The Best Blankin' Game Show Ever

There are an infinite number of reasons why I enjoy working from home, but at the top of the list is the fact that I get to schedule my day around one of my new favorite television shows.

Well, it isn't exactly new.

Actually...it's older than I am.

Here. I'll give you a clue:

_____ Game

If you filled in the blank with 'Match,' then a little bell has just sounded, indicating that you've given the correct answer, and one of us is going to end up kissing Richard Dawson on the mouth. That's how things work on Match Game.

Now, there have been several incarnations of Match Game. The original version began airing in 1962 as a live, black and white broadcast from New York City. It went off the air in '69 but was revived in a bright (and I mean bright) full-color format in 1973, recorded "live on tape" in Hollywood. The '70s run of the show is typically the era that most people remember when they think of Match Game. The show experienced brief resurrections in 1990 and 1998, but those versions never quite off the ground.

But Match Game's glory days couldn't be beat. Gene Rayburn was the show's original host in the 1960s, and he returned with the show in '73. Rayburn had a goofy lovability, and though he sometimes went over the top, he never stole the comic thunder from the panelists, who were the real stars of the show. Every episode opened with Gene--typically wearing a business suit with ginormous lapels (ah, the '70s!)--walking across the orange set to retrieve his microphone, which was the size of a yard stick.

Let's explore that set for a minute. Covering the floor and stairs of Match Game's stage was bright orange shag carpeting. And, as if that wasn't enough orange for America, the walls were also orange. But the best part was the giant spinning disc on which the two contestants came whirling around at the opening of every show. When a game was over, the winner would join Gene at the Super Match board--which was manually operated (by, I assume, a dwarf)--and the losing contestant would whirl backstage on the giant spinning disc, waving gaily at the panelists and audience, proclaiming what a wonderful time they've had. Of course, before the Spin of Shame, Gene always assured the loser they would receive a wonderful parting gift, which, in those days, was probably a year's supply of Rice-A-Roni or a gross of Ogilvie Home Perm solution. Who wouldn't be gleeful after learning of gifts like these?

But be warned. If your eyes are even remotely sensitive to light, you may want to wear protective lenses before viewing Match Game. All that bright orange is enough to make your retinas detach.

Just disregard the whole set because, if--like me--thinly-veiled dirty jokes, dry humor, and endless double entendres are your thing, then Match Game is a good match for you.

The panelists were the highlight of every show. Each week featured different stars, but there were always a few that remained consistent. The regulars were Richard Dawson, he of Family Feud fame, who would smoke cigarettes, kiss on anything with a vagina, and flirt so openly and hungrily that you have to wonder if he didn't have a Fleshlight under that desk. But I give Richard a lot of credit; he ruled at Match Game! That guy could match practically any contestant, no matter how odd an answer may be (and there were some doozies).

Another regular panelist was Charles Nelson Reilly. Today, Reilly is mostly known from his appearances on Match Game, but in actuality, he was really quite an accomplished actor, having an extensive theater resume and a Tony Award. There's no denying, however, that pipe-smoking Reilly's greatest role may have been portraying himself on Match Game. Campy and unapologetically flamboyant, he was one of the first out gay men on television. To be fair, he never said it outright on the show, but it was constantly hinted at and lovingly joked about; it was something he did not hide. I, of course, respect him for that, but I also respect the fact that the guy was friggin' hilarious. The funniest Charles moments came when he would reply to a question in his butch persona, named Chuck--whose voice was much deeper than Reilly's natural voice--and talk about "pickin' up chicks." Comedy gold, I tell ya.

The other regular was my personal favorite, the amazing Brett Somers. Now, to be fair, Match Game was pretty much Brett's claim to fame. She occasionally acted but was mostly known for being the wife of Jack The Odd Couple Klugman. They separated in 1974 but remained married until Somers's death in 2007; Klugman was the butt of many of Brett's jokes on the show. Despite the fact few probably considered her a star, Brett was fantastic. She seemed to have a different wig for every taping, she often wore dark, oversized glasses, and there were constant jokes about her being an alcoholic. She had a razor-sharp wit and a deadpan delivery, and the show's funniest moments were the hilarious sparring matches between she and Charles.

Over the years, there were many guest stars and several semi-regular panelists. Among the semi-regulars were Bert Convy, Nipsey Russell, Kaye Stevens, the hysterically funny Marcia Wallace, the dingy Joyce Bulifant, and the undisputed queen of game shows, Betty White. But my semi-regular of choice was the wonderful Fannie Flagg. Flagg was an actress and singer, but her biggest success came after Match Game, when she became an accomplished novelist. She wrote Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (and the script for the movie) and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for the novel and an Oscar for the film. She's written several more novels, and I've read all her work. Her books are laugh-out-loud funny and incredibly poignant, offering truly authentic slice-of-life, small town stories with humor and heart.

Flagg gave what is, in my opinion, the best--and funniest--response in Match Game history. Here's the fill-in-the-blank: "Frank said, 'I grew up in a really rough neighborhood. It was so rough that instead of dribbling a basketball, we dribbled a ________.'" The other panelists gave their answers, and then they got to Fannie, whose answer was: "Nun." I still laugh about that answer. I love you, Fannie--and not just for that amazing fried-egg sweatshirt!

So if you're ever finding yourself in front of the television around 11:30 a.m. EST, I highly recommend tuning into the Game Show Network for two back-to-back episodes of Match Game. They are just a lot of fun to watch and harken back to a bygone era in American television. An era when you could smoke and drink cocktails on TV, when you couldn't say dirty words outright but could say everything but, when a collection of now almost-forgotten stars had the opportunity to shine brightly.

But never as brightly as the orange shag carpet.

My Idol Journey: A Skeptic Gives "American Idol" a Chance

Before this year, I prided myself on the fact that I'd never watched a single episode of American Idol. I just didn't think it was my kind of show. From what I had heard (and had seen through umpteen YouTube clips), it seemed to be just a bunch of kids singing in a decidedly pop style in a heated competition for a dubious title. Pop music and competitions are among my Most Hated Things, so of course I steered clear of this show.

And Simon Cowell--oy vey. Talk about my Most Hated Things. Try as I might, even after having given in and watched the ninth season of Idol, I still can't find much good to say about this guy. I just hope he sleeps well at night, on top of the millions of dollars he's made from crushing the dreams of young people.

But while my feelings for Mr. Cowell are unchanged, my feelings for American Idol have changed considerably. After moving to a remote stretch of Vermont late last year, I learned pretty quickly that television was going to become my new best friend. So when Idol rolled around in January, I bit the bullet and decided to watch.

And I was pleasantly surprised.

Now, from what people have told me, this season of the show was its weakest yet. But being that I had no barometer on which to judge this season versus previous ones, I found myself enthralled from the first week of auditions to this week's finale.

And this is what I learned....

It's really hard not to become emotionally invested in American Idol. The whole premise of the show is set up in such a way that your emotions are constantly being played into. Whether laughing (the obviously way-past-the-Idol-age-limit General Larry Platt performing his masterpiece "Pants on the Ground"), crying (Katie Stevens doing the show for her Alzheimer's-stricken grandmother; the accident that nearly cost Casey James his ability to play guitar; the birth of Michael "Big Mike" Lynche's baby during Hollywood Week), or warming the cockles of the heart (endearing Southern girl Vanessa--my early-on favorite--with the sweet, pristine, Emmylou Harris-like soprano, who was excited to go to Hollywood because she was going to get to ride on an "air-o-plane"), this show pulls out all the stops in its efforts to maneuver its way into your heart. And for me, at least, it worked.

Ellen DeGeneres makes everything better. I know she got mixed reviews for her inaugural season in the judge's chair, but in my mind, Ellen can do no wrong. Sure, she's not a music industry professional. And yeah, maybe she could have been more critical (constructively critical, that is, not Simon Cowell Critical). But Ellen is just good, real people, in my humble opinion. Her voice on the panel was an important one: the voice of a fan. I thought she did a bang-up job.

Ryan Seacrest is kinda creepy. It may be because he works, like, a gazillion jobs, but Ryan struck me as really out of touch and sometimes his behavior or choice of words really baffled me. Remember him dancing around like a goon during Tim Urban's "Can't Help Falling in Love"? Or asking Lee DeWyze who among his fellow contestants should be sent packing? Really, dude, not professional. At all. Is this what passes for a TV host nowadays?

