hollywood’s Iron Man premiere between a French crew and a reporter from a trade paper who asked celebs what they would do if they owned an iron suit, I thought about the dearth of superheros for single women.  There should be “Handyman”, who’d fly around in denim tights and a shower-curtain cape to replace the old and moldy one. ”Handy” would always carry extra lightbulbs and a quart of Drano in his toolbelt.  I also propose adding “Super(Market)man” to the rescuer roster. He would do all the grocery shopping, carry the bags into the kitchen, and neatly shelve the purchases. Then, he’d gather my garbage and recyclables and rocket into the night in his turbo-charged grocery cart.  Oh! I know! There should be a superhero named “Laundro-Matt” who swoops in to do the laundry (including the comforter), AND put the clean sheets back on the bed. 

I didn’t mention my ideas to perennially-hip Iron Man star, Robert Downey Jr. Instead, I asked him about the challenges of doing his own stunts.  He gave credit to the crew and on-set  experts who supported his efforts, though Downey’s trainer told me that his workouts were extremely demanding and began long before he auditioned for the role.  Gwenyth Paltrow, for whom the word “lithe” was invented, gave us a soundbite, as did Jon Voight and Ben Stiller who came over after I called to him using my New Jersey outdoor voice, “Ben, Ben, just one question!”  Also, two of the nicest guys ever, Beau and Jeff Bridges, walked the press line with their families.  Overall, the stars were mediagreeable.  Vince Vaughn did a few brief interviews with the major shows and gave the rest of us the peace sign as he walked by.

When the carpet closed, I walked east on Hollywood Blvd. stepping over the stars’ names immortalized in stone and bronze and thought about inventing a superhero persona for myself.  Instead of  “Wonder – when the guy/agent/writing contest decider will call - Woman”,  I’ll be “Go-Getter Girl”: Aspiring screenwriter by day, celebrity interrogator by night, and shoe-sale finder on the weekends. 

 Tonight, I cover the premiere of “What Happens in Vegas”.  I’ll let you know what happens on the carpet…

 

angelagetsemail@yahoo.com

(In case you want to know what I look like on a windy day…)

Red Carpet Reminiscing:Sunday on the Carpet with George

What would I wear to go see George Clooney?

This was my dilemma on the day of the Academy Awards.  I was assigned to cover Red Carpet arrivals during which I would stand on the edge of the carpet, ensconced in the swell of media, flagging down Hollywood A-listers to ascertain their favorite film, favorite Oscar moment, and favorite American Idol contestant.

It didn’t help that I woke up feeling like the Incredible Bulk.  I had tried to stick to a special-event starvation diet earlier in the week, but within a few hours, I was so ravenous that I ate every bit of canned cupboard food that should only be consumed in case of the Apocalypse or if you can’t leave the apartment because you’re waiting for the cute guy from the gym to call and getting into the elevator would mean 27-seconds of no cell phone service.

Anyway, there I was, Oscar morning, standing in the doorway of my closet, hands on hips, with a full-on concentration head tilt.  The rack was crowded with random skirts, sweaters, and age-inappropriate hot-weather outfits that I was sure I’d fit into by the summer.  I pushed aside the informal attire and focused on the dressy-dresses. I considered, then passed over, a red-beaded strappy number, the short white and silver 60’s fem-bot look, and a green halter-top dress that required Jessica Biel-buff arms and shoulders. Eventually, I freed a black flowy gown from its smushed sartorial prison. It had a generous lower half and crystals on the neckline. It was my perennial go-to gown that accommodated me no matter how carby-licious I became.

I hung the dress on the outside of the closet door and whipped through my 40-minute getting-ready ritual which included flat-ironing my hair to within an inch of its life.   I took the gown off the hanger, stepped into it,  and prayed that the side zipper would close without me having to call the building Superintendent to help, as I’d done a few months earlier.*

*Flashback: December 2007.  I was able to get the zipper halfway up, at which point it got stuck and wouldn’t go up or down.  I tried for almost an hour, contorting myself into positions that a Yoga master would envy. I was slick with sweat when I finally called in the reinforcement: Dale, the Super, who was in the dimly lit hallway replacing a bulb. I cracked open my door and hid my body behind it, leaving only the left half of my face visible. It was like a scene from a Boris Karloff movie. Dale was understandably reluctant.

