ahream

If you asked a random sampling of 100 American women what celebrity they would most like to be stranded with on a desert island – or at least stranded in a two-room suite at the Bellagio – 98* of them would say George Clooney. And up until Sunday, I would’ve voted with the majority.

He is perhaps the last movie star to still have just a little bit of mystique. Charming but coy. Handsome but not too handsome. Cary Grant and Dean Martin all rolled into one. Assuming Dean Martin would ever become a UN peace envoy to Darfur.

Then came the Oscars, and everything just fell apart.

Georgie arrived with his recent girlfriend, a lovely brunette who unfortunately was wearing a dress that looked like couch upholstery. But I’m sure that wasn’t her fault, and it’s not the point. The point is when Georgie shows up to such a high-profile event with a woman it is the journalistic duty of the reporters present to dig up a little background.

She’s a 28-year-old cocktail waitress in Vegas whose greatest claim to fame is having been a contestant on the gross-out T.V. show Fear Factor where she drank blood and ate a scorpion cocktail.

I…I…what?!

I need a moment for the disappointment to finish filling my soul.

Okay, moment over. I’m going to go rent North by Northwest and pretend none of this is happening. Yes, there was at least a fifty percent chance Cary Grant was gay, but that doesn’t dampen a girl’s crush nearly as much as a cocktail waitress munching on insects. That’s just disgusting.

*The other 2 are going for Johnny Depp, who’s fine except we probably wear the same size clothes and sometimes he forgets to bathe.

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (9) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2008-02-26 9:34 AM Say it ain’t so, Georgie If you asked a random sampling of 100 American women what celebrity they would most like to be stranded with on a desert island – or at least stranded in a two-room suite at the Bellagio – 98* of them would say George Clooney. And up until Sunday, I would’ve voted with the majority. He is perhaps the last movie star to still have just a little bit of mystique. Charming but coy. Handsome but not too handsome. Cary Grant and Dean Martin all rolled into one. Assuming Dean Martin would ever become a UN peace envoy to Darfur. Then came the Oscars, and everything just fell apart. Georgie arrived with his recent girlfriend, a lovely brunette who unfortunately was wearing a dress that looked like couch upholstery. But I’m sure that wasn’t her fault, and it’s not the point. The point is when Georgie shows up to such a high-profile event with a woman it is the journalistic duty of the reporters present to dig up a little background. She’s a 28-year-old cocktail waitress in Vegas whose greatest claim to fame is having been a contestant on the gross-out T.V. show Fear Factor where she drank blood and ate a scorpion cocktail. I…I…what?! I need a moment for the disappointment to finish filling my soul. Okay, moment over. I’m going to go rent North by Northwest and pretend none of this is happening. Yes, there was at least a fifty percent chance Cary Grant was gay, but that doesn’t dampen a girl’s crush nearly as much as a cocktail waitress munching on insects. That’s just disgusting. *The other 2 are going for Johnny Depp, who’s fine except we probably wear the same size clothes and sometimes he forgets to bathe. Read/Post Comments (9) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top