The "expert" judges have no fucking idea what they're talking about. I don't lump Ellen into the category of "expert judge," for the simple reason that she's not one (and I think she'd probably agree). Randy Jackson, Kara DioGuardi, and Simon Cowell are the resident "experts." And those three don't know shit. I found myself liking Randy the best out of the trio, mainly because his booing of Simon during Cowell's introduction at the opening of every episode made me laugh hysterically. I knew it was coming, but I laughed every damn time. That's some good shit right there, Randy (or do you prefer "Dawg"?).

Anyway, despite my warm fuzzies for Mr. Jackson, those judges have no clue how to critique music. (Let's not forget: Simon's biggest pre-Idol claim to fame, at least stateside, was as a music producer for the fucking Teletubbies.)

During every single episode, the three would give wildly varied criticism and would often do something truly infuriating. They would chastise a performer for "playing it safe" or "not taking any risks." So, the next week, said performer would do something different, stepping out of his/her comfort zone. And how did the judges reply? Mostly something along the lines of: "Why are you doing something risky?" or "That was awful! You should stick to what you know!" (Sidebar: I do agree with their opinions on Tim Urban's truly bizarre, reggae-soaked version of "Under My Thumb." That wasn't just outside Urban's comfort zone. That was outside of humanity's comfort zone. I, for one, just wanted Tim to stop singing and take his shirt off. Am I alone on this one? Anyone? Anyone?)

But let's remember that the judges' opinions are just that: opinions. (And these, of course, are mine). For instance, they didn't much like Casey James's rendition of "Mrs. Robinson," calling it "lazy" and lacking in substance. While many probably agreed with this summation, I couldn't have disagreed more. When I look back on my first-season Idol experience, one of the few performances I will remember will be Casey sitting on the edge of the stage, strumming a mandolin, and singing a sweet, simple, sensual, and sensitive version of "Mrs. Robinson." Then again, I thought Casey was hands-down the most talented male of the season. Not only is he hotter than a Baptist preacher's wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast (that's a line from The Golden Girls), but his smoky, bluesy voice has the power to give me instant wood. 'Nuff said.



The judges also seemed to have a select few they liked to pick on. One was Tim, and I definitely see why they singled him out: he was decent enough, but he really didn't deserve to be there. However, they also picked on some truly amazing performers, like Siobhan Magnus and Didi Benami, two contestants that I adored. Going into the semi-finals, Crystal Bowersox (whose "If It Makes You Happy" during Hollywood Week made me a lifelong fan), Casey, Siobhan, and Didi were my favorites. But as the competition progressed, the judges really nitpicked at Siobhan and Didi in particular, and the voters took their cues from the judges. Didi finished in 10th place, Siobhan in sixth--certainly not bad, but they both deserved to go much further in the competition. I mean, Didi's "Play with Fire" and Siobhan's "Paint It Black," both during Rolling Stones week, were nothing short of phenomenal.

Final point on this matter: the judges can't be trusted to be a harbinger of what all of America likes or dislikes.

The most talented contestant doesn't always win. Now let me just say that I have nothing against Lee DeWyze. He's very talented and, among all the contestants, certainly showed the most growth. And, as the judges pointed out ad nauseum, "That's what 'dis show is all abouuuuuuut!"

But did Lee deserve to win over Crystal (who hit it out of the park night after night, leaving her competition in the dust)? Not in my book. Which leads me to the final--and perhaps most telling--thing I learned while watching American Idol:

Texting-savvy, prepubescent girls dominate the Idol fanbase. And this is why, I think, Lee took the crown. 12-year-old girls the world over swooned for his cute looks, rock star voice, and sincere, aw-shucks demeanor.

While I can't argue that Lee is certainly a good, solid singer, I do take umbrage with the judges' assertions that Lee "feels the music" and is "emotionally available." I only saw him truly feel a song twice: during his performance of "The Boxer" during his trip home and in his stunning, chill-inducing rendition of "Hallelujah."



Other than these two performances, I never got the impression Lee was feeling much of anything. He more often than not looked like a deer in headlights up there, stiff as a board and utterly expressionless. To me, the sign of a truly good performer is one who feels the words he/she is singing. Lee often came across as someone who could sing--but not necessarily FEEL. And I think the two go hand-in-hand.

Which is why MamaSox should have won. Crystal never gave a bad performance; she was on top of her game in every single episode. Granted, she's more my kind of singer than Lee is. She's got that whole dreadlocked, gap-toothed, curvy-figured, my-heart-and-soul-are-in-my-pipes, hippie-chick thing that I have a soft spot for. But she also knows just who she is. Crystal is not a young artist "searching for her identity." She is comfortable in her own skin, and her awe-inspiring ability to consistently bring down the house (my house, at least) was proof of that.

It is for these precise reasons she did not win. I mean, a 12-year-old girl may not necessarily feel comfortable watching a strong, assured, unconventionally beautiful young woman who knows her own power as she sings her heart out with unharnessed passion. I would even venture to say that a lot of girls probably felt threatened by Crystal because, let's face it, in adolescence none of us knows who we are. Hence MamaSox's runner-up finish. That's the only logic I can put to Lee's win (Lee, incidentally, bombed during all three of his songs on the night of the final vote; Crystal, on the other hand, hit home run after home run. Her "Up to the Mountain" had me face-down on the sofa, weeping.)



Everyone over the age of 30 that I either talked to or heard discussing Idol was convinced Crystal was the best of the season. But most of us 30+ folks probably don't have the mad texting skills (or the free time) of the preteen set, who can text in their votes at rapid-fire pace.

Oh, and for the record, I did vote. Every single time.

And they were all for you, Crystal. You'll always be my first American Idol.

Forever Our Girl: Estelle Getty, 1923-2008

It's always sad when a piece of your childhood dies. My heart broke a little when I heard that Estelle Getty, the well-loved, Emmy-winning actress who played Sophia on "The Golden Girls", passed away this morning. Getty had been in declining health for the last few years, suffering from Lewy Body Dementia, and died at 5:35 a.m., surrounded by family and caregivers at her Hollywood Hills home. She was 84.

I grew up on "The Golden Girls" and Sophia Petrillo. Viewed as something of a weirdo in my small Midwestern hometown, I lived most of my childhood on the sidelines. But one thing I always counted on was Saturday night, 8:00, NBC: "The Golden Girls". There was, for one divine half-hour, a welcome escape -- a place I could go where I knew everything was OK, I was OK, and I could laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more.

I've seen every episode of "The Golden Girls" at least a dozen times. By the time I was struggling with my demons as a young adult, the show was being broadcast in reruns on Lifetime (television for women and gay men). Even through those lean years, the Girls still brought great humor and hope into my life.

In fact, they still do. I can watch episodes now I've seen countless times in the past, to which I know the entire script. And I am STILL able to laugh till the tears fall.

This is thanks in no small part to Estelle Getty. The woman was a comic genius. Her Sophia was a consistently masterful portrayal for seven years straight. It is, quite simply, one of the greatest performances in television history. Getty's comic timing, deadpan delivery, and mousy little frame contributed a major element to "The Golden Girl"'s status as a television classic. And no one -- absolutely no one -- can deliver a one-liner like Estelle.

She was born in New York City in 1923. Getty, as a young woman, started her career as a stand-up comic and actress, performing mainly in the "borscht belt" of the Catskills and the Yiddish theater. But marriage and motherhood, as well as disapproving parents, took priority, and Getty devoted herself to her family. Over the years, she occasionally acted here and there in regional theater and Off-Broadway, often working office jobs during the day to make ends meet.

It was until she was 59 that her first big break came, in the form of Harvey Fierstein's play "Torch Song Trilogy" in 1982. Her role as Fierstein's mother stole the show, and even to this day remains one of the most talked-about theatrical performances of the last thirty years.

And "Torch Song" led to her second big break, the role that would propel her to stardom and make her a household name. At the age of 62, Getty won the role of Sophia Petrillo on "The Golden Girls", playing the mother of Bea Arthur (who, incidentally, is actually one year older than Getty). For her work, Getty was nominated for an Emmy Award every single year of the show's run, winning once, and she also received a Golden Globe. The show was a massive hit the first time around, and remains so today.

But let's not forget Getty's activism. Long before it was chic or fashionable, Estelle Getty was a vocal supporter of gay rights and AIDS awareness. Remember, folks, this was back in the 80s, when celebrities didn't touch topics like this. Proving she was just as tough and lovable as her titular character, Getty did something truly noble. She spoke for those of us who had no voice. She called for people like me to be treated like, well, people. She fought for us.

Thank you, Estelle. Thank you for your talent, your humor, your voice, and your heart. Thank you for being a friend.

You will be missed.