Me:  ”Psst. Dale! Comemeer!”

Dale: “Pardon?”  

Me in a stage whisper: “I need you to come in here for a second. You should probably bring tools.”

Dale: (Backing away) “What kind of repair does your place need? You could fill out a maintenance request.”

 Me: ”I don’t have time, and it’s not really an official documentation kind of thing. I need you to help me with the zipper of this dress before my elbow locks into permanent Chicken Dance position, which I’m sure would be a hit at weddings, but not so much on a tightly-packed press line. Please?”

Me again: “I won’t hurt you, I promise, and the only thing you’ll see is armpit cleavage and a dark patch of skin shaped like the Czech Republic between my shoulder blades where I couldn’t reach the tanning lotion.”  

Finally, Dale capitulated, cautiously approached, and hoisted up the zipper. I gave him  hush money a tip, and hoped that the embarrassing wardrobe malfunction would remain our little secret, though I’m sure it will make into print if he decides to write a book. (He could call it “A Super Life” or “From Superintendent to Superhero, How I Saved a Tenant from Dress Distress”.  There could be a forward by Schneider from One Day at a Time.)

Back to George. The dress cooperated and I was out the door with my purse and a small shopping bag containing reading material, a bag of whole-wheat bagels, wheat thins (I would be out there for at least 3 hours), water, and high-heels for when I arrived at the venue. (I wore sneakers for the long walk from the parking lot to the shuttle to the Kodak. Nothing says “sexy” like a woman in a formal gown and Nikes, weighed down by a bag full of baked goods.)

I arrived at the location a little damp. It had been raining and dreary, but thankfully, the entire red carpet area was tented. After searching for our assigned spot up and down the carpet like a sparkly shooting – range target for about 20 minutes,  I discovered our sign on the third tier next to a gi-normous Oscar trophy whose gleaming gold buttocks could probably be seen from space. But, wait! How would I conduct interviews if I wasn’t on the ground level?  Apparently, there was credential confusion and we were slated to shoot, not to ask questions.  Only the cameraman needed to be there, but I stayed, anyway. I had never covered the Academy Awards and this would be an up close and personal view of the bow-tied, the Bo-toxed, and the boney.

One by one, the glitterati stepped onto the carpet greeted by varying degrees of applause and whoo-hooing from the fans in the bleachers. There was a flashbulb frenzy each time a celeb posed in front of the photo pit, rendering the stars temporarily blind as they continued down the press line to the TV crews.  An awkward moment arose when Gary Busey overenthusiastically greeted Ryan Seacrest, Jennifer Garner and Laura Linney. The entire journalistic jackpot moment was captured live by a cadre of cameras. 

Then, HE walked in. The carpet was so packed that he almost entered unnoticed, until an explosion of audible excitement erupted from the fans. George Clooney (with only the top of his head visible to me) and his girlfriend, Sarah Larson, glided through the throngs, sporting designer duds and a platinum-tinged aura of success and sex appeal.

George waved to the fans and engaged the media in his usual friendly manner. I’d interviewed him a few times before and always found him to be polite and genuine. Today was different, though, because he looked like a man in love, which along with the tux and disarming smile, made him even more appealing. He introduced Sarah to every reporter and kept one hand on her lower back the entire time. I sighed a girly sigh that translated to:  What would it be like to be on the receiving end of such unfettered adoration? Hold on, let me dig out my to-do list: Pick up dry cleaning, call cable company, enchant a handsome movie star. Got it.

(P.S. The camermen were quite taken with Sarah also, judging from the private post-event commentary. )

As the arrivals continued, I watched the whole scene unfold from my perch above the carpet.  I saw Helen Mirren, Daniel Day-Lewis, Jessica Alba, Heidi Klum, Johnny Depp, Harrison Ford, Faye Dunaway, Julie Christie, Ellen Page, Diablo Cody, and many others take their turn in the spotlight.  It was a rich tableau of old Hollwyood and new, guarded and gregarious, those who embraced the awards-show experience and posed proudly for pictures and those who tolerated the media attention as part of their jobs. 