What better way to remember this legendary little lady than a few classic moments with Sophia and the Girls. Enjoy the clips below. The last two are some of the most hysterical scenes of the entire series.



Sophia & Picasso



Sophia Rents a Porno



Sophia as Sonny & Dorothy as Cher



"Lesbian Lovers of Miami"

Wildlife Documentaries: Not Just For Stoners Anymore!

When I was livin' the dazed life during my pot-smoking years, one of my favorite things to do was toke up, eat tortilla chips dipped in cream cheese and salsa (try it, it's orgasmic), and watch wildlife documentaries. In fact, I knew a lot of stoners who enjoyed these types of programs. Though, for them, I think it had less to do with educational merit and more to do with not being able to reach the remote.

Anyway.

There were certain subjects, however, in which I was not particularly interested. Snakes, for one. I don't really care for them, and wildlife documentarians always seem to profile the kinds of snakes who are able to dislocate their jaw and swallow entire Mexican villages. The insect shows were another that I often skipped. I don't have a problem with insects per se, but when the camera is that damn close and they all have eyes like Heather Graham, I'm a bit uncomfortable.

For the most part, though, wildlife documentaries provided me with good, solid entertainment. Nonetheless, I hadn't watched one in years, at least since I put down the bong -- and also because John and I are cable-less peasants. Until the other night, when I caught a show on PBS (yup, PBS on a Saturday night -- there are only two words for that: Party. Animal.) profiling the wild horses of the Rocky Mountains. Horses aren't as fascinating to me as, say, manatees, or orphaned flying squirrel babies, but I have nothing against them -- and it had been years since I watched a show like this -- so I settled in for an hour of wholesome viewing pleasure.

The wild horsey program was filmed and narrated by this fantastic holster-hipped lesbian, whose name escapes me. She spent several years intermittently tracking and following a particular band of wild horses in the Rockies. From what I understand, wild horses live and travel in small packs, led by a dominant mare (feminist horses! -- who knew?!?), a few additional mares, their foals, immature horses of both sexes, as well as a lead stallion. Sometimes there are also less-dominant males in the pack, who prefer to stay on the fringes of the band. These are the gay uncles, I'm assuming.

Most of the show was centered around one horse: a beautiful, nearly stark-white creature, whom the filmmaker christened with the pretty lame-ass name of Cloud. We watched Cloud grow from an unsure, wobbly-legged foal into a handsome full-grown stallion. We also got to know several of the other horses in his life, including his doting mama, his siblings, his pack's feisty and protective lead stallion, and his friend, a blue roan paint horse that, after being plucked from the wild and rounded up for auction, the filmmaker ended up adopting. My favorite amongst these was one of Cloud's sisters, who was a total slut. She hadn't even arrived at full maturity, and the amazing little tramp was shaking her ass in the face of every male on the mountainside. I expect to see her on "Maury" next week.

The whole experience of this show was really insightful and a lot of fun. True, it was a bit different watching this kind of program stone-cold sober -- mainly because I could actually follow what was going on. Cloud and his entourage just warmed my heart; they lived basically and simply, looked out for one another with unconditional devotion, and asked nothing more than the necessities: a little pasture, a little love, a little sun. In a way, I envy them.

All this got me to thinking how cool it would be to become a wildlife documentary filmmaker. I mean, I could never do it. There's no way I have the physical stamina to schlep up and down mountains and through rain forests with a camera strapped to my shoulder and a backpack on my back, lugging a little red wagon stocked with books, all manner of Body Shop products, and an endless supply of Sour Patch Kids. I also don't possess the scientific knowledge to know much about my subjects. You're talking to a guy who dropped high school biology mid-year so he could VOLUNTARILY join the crayons-and-circles-of-paper class.

But observing, documenting, and living with the animals in such an intimate way would be so intriguing. Which led me to the logical thought, Hey! I could do this without leaving the comfort of my own home! So I, inspired by a horse-loving lesbian I've never met, spent the day yesterday observing the cats and making mental notes of their every move. It would help if, when you get to the next section, you imagine a soft British voice reading the words aloud; this will give the full effect of my very own wildlife documentary. Ladies and gentleman, enjoy the show.

National PornogrGeographic Presents
"Tracking the Elusive Wild Housecat"
with your host, Donn Brody-Streep
(sorry, my agent FORCED me to change my last name)

"It is 5 a.m. Our subjects have been up all night: playing, scratching their scratching post, rolling around on the kitchen carpet in an attempt to clog the evil vacuum cleaner yet again, and tearing up and down the hallway, thereby terrorizing the downstairs neighbors. Our two subjects are a breed of the elusive wild housecat; there is a lean orange male named Fergus, and a rotund black-and-white female named Claire.

"When their handlers have not gotten out of bed by 8:00, Fergus begins jumping atop the bed and darting across their heads before fleeing the room...only to return moments later and do the same thing again -- repeatedly. Fergus, typically quiet, is something of a chatterbox in the mornings. More accurately, he's a squeakbox, since the creature doesn't seem to know how to meow. Claire is fairly silent, less interested in her handlers and more focused on sitting on a single square foot of a corner of the aforementioned kitchen carpet. Indeed, this is the spot she stays for most of the day and night.

"Once the handlers have started their day, Fergus continues squeaking with great urgency, though nothing seems to be wrong. The food dish is mostly full, the water is changed and clean, and the litterbox is freshly de-pooped. Having tired himself out, Fergus retires to the living room window, where he gazes into the top of a huge tree and wishes bloody death on those fucking birds.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Whenever the handlers walk by, she emits a small meow and rolls with some effort onto her back. One would think this is an open invitation for a belly rub. However, every time the handlers reach down to pet her, she jumps away, startled, as if she's never seen them before in her life. She calms herself by going to the food dish and eating.

"As the morning progresses, Fergus grows bored of his window seat, hops down, and slips under the bed. This is what wild housecat experts call his "happy place". He curls up in a ball and falls asleep. This is how he spends the remainder of the morning and the entirety of the afternoon.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Occasionally she gets up to eat, but then returns.

"Throughout the afternoon, Fergus is conspicuously absent, while his sister stays on high alert at her station. When a handler walks by with a particular footstep she doesn't like, she jumps back, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her post.

"Late afternoon. Fergus has emerged from his happy place, soft and warm and eyes barely open. He rubs across the calves of his handlers, ignores Claire, and has a drink of water and a bite to eat. After this, he disappears into the litterbox for a few minutes, in view of his sister who is watching from her corner of carpet. He gives her a disgusted look. She jumps up, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her corner.

"As darkness falls, Fergus is snuggled on the bed with his handlers, one of whom is reading a book, the other watching a movie containing aliens, spaceships, and Pia Zadora. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Claire rises wearily and now she, too, must use the litterbox. She is in there for an inordinately long period of time, as after she has pottied, she seems to enjoy scratching the hell out of the interior side of the litterbox. Once the novelty wears off, she goes to the food dish and returns to her corner of carpet.

"Night has arrived and the handlers are turning in. Fergus lays at their feet awhile, until he's sure they're asleep, before hopping off the bed to prepare for a night of play.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet."

Doin' It For Myself!

Yesterday John introduced me to a really fascinating site called Instructables. This is a place where users can submit step-by-step instructions on how to create all manner of do-it-yourself projects, from the practical (ice-box air conditioners; recipes) to the creative (wall art; jewelry) to the downright bizarre (square watermelons; stripper poles). It's really a great resource, with a trove of knowledge for people like me.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But Donn! You're gay, artistic, and resourceful. Surely you must be adept and handy at do-it-yourself projects!" Well, you're wrong. I don't have the patience nor the leaps of imagination required by these sorts of tasks. I can look at words on a page, or letters on a keyboard, and see entire worlds just waiting to be explored. But when I look at a two-by-four and a roll of cheesecloth, I see a two-by-four and a roll of cheesecloth. There are limits to my creative prowess.

I am less Bob Vila and more Mary Bellows. Who is Mary Bellows, you ask? Back in the 70s, Mary Bellows hosted a do-it-yourself home improvement show on Canadian public television. The show was called, appropriately, "Do It For Yourself". However, Mary couldn't do anything for herself. She was completely inept, a total dunce with a bowl-cut and bellbottoms, and all of her projects were fantastic failures. The show was meant to be serious; instead, it was high comedy. I remember clearly one episode where Mary undertook the chore of installing a new toilet in the basement bathroom. Try as she might, she just could not get the bottom of the toilet to lay flat against the floor; the blasted crapper refused to budge from its strange sloping angle. It was stuck in such a way that should anyone ever attempt to use it, they would slip right off the seat like it was a porcelain slide. At a loss as to how to proceed, Mary looked frantically around the cluttered basement...and spotted an old bicycle in the corner. She then turned to the camera and said, "I know! I'll put the BIKE on it!" She fetched the rusty old bike and hoisted it atop the toilet, with the noble thought that the bicycle would apply enough pressure to get the loo to sit flush against the floor. Throughout this farce (and in many other episodes as well), Mary's dog, Zeke, who was her co-host on the show and infinitely more intelligent than she, was darting around the room, in and out of the frame. Occasionally she'd interrupt her masterpiece, reach into her groovy white apron, and toss a dog biscuit across the studio. "Go get the doggie cookie, Zeke!" she'd shout. "Go get the doggie cookie!" Poor Zeke.

I have tried to find a clip of this show, or even a picture of Mary, to share with you, but there's next to nothing online about her. Perhaps she is now a dramatic recluse holed up in some Canadian mansion: the Greta Garbo of Winnipeg. However, I did track this down, and sadly, it's the best I can do. It's a picture of the "Do It For Yourself" book she wrote. I'm more than a little amazed she knew how to work a pencil or maybe even -- more impressively -- a typewriter.

But that is precisely what's so nifty about us sentient creatures. In times that require us to be resourceful, we can be resourceful. Perhaps I was too quick to count myself out of the do-it-yourself world; perhaps I CAN offer some hands-on practical advice for taking back your power and building some shit.

Yes. Yes, I can! Mary Bellows taught me that.

So I searched through my vise-grip memory for something, anything, that I crafted myself in recent years. And lo and behold, the answer was right before me. Literally. I made my desk myself!

Without further ado, here are my step-by-step, do-it-yourself instructions for

How to Build a Crackhouse Desk

1. The first thing you need to do is go to your local dairy and get some milk crates. Being vegan, I would never normally suggest you patronize your local dairy, but since this is in the spirit of recycling, I figure it all balances out. You will need four crates total, all the same size so they are easily stackable. You can buy cheap plastic crates at your neighborhood box-store, but these tend to be flimsy and unreliable. The dairy crates are quite strong.

2. Take your milk crates home and scrub the hell out of them, removing all traces of milk, pus, hormones, and udder crusties. After drying out the crates, turn one of them onto its side and measure the length from front to back (the open end to the bottom); add an inch or two for good measure. While you're busy doing this, you may want to let your cats sit in the other crates. Cats seem to enjoy this. At least for a few minutes -- until they find something more entertaining, like a wad of paper, a dust bunny, or licking their naughties.

3. Next you will need to figure out the right length for your desk. Mine is about five feet long and two feet wide (the two feet being the length of the milk crates plus an inch or two). To determine this, deduce where the desk will be placed and how much space you will need both on top of the desk and underneath for your legs. Record your measurements.

4. Once you have this information, it's time to go to The Lesbian Capital of the World, otherwise known as Home Depot. There is a shady area in the back of every Home Depot where you can find "remainder" boards for remarkably low prices (five bucks or so). These are pieces of lumber of varying size, shape, and thickness, that for whatever reason, Home Depot has deemed unfit for sale to people who have money. But these social outcasts of the elite lumber community are perfect for broke-ass bitches like me. You just want to be selective and look carefully at every one. Don't choose one with deep splits or cracks; this board has to be strong enough to hold a computer monitor, keyboard, and an obese cat. Discolored boards are fine. Also, of course, you want to select a board that is at least somewhat close to the measurements you require. It doesn't have to be precise, but it should be in the ballpark. For example, don't buy a moldy wooden rod expecting it to be sturdy enough to support your office wares.

5. Now is the fun part. It's time to visit The Frugal Gay Male Capital of the World, otherwise known as Target. Once you've purchased your Icee from the snack bar and retrieved your red plastic cart, go to the Home section and marvel at the wide array of tablecloths, runners, throws, and tapestries. You will be using this to cover the wood, so don't buy some ass-ugly embarrassment. When selecting, it's wise to keep in mind the approximate length and width of the board you've just purchased from Lesbianville. Also, you probably don't want to choose a covering material that's too soft or fluffy. The pen will stab right through the paper on which you're trying to write. Trust me on this.

6. We're almost done! Now that you're full of Icee goodness and you have your desktop cover, just place the crates on their sides, and stack one on top of the other, creating a two-crate pedestal. Repeat the process with remaining crates. (Be sure to dump the cats out first, should they have rekindled their attraction to the crates.) Put the crates where you want either end of your crackhouse desk to be, with the open sides of the crates facing outward. You can use this space to store various sundries, office supplies, books, painkillers, or chocolate. Then place the retard board lengthwise on top of the crates, readjusting both the board and the crates as needed to ensure maximum sturdiness and support at both ends. This may be a good time to test out the strength. Grab the obese cat and place her atop the desk. If she doesn't fall through, you're good to proceed.

7. Finally, fit your covering over the top of the desk. This will more than likely require some folding, draping, or, if you're particularly adventurous, cutting. I don't recommend this, since scissors frighten me. After the cover is comfortably in place, arrange your stuff on the desk just how you like it. If you require a firm writing surface, consider buying a rectangle of Plexi-glass or, if you're particularly wealthy, a beveled piece of glass. This is also an aesthetically-pleasing way to display pictures, photos, or notes, by slipping them beneath the glass. I have a nudie man calendar under mine. Lastly, push your chair in and admire your handiwork. Just seven easy steps, a few dollars spent, and voilà! A crackhouse desk!


As much fun as this has been, I really need to go now. I know that as soon as Canadian public television reads this post, I will be getting a phone call.

Hopefully Zeke is still with us. I'm going to need a sidekick.

The Hotness, Part 2: The Ten Sexiest Actors

Well. I hope you've all recovered from yesterday's Unbridled Ecstasy Fest, a.k.a. my list of choices for The Top Ten Sexiest Actresses. Actually, I hope you've recovered and then some, because today we move on to the fellas!

It should come as no surprise that compiling this list of The Top Ten Sexiest Actors was infinitely more challenging than putting yesterday's catalog together . In fact, at one point in my first draft, I had nearly thirty names on the roster. Narrowing it down to ten was harder than -- well, harder than me assembling this list. But I do think I've made some good choices; at the least, I've released an inordinately high amount of serotonin into my brain, which is never a bad thing.

So grab a fork and some A-1, sit back, and sink your teeth into these Grade A, USDA choice hunks of man-meat. Buon appetito.

The Gentlemen

10. Joaquin Phoenix. Dark, brooding, intense, AND vegan, Joaquin Phoenix is a man after my own heart. There's that piercing stare that seems to see clear through anyone and anything in its path; those thick, suggestively-arched eyebrows; even that Average Joe body is wildly sexy. But Phoenix, 33, is not your Average Joe. In between dazzlingly complex movie roles, while his peers are lounging on the beaches of St. Tropez or boinking 18-year-old starlets, Phoenix is fighting for animal rights and working with native tribes in the Amazon. I wonder how you say "I want to have your babies" in Yawanawa?

9. Djimon Hounsou. In one of my favorite episodes of "Designing Women", a rather amorous client takes an instant liking to Anthony, the African-American deliveryman, and says, "I hope you don't find this racist, but where ever did you find this big black beautiful buck?". This line came back to me the instant I first laid eyes on actor-model Djimon Hounsou, who is so stunningly beautiful that I was left speechless. With his unerring style and grace, Honsou, 44, has set aflame both the big screen and the world's most renowned catwalks. Despite an imposing stage presence, his film performances are studied and emotionally-centered (his roles in both "In America" and "Blood Diamond" will break your heart). Barrel-chested, with a soft, sensuous face and an erotic baritone of a voice that can shake one down in even the naughtiest of places, Djimon Hounsou is a walking tribute to the powers of elegance, diversity, talent...and yes, even sex.

8. Ralph Fiennes. Ralph Fiennes is serious. Seriously talented: see "Schindler's List", "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "Spider", "The Constant Gardner"; the man is electric. Seriously serious: Fiennes, 45, rarely smiles; when he does, it looks about as natural as a rabid cougar playing tiddlywinks. And of course, seriously sexy: the lack of smile only enhances Fiennes' esoteric sex appeal -- hooded eyes that are surprisingly bright (and the most paralyzing shade of icy blue), a chiseled angular nose, wan skin belying the raging vitality churning beneath, and a lustrous golden timbre wrapping around words while wrapping around your very soul. Yup. That's pretty serious: seriously fucking HOT.