Finally, the celebs were seated inside the Kodak and the Red Carpet press packed up. I gathered my belongings and trekked back to the shuttle, with one less bagel in my bag, and one more Tinseltown event under my belt.  I took a seat near the window and daydreamed about a life of door-to-door transportation, magician-stylists who would slough and buff me like Dorothy when she got to Emerald City, and an assistant who would make sure I’d never forget to send back the Netflix.

I stepped off the shuttle, got behind the wheel of my 10-year-old, paint-faded Jetta and headed to my friend’s home where she’d organized a casual Oscar viewing party. There was home-cooked food, loads of laughs and a front row seat on a comfy couch from where I watched the show.

When I arrived home, I de-glamorized, put on a pair of Walgreen’s sweat pants (They have pockets.) and fuzzy socks, then, opened the window to let in the cool bedtime breeze. I folded myself into the covers like a burrito and drifted off to sleep thinking about my Good Night and Good Luck. Watching Hollywood history unfold was a memorable experience. If I’m there next year, maybe I’ll sneak my screenplay into the goodie bags…

Red Carpet Rewind:Me and Hugh

Making Hugh Grant laugh made my night. 

I confess: Hugh is chick-flick catnip to me. My favorite girl movie of all time is “Sense and Sensibility”, so it made Sense that when Hugh worked his way through the press line at the premiere of ”Music and Lyrics”, I had my microphone at-the-ready.

Earlier in the day, while sitting with my lap top researching the movie on the floor of my apartment, which is decorated in the “I’d rather buy shoes than furniture” motif, I thought about how fortunate I was to have been offered a reporter position two weeks after landing in L.A. with all those little pieces of paper crowded with ideas and dialogue written in whatever giant souvenir pencil, eye-liner, or half-dried out pen was handy at the time in the hopes of turning it all into something screenplay-ish and product-placement worthy. The red carpet correspondent job came to me as a result of kind, thoughtful friends. Gratitude abounds.

For this premiere, we were waaaaaay down at the end of the carpet, so there was a chance that Hugh would go inside the theater before he got to us.  Not all celebs walk the entire press line. It can be draining for the star to talk to dozens of reporters.  Plus, some of the quirky, niche outlets ask unrelated questions that can be off-putting. (At a VH1 event, we were placed next to an international crew whose sole purpose was to ask celebs what they thought of casting Larry Hagman in the film version of Dallas. The big entertainment shows can be tough carpet neighbors, too, especially if they ask stars what they think about Britney Spears’ latest woes. I just cringe and hope the celeb doesn’t get press-annoyed and skip over the rest of us.)

As Hugh got closer, I made eye contact with his publicist and asked if he would bring him our way. He nodded and issued the directive that had become my life logline for the past year and a half: “Just one question”.

Before I knew it, Hugh was standing there in all his boyish, polite, understated, British, charming, rom-com leading man glory. My mind was like a clothes dryer as words and question marks tumbled around waiting to fluff up and take shape.  What ONE question do I ask the guy whose portrayal of the Prime Minister in “Love, Actually” is the reason the girls and I gather ’round the television set each December consuming Christmas cookies and egg nog? (For the record – and to publicly allay my “I-wish-I-were-cooler self-consciousness”, I also love the Transporter movies. So there.)    

Back to the Red Carpet. Here’s how it went down:  

“Hi, Hugh. I’m Angela. I can only ask you one question. That’s a lot of pressure.”

OK, maybe you had the be there, but Hugh laughed.

Me again: “Hmmm”, I said while drumming my fingers on my chin and mentally shooing away questions that seemed personal or frivolous. “Can you tell us about the experience of making this movie?”

BRILLIANT! Mint this girl a Murrow Award and get her a patio table at Spago STAT!  This is groundbreaking Entertainment Journalism!

Hugh, total professional that he is, gave an awesome 30-second response about singing and dancing in the film. Soundbite secured. Mission accomplished.