7. Jonathan Rhys Meyers. His lips, which look as if they were sculpted by hand in replication of some Greek god, and eyes the color and strength of cold hard steel, are worthy topics alone to swoon over in this paragraph. But Jonathan Rhys Meyers, 30, is far more intricate than his flawless face (and body) reveal. The tremendously gifted actor is equally adept at playing contemporary characters ("Velvet Goldmine", "Match Point") and historical icons ("The Tudors", "The Lion in Winter", and my personal favorite, "Titus"); he has the uncanny knack of imbuing his roles with a mixture of a bad boy's swaggering bravado, a naive innocence bordering on purity, and an uninhibited sexual energy (this energy, I think, is something innate in Rhys Meyers: a natural extension of who he is). It's amazing to watch him pull this combination off so successfully. Hell, it's amazing to watch him just standing there.

6. Sendhil Ramamurthy. Whenever a straight guy comments on the undeniable hotness of a male celebrity, I always take note. This was the case with my friend Mitch, who's as straight and secure as they come. But even he had to admit his lust for "Heroes" star Sendhil Ramamurthy. I will confess I didn't know much about the 34-year-old actor before Mitch's disclosure, but I'm so grateful I've been introduced to Ramamurthy's sizzling hotness. The lambent copper skin, sumptuous chocolatey eyes, thick mass of jet curls, lean, lickable (did I just say that?) frame: if it's enough to turn a straight man, you KNOW it's gotta be good.

5. Christian Bale. Christian Bale can do no wrong in my book. Maybe it's because we share the same birthday. Maybe it's because I fell head over heels for him when I was a young'un watching those craptacular movies "Swing Kids" and "Newsies". Maybe it's because he's one of the most talented (and underrated) actors working today. Who am I kidding? It's because he's blisteringly sexy. Whether buffed to chiseled perfection ("American Psycho", "Batman Begins") or slim and scrumptious ("Little Women", "Velvet Goldmine"), Bale, 34, lifts the label of "classic good looks" to a new standard of sexiness.

4. Jake Gyllenhaal. Let us now look at a Timeline of Hotness, shall we? Jake Gyllenhaal was cute before the gay cowboy movie; beautiful during the gay cowboy movie; and hotter than a fried egg cooked on the belly of a hooker just released from a Death Valley prison after the gay cowboy movie. The 27-year-old has done some pretty impressive work in his short career, with "Brokeback" of course being a standout. With his enchanting gaze of wonderment, strong masculine jawline, and pristine, clean-cut good looks, no other actor in recent memory has so totally captured the erotic fantasies of women and gay men everywhere. Gyllenhaal, much like yesterday's pick Scarlett Johansson, is a young actor on the precipice of superstardom. And we are all the luckier for it.

3. Liev Schreiber. Gather round y'all, it's time for another true story. I once worked in a ginormous office building, and I'd occasionally run into this guy on my cigarette breaks who looked very similar to Liev Schreiber. Being the nutcase that I am, I transferred my crush on Liev to this lookalike, and soon I had coordinated all of my smoke breaks with his. We chatted from time to time (he only spoke to me because he wanted to pork one of my female colleagues), and though he was a nice guy, he was -- alas -- not my Liev. Schreiber, 40, is a somewhat unconventional-looking sex symbol -- yet it is precisely in that unorthodoxy that his libidinous charms reside. Round-cheeked, squinty-eyed, and gravelly-voiced, he comes off as a rough-around-the-edges type but is in actuality quite graceful, stylish, and a helluva good actor. He also has a mysterious quality that makes him look like he's hiding something -- and oh what fun I'd have trying to solve that mystery....

2. Daniel Day-Lewis. A few short years ago, there was no way you could tell me that, should I ever write a Top Ten Sexiest Actors list, anyone but Daniel Day-Lewis would be #1. Though things have changed, and Daniel has slipped to the none-too-shabby #2 spot, it is not at all a reflection on the intense talent, sexiness, and magnetism of this iconic actor. Day-Lewis, 51, is rightfully regarded as one of the finest actors of our time, delivering powerhouse performances every time he sets foot before a camera. His unrivaled talent, though, often overshadows his equally powerful beauty: classic bone structure; dark, almost menacingly sexy eyes; and a regal, sensuous demeanor that is a throwback to some of the great leading men of Hollywood's golden age. Oh, and he looks great in a loincloth.

1. Adrien Brody. Oh, PLEASE. Like you didn't see this one coming for miles. There's not much more I can say about my Adrien that I haven't already salivated over in previous posts. Except this. I would let Adrien Brody, 35, do things to me with just his nose -- things that I wouldn't let anyone else do with...with, well, other body parts. Enough said. Actually,


I think that may have been TOO much said. (BONUS: If you want to witness the event that nearly caused me to have a testicular explosion, check out Adrien accepting his Oscar from my #2 sexiest actress, Halle Berry. This is hardcore porn for me.)



And so wraps up my lists for The Top Ten Sexiest Actors and Actresses. In closing, I'd just like to say that these were the two most draining posts I've ever written. Lesson learned: writing about sex is almost as fun, hot, and exhausting as actually doing it.

I need a shower.

The Hotness, Part 1: The Ten Sexiest Actresses

I have just realized, with horror, that I haven't done a "list" post for several days now. For shame! We all know how I luvs me some lists.

I have also realized the Debbie Downer tone of my last few postings, so I've decided it was high time to roll out the barrel of monkeys and write a light, fun list. I debated back and forth for a while on what the topic should be. After much internal struggle, strife, and bloodshed (OK, not really), I've chosen to present to you my Top Ten Sexiest Actors and Actresses. I'm splitting this into two separate posts; I'll cover the women -- erm, excuse me -- the womyn today, and the fellas tomorrow.

Now. A couple of things to remember. Firstly, this is not a list of my picks for The Sexiest Actors and Actresses of All Time. It's my list for those actors and actresses working (and alive) today. As much as I love classic film and its stars, I needed to narrow down the porking field.

Also, it's important to know that the sexiest thing in the world to me is talent. Sexier than the most sparkling eyes, tightest abs, largest boobs, or biggest schlong. I think this fact is evident in all my selections.

Finally, these are my choices. Just my opinions, my tastes, my attractions. You'll probably disagree, or at the least be a little shocked, at some of my picks. If you've stumbled upon this post looking for the names of Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts, you may as well stumble on. You won't find those names here. Admittedly, a few of my picks are conventional, but most are not. Though my tastes tend to defy any particular type or style, one thing is consistent: I don't do cream cheese. And when it comes to contemporary Hollywood -- to quote the immortal words of Clairee Belcher -- "they all look like they were carved out of cream cheese."

I'm not saying you may not find slight traces of creaminess here, but for the most part, my list is entirely vegan and damn HAWT. Bon Appetit.

The Ladies

10. Marion Cotillard. In the greatest performance by an actress I've seen in 10+ years, Marion Cotillard utterly transformed herself to play the titular "Piaf". The transformation was so successful (Cotillard shaved back her hairline and shaved off her eyebrows), that the beauty of the 32-year-old Parisian was completely unrecognizable. But damn: look what was hiding under that immense talent. A delicate heart-shaped face. Glowing china-doll skin. Eyes emitting a light that is at once radiant and mysterious. It's enough to make a hot-blooded gay break into a cold sweat. Marion, if you need help polishing your Oscar, call me.

9. Lynn Whitfield. I've had a massive girl-crush on Lynn Whitfield ever since "The Josephine Baker Story" in 1991. Even in more recent fare, like [one of my personal favorites] "Eve's Bayou" and the TV show "Without a Trace", the 55-year-old actress proves she's still got it. With her intense, imploring gaze, stunning smile, and regal elegance, not to mention her drool-inducing recreation of Josephine Baker's famed banana dance, Lynn Whitfield is a childhood crush that still makes my granny-panties moist.

8. Catherine Deneuve. Class, thy name is Catherine Deneuve. Yes, she's old enough to be my mother (in fact, she's the same age as my mom -- a number I won't disclose here because my mom will kill me), yet Deneuve's breathtaking combination of style, class and subtle sexual mystery are not only worthy of a spot on this list, but a high-ranking slot on The Sexiest People Who Ever Walked the Earth list as well. Deneuve possesses an ageless grace, stunning good looks, and an immense talent that is all but obsolete in the contemporary Hollywood landscape.





7. Meryl Streep. Because this is a Top Ten List, and Meryl deserves a place on EVERY Top Ten List. It's in the Bible.




6. Scarlett Johansson. Oh, Miss Scarlett! In a time when most young starlets Johansson's age (23) are running wild, drinking and drugging and creating scandal with every step, Scarlett Johansson is a true anomaly. She's rarely seen in public, does not discuss her personal life, and chooses impressive and diverse roles to best showcase her ever-growing talent. It also doesn't hurt that she's a ravishing beauty. Curvy and voluptuous, with full pouty lips, lush features, and eyes that emanate a wisdom far beyond her years, this young actress is poised on the threshold of greatness.

5. Tilda Swinton. Tilda Swinton is not your typical Hollywood sex symbol. Hers is a sexiness that radiates from a striking, ethereal, and unconventional woman, who has created a life and career around bucking tradition and challenging accepted ideas of beauty. Her shock of red hair, ghostly skin, penetrating emerald eyes, and unique style lend her the haunting exquisitenesses of a noblewoman plucked from the annals of history. Swinton, 47, also has a remarkably androgynous quality, which she wields with great sophistication and soul-baring sensuality.

4. Jessica Lange. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know she's had a little work done, but Jessica Lange remains -- and shall always remain -- one of the great beauties of all time. Now 59, both Lange's sex appeal and talent seem to increase with age. Just when I think she can't top her last performance, she comes along and one-ups herself. Just when I think she can't possibly get any hotter, she ages another year and shows all those young plastic bitches how it's done. The lush, shapely figure, dramatic, angular face, and that voice -- holy crap, that voice! So throaty and languid and positively dripping with sex. Excuse me, I think something just happened in my pants.

3. Kate Winslet. Screw Hepburn, this is the real winner of the title, "The Great Kate". Not only did Winslet, 32, have FIVE Oscar nominations by the age of 30 (and another at 31), but she has managed to avoid the Hollywood drudgery and remain true to her art. After "Titanic", she could've easily become the next Julia or Angelina; instead she did a terrific little art film no one saw called "Hideous Kinky". Today she floats effortlessly between independent and mainstream films, but always opts for the most fascinating of characters. Yet talent is just one part of Winslet's knock-out beauty. She's also extremely sexy and earthy -- and she's actually shaped like a real woman, something she is both proud of and unapologetic about. And the beauty in that speaks for itself.

2. Halle Berry. Just look at her. Forget "Catwoman" and "The Flintstones", and just stare at that warm brown gaze, flawless mocha skin, and perfectly sensual poise. Remember "Introducing Dorothy Dandridge" and "Monster's Ball", and behold the captivating sexiness and talent of the first woman of color to win a Best Actress Oscar. Watch her acceptance speech again (one of the most authentic and genuine ever), and you'll see that the physical beauty of Halle Berry (41 -- and a new mother!) ain't nothin' compared to what's inside. That, my friends, is true beauty.

1. Cate Blanchett. The following is a true story. Though I'd loved Cate Blanchett for a while (she blew me away in "Elizabeth", "The Shipping News", "The Gift" -- pretty much anything she's ever done), it wasn't until "Lord of the Rings" that I fell in love with her. While watching her in the rather small role of Galadriel, I locked eyes with Blanchett, my heart fell to my knees, and I said aloud, "THAT is the face of heaven." Like Swinton, Blanchett's beauty is almost ethereal, I'd even go so far as to say celestial, in its otherworldliness. And it's all edged with an undeniable sex appeal, a raw erotic power that could turn me faster than a charred pancake. Blanchett, a 39-year-old married mother of two sons, has also proved herself as a style icon: it's impossible for her to set foot on a red carpet without burning the damn thing up. She too, of course, is worthy of "The Great Kate (Cate)" title (Hmmm....CATFIGHT!), consistently turning in the most impressive performances of any actor in recent memory (rent "The Aviator" and see her Oscar-winning turn as Hepburn; it's my favorite Blanchett performance). I think it can safely be said that she is well on her way to becoming the next Meryl Streep -- and, well, we all know how I feel about her.


WHEW! I'm spent. Now I'm going to have a cigarette, roll over, and go to sleep. Was it good for you too?

And tomorrow...THE MEN!

A Touch of Frost (Or, My New Pretend Girlfriend)

I don't do reality television. I can't. I'm not allowed. I realized long ago that it is impossible for me to watch a reality TV show and NOT get emotionally involved to the point of disturbance.

Case in point: a couple of years back, John and I caught a random episode of "Wife Swap". "Wife Swap" is a series that takes two vastly different wives/mothers from two vastly different families and has them trade places for two weeks, cameras documenting every move and thought. Though the show can get quite heated and dramatic, the particular episode we caught was one of the tamer experiments. But I was nonetheless so emotionally entangled in the unfolding dynamics that I was haunted by these people for some time afterward.

"How do you think Nancy is doing?" I asked John, a few weeks after we had seen the show.

"Who's Nancy?" John replied.

"You know, from 'Wife Swap'. I think about her all the time. I wonder how she's readjusted to life at home."

"What are you talking about?"

And John was right. What the hell was I talking about? I didn't know Nancy, and there was no good reason she should impede my thoughts from one single hour of questionably-entertaining entertainment.

So ever since that epiphany, I've steered cleared of most reality shows, for my own sanity and serenity if for nothing else. Some of the "lighter" reality programs, I admit, I've been drawn into. I watched a talent competition, appropriately titled "America's Got Talent", all last summer, but when the insanely gifted and luminous Butterscotch failed to win, I swore I'd never watch the show again. (And yes, I voted for her -- until I maxed out on how many votes I could cast.)

And I'm embarrassed to confess that I even got sucked into some far seedier reality TV fare while on a business trip to Florida last year. Sitting in a hotel room that made even "The Golden Girl"'s living room look tasteful, I watched marathons of the dating shows "Flavor of Love", "A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila", and, God help me, "I Love New York". These shows are the lowest forms human of "entertainment", ranking somewhere below amateur porn yet above "The 700 Club". But still, I was emotionally enthralled by these crapfests. I mean, Flavor Flav is mentally retarded, isn't he? He has to be. And Tila Tequila is a great big moron for eliminating that adorably funny and sweet hot piece of Italian sausage known as Domenico. And New York, a.k.a. Tiffany Pollard! Christ on a cross! She has got to be the most disgusting human being to ever walk the planet. Though it was AWESOME when she was a contestant on "Flavor of Love" and Pumkin spit on her! I LOVE PUMKIN. And New York was born a man, wasn't she?

UGH. You see! It's happening again! Just writing about it gets me all reabsorbed and worked up. No, no, no. Ick, ick, ick. Reality TV and me are a love affair that was never meant to be.

Until Jo Frost.

Now I had caught Frost's show "Supernanny" a few times over the last couple of years. I was always into it, but I consciously kept myself at a remove from the inner emotional landscape of what I was watching for fear of getting too involved. If you don't know "Supernanny", it's a relatively simple premise. Parents with out-of-control children, who are unruly at best and downright terrorizing at worst, contact Frost to come into their homes and lives to instill some wisdom, sense, and order. She also shows up and departs in a fantastic car.

Last night I stumbled upon "Supernanny" again, and I realized how brilliant this show really is. It's far and away light years above any of the other tasteless piles of reality television poop that now stink up the airwaves. And this is all because of Jo Frost. While what she is doing onscreen may be entertainment to us, she is also providing a valuable, and I would even go so far as to say highly effective, service to families in a true state of crisis.

An airy and sugary Mary Poppins knock-off she is not. Frost is direct, firm, bluntly honest, and a stern, unwavering taskmaster. But what makes both her show and her work so wildly successful is not that she's some mean nanny-monster hard-ass. Everything she does, every word, every step, every breath, comes from a place of great love and concern and a sincere desire to help people. You can feel that watching her. She's not going to sugarcoat anything; she has no problem bringing both parents and children to tears in her efforts to make them wake up to the reality in which they are living. She holds parents responsible, as they should be, but instead of raking them over the coals about their failures, she jumps in and teaches them HOW to be parents. It's an amazing thing to watch. It's also amazing to watch her with children. Her personality, her choice of words, and her actions toward kids hardly waver or differ from her interaction with adults. Frost doesn't talk down to these children. She talks to them like they're human beings; she treats them as if they understand every word and every rule she's laying out. And you know what? They do.

There is struggle at first, with both the parents and the kids. There always is. This not only makes for good television, but it's also reality. Frost's unshakable commitment and approach does not yield. If you've taken the step of calling her into your lives, you'd better be ready to shut up, open up, and shape up. She takes no prisoners, and she'll call you out on all your inauthenticity and excuses, no matter how big or small you are. But she also recognizes success and improvement, from the tiniest, seemingly-non significant detail to the biggest breakthrough, and praises these things with genuine thrill and pride. Hers is a love that is palpable, poignant, and always passionate.