(I should also mention that the film’s star/producer, Drew Barrymore, graciously engaged the press. Even as the movie screening was underway, she stayed outside and gave interviews to every media outlet.)

I have lots more to share, but right now I have to do Saturday things like run to the dry cleaners, get the car washed, procrastinate going to the gym, and tend to some beautification that requires no physical exertion,  just a credit card and searing pain. 

Back soon!

Owen now Showin’

Paramount gives good screening.

I arrived at Mann’s Theater in Hollywood Tuesday afternoon and sought out the press check-in table. I was looking forward to seeing Paramount’s “Drillbit Taylor”, opening this weekend and starring Owen Wilson, aka, The Butterscotch Stallion. (Mr. Wilson is very popular with the ladies – and not just at the box office. Unfortunately, there was premiere for the movie so I would not be able to see Mr. Wilson up close and personal on the red carpet, just far away and publicly on the big screen.)

Upon locating my name on the list, a publicist handed me a coupon that I assumed was redeemable for the purchase and production of my first screenplay. (After all, I had twice touched the Paramount gates during a studio tour for good luck as tradition dictates.) On closer inspection, I saw that the ticket entitled me to free popcorn and soda. Certainly, a 3-picture deal and an office on the lot couldn’t be far behind.

I’m not a professional movie-reviewer, just a professional movie-goer. And, I love the movies so much that the mere fact that something is on celluloid and playing in a theater makes me like it even before I wrap myself in my old-lady sweater and settle into my seat.  I don’t possess a critic’s sensibility or vernacular, so I end up telling friends that a film was either worth two hours of their lives and 11 of their hard-earned dollars, or that they’d be better off using that money for a complicated coffee beverage or a gallon of gas.

My verdict on “Drillbit” is that it’s cute and will no doubt be a big hit among the weekly-allowance, parent-pick-up-and-drop-off-as-far-from-the-entrance-as-possible set.  “Drillbit” did make me laugh outloud a few times, and it was fun, though I did disturb my row mates and risk uncomfortable knee-bumping to use the restroom partway through the film instead of forcing myself to wait until the end so I wouldn’t miss anything. (It rates a “7″ out of 10 on the Bladder-Relief/Snack-Stand Visit During-the-Movie meter.)

Of course, I have to point out that there’s a mini-love story in which Owen Wilson, who plays a covert high-school bodyguard for some bully-targeted kids, is hot-for-teacher and wants to take the fetching Leslie Mann on a romantic date instead of only engaging in “after-school activities”.  (Hope springs eternal, ladies.)

Also opening this weekend is Tyler Perry’s “Meet the Browns”, which I have not yet seen, but plan to. Still in theaters: The Bank Job, which I found to be entertaining and British sexycool, with Jason Statham as an irresistably untameable alpha-male heartbreaker/lawbreaker. (“9″ out of 10 on the BRSSVDM meter.)

Well, I’d better dash before the day gets away from me. I need to go lift some weights to fend off that pesky Osteoporosis and excavate that little bicep bump before it disappears forever into upper-arm anonymity. For those of you who celebrate the holiday, I hope the Easter Bunny fills your basket with lots of goodies and that you have the patience to pick off every last speck of foil before consuming them.  This is also a big church-going weekend where fashion and religion intersect and people don their Sunday best to attend services. (As a natural consequence of my job as a Red Carpet reporter, my mind sometimes drifts into fashion commentary mode during mass: “The woman in the 6th pew to the right of the altar took a chance on a pastel dress and jewel-tone hat, but, Amen, it seems to work.”)

Back soon!

What’s New, Pussycat?

I wonder what life would be like if I were a Pussycat Doll.

This is what went through my mind as I stood behind my cameraman, singing along as the glammed-up girl group, wearing towering heels and black spandex, booty-popped and hair-tossed their way through the catchy question, “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?” Their performance on the last night of L.A. fashion week followed a runway show of new Pussycat Dolls lingerie so tiny that at first I thought it was designed for actual pussy cats.  But, no. There were attractive,  willowy human females who modeled the bras, panties, hoodies, and garter-belt dangling micro-minis that I could possibly squeeze into if I did back-to-back stints on “Survivor” as well as my personal reality show: “Your High School Reunion Is In Two Weeks and It’s a Pool Party!”