By the end of every show, there is always some degree (usually an extreme degree) of success. What's more is that both the parents and children are all completely respectful and appreciative of what Frost has given them. She may have had to open their eyes with some hard tactics, but the results speak for themselves. I guess you could say her families fall in love with her as I have.

In the episode I saw last night, which I'm sure was a rerun given the time of year, was about an affluent Chinese-American couple, both dentists, living in San Francisco with five absolutely adorable though wildly out-of-control children all under the age of ten. The breakthoughs Frost made with this family, notably with the eldest son, were breathtaking. It's not just that she sweeps in and shows parents how to be parents and kids how to be respectful, functioning members of society. It's that she teaches everyone how to be a family. In these dark days, this is a beautiful, powerful, and not easy thing to accomplish. My admiration for Ms. Frost knows no bounds. She is someone who walks the walk and talks the talk. We should all be so lucky.

Jo Frost, who turned 38 just a few days ago, was born and raised in London and has had extensive experience working as a nanny in both the UK and stateside. She has written three books on childcare, and, in addition to the US version of "Supernanny", has also starred in the UK version. By all accounts, she is as endearing and sincere as she appears on her show, and about as far away from our current ideas of "celebrity" as one can get. According to one source I came upon, when she is not filming the show, Frost lives her with widowed father in London. She pretty much keeps out of the limelight, graciously allowing the power of her life's work to speak for itself. She is a class-act, through and through.

And what's also so important and unique about Jo Frost is that she is perhaps the first and only reality television show personality who actually deserves her own show. In a reality TV universe filled with mentally-challenged ex-rock stars, big mean trannies, and fake bisexual chicks, Frost is a breath of fresh air. Curvy and beautiful, witty and honest, consummately professional and a valuable expert in her field, there is no one like Jo Frost.

I'd love to meet her someday, but I don't think it would really be wise. I mean, I'm sure I would just blather on like a fawning psychotic, and she would surely take me to task for that.

I'd probably end up in the Reflection Chair.

There's Something About Mary

Occasionally, and only very occasionally, there are times I wish I could understand science fiction. Most days I'm content with not knowing the difference between a hovercraft and a Craftsmatic Adjustable Bed. Between a death-ray and a dead Ray Charles. Between an alien life form and an alien life insurance form. You catch my drift. My mind just doesn't wrap around sci-fi, and try as I might, I just don't get it.

But John does, and often I will be reading a book beside him as he watches some spaceship-laden epic. Most of the time, I'm able to just drown out whatever is happening on the screen and concentrate on my book, but I find this increasingly difficult when John watches "Battlestar Galactica".

You see, "Battlestar Galactica" has among its cast one of my favorite actresses, Mary McDonnell. I've long considered McDonnell to be the most underestimated, underutilized performers of our time. There is something altogether entrancing and luminous about her. Even in a show that dumbfounds me, as "BG" does, I am transfixed whenever she comes onscreen.

I first saw Mary McDonnell on a short-lived 80s sitcom called "E/R" (not that "ER", a different one: this one was a briefly-run situation comedy). Even in a presentation that did nothing to showcase her talents, she was able to bring a heaping dose of class to an otherwise dead fish of a TV show. A few years later, McDonnell showed up in a John Sayles flick called "Matewan". Though the movie was generally well-received within the film community, it really didn't go very far and unfortunately didn't provide the career boost the then-35-year-old actress needed.

But luck turned around when she won the role of Stands With A Fist, a white woman raised by and living with Sioux Indians, in "Dances With Wolves". I've always had a soft spot for "Dances With Wolves", and a big reason for that is McDonnell's incredible performance. Her masterful work in this movie is astonishing and restrained in its raw, naked power. And I wasn't the only one impressed with McDonnell: she received through-the-roof approval ratings from test audiences and was nominated for a slew of acting prizes (including an Oscar for best supporting actress).

There is one scene in particular that still resonates. It is McDonnell's first scene, and we see Stands With A Fist kneeling in the prairie grass, singing Lakota songs and carving into her flesh with a long knife. She has come to an isolated spot to commit suicide when Lt. John Dunbar (Kevin Costner) happens upon her. Bear in mind, that up until this point, neither Dunbar nor we as viewers have any inkling that Stands With A Fist is not a full-blooded Sioux. Panicked, he runs to her and lifts her up, trying to get her to calm down and stop what it is she's setting out to do. Stands With A Fist, enraged, battles him, scared witless, in a barrage of Sioux curse words...but then: something unexpected. In the middle of her tirade, she clearly says "DON'T!". From this moment on, McDonnell invites us into the sad, fragile world of Stands With A Fist. It is a perfectly-executed moment of supreme nuance that unlocks the entire universe of a fascinating character.

McDonnell followed up "Dances With Wolves" with some plum roles: Alexandra in a TV version of "O Pioneers!", a disillusioned wife in the brilliant "Grand Canyon", a supporting turn in "Sneakers". But it was in another John Sayles film, 1992's "Passion Fish", that McDonnell proved her leading lady status.

As a soap opera actress who is confined to a wheelchair after a car accident, Mary McDonnell ignites the screen in a fiery inferno of rage, obstinance, and grief. Her Mary-Alice is as unlikable as they come, but in McDonnell's deft hands, she is transformed into an unlikely hero. By the end of the film, you not only like Mary-Alice: you understand her. McDonnell's unique choices and dedication to the smallest of moments makes Mary-Alice's journey altogether brave and only too real.

For her work in "Passion Fish", she was again nominated for an Oscar, this time for best actress. And I thought for sure, after her startling work in "Passion Fish", she would rise to the same highly-regarded level of Master Thespian as people like Meryl Streep and Katharine Hepburn. But Hollywood is criminally unkind to its 40-plus actresses, and McDonnell was relegated to supporting roles in a handful of forgettable films, as well as a starring turn in the AbFab-ripoff "High Society" (another short-lived sitcom).

But this was the point in McDonnell's career where she not only showed she was a great artist, but a crafty businesswoman as well. She knew something when she signed on to play the title hero's mother in "Donnie Darko", perhaps sensing that the movie was just bizarre and mesmerizing enough to acquire the cult status it eventually did. McDonnell plays her Rose Darko as not just another simpering suburban soccer mom. She is a damaged, despairing mother trying to hold fast to the quickly-unraveling threads of her family. A throwaway role, in McDonnell's grasp, became something truly unforgettable.

So when McDonnell took the role of President Laura Roslin in the sci-fi opus "Battlestar Galactica", I firmly believe this great actress knew what she was doing. She recognized the originality and appeal of the script, surely, but she also recognized that this was both a stable way to earn her living as an actor AND remain in the public consciousness forever. Her performance in "BG" infuses the show with vivacity and grace. She makes her Laura Roslin a powerhouse of intelligence and class, and, by turn, lifts the whole program to a new level of artistry. So what if she will have to spend her post-"BG" days at sci-fi conventions, signing autographs for runny-nosed dweebs in prosthetic pointy ears? Mary McDonnell is a damn fine actress, and a damn smart businessperson.

Now, if I could only understand what the hell she's SAYING onboard that bloody ship, I'd be set.

It's Raining Men: The Great Men of Film

A few years ago, when I was contributing a regular series of articles for John's website, I wrote a piece detailing what, in my opinion, are the ten best performances ever by an actress. I always intended to follow it up with a "ten best" list for the men as well, but I just never got around to it, for whatever reason. And so it goes, after all these years, I've finally assembled my list of Top Ten Performances By An Actor.

In the interest of balance, here were my picks for the actress list:

1. Meryl Streep, "Sophie's Choice" (1982)
2. Renee Maria Falconetti, "Le Passion de Jeanne d'Arc/The Passion of Joan of Arc" (1928)
3. Katharine Hepburn, "The Lion in Winter" (1968)
4. Vivien Leigh, "A Streetcar Named Desire" (1951)
5. Elizabeth Taylor, "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" (1966)
6. Joan Allen, "The Crucible" (1996)
7. Emily Watson, "Breaking the Waves" (1996)
8. Nicole Kidman, "The Hours" (2002)
9. Miranda Richardson, "Damage" (1992)
10. Kathy Bates, "Primary Colors" (1998)

Admittedly, if I were to write this today, it would be slightly reworked. As much as I adore Kathy Bates, and was blown out of my seat by her work in "Primary Colors", I'd have to bump everyone down a slot and insert Marion Cotillard, for "La Vie En Rose", in the #3 spot. Cotillard's Edith Piaf is hard to top and is simply one of the greatest performances ever captured on film.

But I'm getting off track. On to the men!


1. Maximilian Schell, "Judgment at Nuremberg" (1961). Oh man, this was a difficult, thankless role for any actor to tackle. What makes it even more impressive is that this was Schell's first American film, and he was virtually unknown in the States when he caused a cinematic sensation (winning the Oscar, Golden Globe, and a slew of critics' prizes) with his performance as Nazi defense attorney Hans Rolfe in "Judgment at Nuremberg". Schell, 30 years old at the time the movie was filmed, was blindingly handsome with a booming baritone that filled the courtroom (and I'm sure the movie theater as well). But his looks are irrelevant: the work he does here is nothing short of miraculous. He takes a man -- a lawyer defending Nazis -- and imbues him with such passionate humanity that we just don't feel his moral quandary and fervent (though tragically misguided) devotion. We actually kinda like the guy. Of course, we don't want Hans to win his case; there's no excuse nor appropriate punishment for what his clients did. But we certainly walk away with a clearer picture of the impetuses and obligations felt by everyone involved in one of humanity's darkest hours. This is a brave, thoughtful performance, that I find unrivaled in cinematic history.

2. Jaye Davidson, "The Crying Game" (1992). Davidson was a 23-year-old fashion assistant in London when Neil Jordan cast him in the pivotal role of Dil in "The Crying Game". But the work he does here is not the fumblings of a novice: it is an exquisitely-crafted, devastatingly powerful performance that more than deserves its spot on this list. It's one thing for a man to dress in drag. Any guy can do that. It's something quite different to be the epitome of lovestruck womanliness, feeling and expressing every iota of bliss and heartbreak with each step, each sweep of the hand, each lilt of the Bacall-esque voice. If you've ever questioned the meaning of unconditional love, watch Davidson's Dil sashay her way through "The Crying Game". There is simply nothing like it in the annals of film.

3. Daniel Day-Lewis, "The Crucible" (1996). With his resume of worthy performances, Day-Lewis could easily take every spot on this list. It is only in the name of fairness that I opened the competition to other actors and held my DDL fetish in check. Despite all his fantastic work, his portrayal of tortured Puritan John Proctor in "The Crucible" slightly nudges above all the rest to be singled out by me as singularly amazing. Caught between his personal demons of lust and love in the chaotic midst of the Salem witch hysteria, Day-Lewis breathes such fiery life into Proctor that it almost takes my breath away just writing about it. The last half-hour of the film, especially the seaside scene with Joan Allen, ranks as some of the best acting I've ever come across. A no-holds-barred portrayal of a flawed, fearless man living in a time when things like honor, truth, and the family name were the only things worth fighting -- and dying -- for.

4. Jack Lemmon, "Days of Wine and Roses" (1962). The late, great Jack Lemmon was one of those rare talents that could float effortlessly between screwball comedy and serious drama, and he was in peak dramatic form in the disturbing "Days of Wine and Roses". As alcoholic Joe Clay, Lemmon takes us into the frightening, fascinating mind of a functioning alcoholic, whose all-consuming passion for the bottle not only destroys his life, but mercilessly takes others down with him. This is perhaps the most realistic portrayal of a drunk I've ever seen, and, given Lemmon's later admission to at one time battling an alcohol problem, this perfect marriage of actor and role makes a lot of sense. It also makes the performance that much braver, for it's often easier for an actor to play someone else. Portraying a character with whom you share a common destruction is a courageous, dangerous, and in this case, flawlessly successful, decision.

5. Jeff Bridges, "Fearless" (1993). This is perhaps the most criminally overlooked performance on this list. Jeff Bridges was phenomenal in the intelligent, engrossing "Fearless", though you'd never know it to look at him. Bridges makes his Max Klein seem so nonchalant, so utterly effortless, that it's easy to dismiss the massive internal transformation this character undergoes throughout the course of the film. As a plane crash survivor, Max is regarded as a savior by those he helped escape the burning wreckage. In his own mind, Max, having survived this catastrophe and entered a God-like realm of hero-worship, is convinced that not only is he invincible, but immortal as well. We have the privilege of escorting Max on his journey back to humanness. Back to life. Back to fear. And it's a testament to Bridge's incandescent talent that he can make this voyage seem as natural and easy as, well, breathing.

6. Ben Kingsley, "Gandhi" (1982). It is film legend that during the filming of "Gandhi", the native Indians working on the movie thought Ben Kingsley was actually Gandhi's ghost. That's how complete and total this performance is. Kingsley so brilliantly inhabits the role of the great Mahatma that from the second he appears onscreen (before he has even "become" Mahatma), there can be no doubt that we are watching the real Gandhi. I've spoken before of how nearly-impossible it is to portray someone so famous and so well-respected, but Kingsley pulls it off beautifully with his uncanny transformation. "Gandhi" both reiterated the important power of one of history's greatest men...as well as one of it's greatest actors.

7. Adrien Brody, "The Pianist" (2002). Yeah, yeah, yeah, you all know that I worship the undies that cling to Adrien Brody. But for the moment, put all that out of your head and consider the absolutely phenomenal performance Brody gave in "The Pianist". As the Polish Jewish musician Wladyslaw Szpilman, 28-year old Brody (who became the youngest-ever Best Actor Oscar winner for his work here) gave us one of the most emotionally-charged, deftly-nuanced, and flawlessly, upsettingly, REAL performances of probably the last twenty years. To better inhabit Szpilman's nightmare at the hands of the Nazis, Brody lost 30 lbs off his already-lean frame, learned to play Chopin faultlessly, and gave up his car, apartment, and television in an effort to understand and portray the sacrifices of his character. It is not only a devoted, loving testament to a great man: it is proof that Adrien Brody is far more than a pretty face.

8. Jamie Foxx, "Ray" (2004). Foxx was mainly known as a comedian before his star-making turn in the Ray Charles biopic "Ray", but there is nothing funny about the masterful skill he employs in recreating one of the world's most loved and talented musicians. The technical aspects of the performance are amazing: from inhabiting Charles's distinct physicality, to playing the piano himself, to being literally blinded up to 14 hours a day due to the prosthetic makeup he had to wear, Foxx is a revelation. But what is more subtle -- and just as successful -- is the riveting emotional command with which Foxx soaks his performance. To say Jamie Foxx gives a good performance here is insulting. To say Jamie Foxx IS Ray Charles is much more appropriate.

9. Sacha Baron Cohen, "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America For Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" (2006). You may think this is an odd choice for a "best ever" kind of list like this, but I whole-heartedly stand behind it. This is what I wrote about Sacha Baron Cohen's Borat in a previous post, and it more than fits the bill here as well: "Sacha Baron Cohen is too talented for his own good. It's easy to watch "Borat" and regard it as nothing more than silly humor and pratfalls. But it is much more than that. His Borat is a fearlessly executed, raucously hilarious, and totally endearing character, and Baron Cohen makes it seem as natural as a second skin. You can't watch this film and separate actor from role. They are perfectly joined, and the result is not only the funniest thing I've seen in ages...but one of the most thought-provoking as well. Borat bravely holds a mirror up to American society and says, "Look at yourselves." And that is probably the precise reason SBC wasn't nominated [for an Oscar]."

10. Lee Pace, "Soldier's Girl" (2003). Yes, that's right, suspend your disbelief: I've chosen a performance from a made-for-television movie. And there's no possible way I couldn't, in any good conscience, include Lee Pace's astounding work as transgendered performer Calpernia Addams in this list. His performance is unlike anything I've ever seen on the big or small screens. Unlike Jaye Davidson's fragile flower Dil, Pace's Calpernia is a strong, self-assured woman who knows who she is and what she wants. But when she falls in love with straight military man Barry Winchell (the talented, gorgeous Troy Garity), her life is tossed upside-down. It is a perfect, heartbreaking, and emotionally exhausting performance. It is also one of those rare performances that will change you. Rent it. Watch it. You'll see what I mean.


Now I know what you're thinking. Where's Brando? Pacino? DeNiro? Nicholson? Well, this is my list, see, and they didn't make the Top Ten. However, most of them would undoubtedly figure into a Top Twenty. Brando in "Streetcar" or "On the Waterfront"; DeNiro in "Raging Bull"; Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" or "About Schmidt". These lists are much tougher to dream up than they might appear. Especially when you consider the plethora of fine actors we have to choose from.