Fortunately, when I was assigned to cover the lingerie launch, I could proudly boast to my boss, “You are sending the right girl because I watched ‘The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll’ and can say with confidence that I have found my inner doll”.  There was silence on the other end of the phone, so I decided not to tell her that I secretly hoped the record company would open up auditions for those of us past approaching the sexy song-and-dance act expiration date. I think there could be a market for a group of sassy, successful gals sporting Spanx, Aerosoles, and body-hugging costumes made entirely of Calcium patches.  We could sing ”Don’t cha wish your girlfriend had life-experience like me? Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was well-read like me? Don’t cha?”

Perhaps it was too late to live the dream, but there were more immediate accomplishments to focus on, such as catching up to P.Diddy who had just arrived backstage with Dr. Dre.  It was Pussycat pandemonium as I nudged my way through the throngs and thongs.  The charismatic Diddy evoked squeals of delight from the cast of the PCD second-season reality series, “Girlicious”, who giddily asked the Hip-Hop hyphenate to pose for a photo.  This was fortuitous because it got him to slow down long enough for me to thrust out my microphone and ask two event-related questions - all while security hovered and tried to shoo us away.  Phew! I, and my inner Pushy-cat Doll, broke a sweat on that one, but I got the soundbites I needed.

Meantime, the crowd clamored to congratulate Pussycat Dolls founder and lingerie designer Robin Antin who has successfully applied the PCD brand to make-up, dolls, television productions, a Las Vegas lounge, and a jewelry line. Now, the lingerie collection, called “Shhh”, is no longer a secret – Victoria’s or otherwise. No angel wings on this runway, just devilish little underthings that require a boatload of body confidence and a lifetime’s supply of Nair.

I conducted a few more interviews and headed home to the solitude of my studio apartment. I unzipped my faux patent- leather boots, removed my red newsboy cap, and piled on the moisturizer and comfy sweats.  I munched on low-calorie multi-grain crackers wishing I had some melted chocolate to dip them in to make them seem less like cardboard.  (In fact, I really couldn’t taste the difference between the product and the packaging.)

Well, friends, I think I’m me-owt of here. It’s time to visit the make-up aisles of Walgreen’s to see if there are any new shades of beigey-pink lip gloss.  I also have to stop by the newstand to load up on the week’s reading material covering everything from what’s happening on Capitol Hill in D.C. to what’s happening on “The Hills” with LC.

I will be back soon with more tales from the nearly-naked city!

Sex and the City

Today I walked around Century City Mall and played “Pretend Spend”.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and relatively quiet compared to the Sturm und Drang of the socks-on sex scandal unfolding in New York.  Trystin’ with Kristen was Eliot Spitzer’s assignation-to-resignation real-life sex and the city and everybody was buzzin’ about it. 

After I had saturated myself with minute-by-minute internet updates on the country’s newest drama involving the world’s oldest profession, I decided to take myself out for a spinach wrap and fantasy shopping spree.  I wasn’t working again until the next night when I would be covering the debut of the new Pussycat Dolls lingerie line, which I’m sure will send me into a downward spiral of cellulite shame.

I drove to the mall, navigated my car into the same underground area I always do, (my way of dealing with parking-spot amnesia), and wandered in and out of my favorite stores picking out the items I would buy if I had a backlog of bucks. In one of the AP stories about Eliot Spitzer, it was pointed out that his father is worth $500 million.  That’s A LOT of Jimmy Choos. 

Imagined wealth is a fun game and it got me through a restless afternoon of my other Hollywood hobby, “Waiting for the Big Break Phone Call” which involves bringing the cell everywhere including the bathroom while I shower and keeping my shampoo-burned eyes on the incoming call screen through the glass door (the same technique used in cute-guy, great-date, next-day phone call vigils).

Am heading out now to meet friends on the patio of an upscale industry restaurant where we once saw Stanley Tucci along with the usual bevy of blue-suited power-brokers.  I’ll order an Iced Tea and eat the lemon wedge for dinner, imagining it’s Eggplant Parmigiana. 

Back soon!