June 2007


I haven’t really been paying much attention to my Netflix queue recently. So imagine my surprise when all three movies (I’m on the three-at-a-time plan) that arrive in the postbox are about COMMUNISTS!!

1. Cambridge Spies  – About hot (ok they probably weren’t hot in real life, but the actors were hot) young Cambridge grads who were spies for the Soviet Union during WWII. Really really good.

2. and 3. Reds – Warren Beatty’s magnum opus about….Communists….and hooking up with Diane Keaton (whatever floats your boat, yo) Haven’t watched it yet. But I kind of don’t want to anymore. I’m Communisted out.

Oh shit. I just logged on to Netflix to check and see what is supposed to come next…and it’s Annie Hall!! Now they’re going to think I’m a Communist with a crush on Diane Keaton! (neither of which is true.)

Stop judging me Netflix. You stop it.

How does one get to be as crazy as Paula Abdul? Is it the result of a brief union with Emilio Estevez? (I still love you Emilio! Quack, quack, quack…it’s a Mighty Ducks reference! I swear.) Is it the fact that her only Grammy comes from doing a duet with (and getting upstaged by) an animated cat?

Whichever way you slice it, she is totally bonkers, and Bravo has captured it all on film in their new series “Hey Paula” which I only caught the first half hour of, but that was enough to know that she is COMPLETELY UNHINGED. She is so loopy and out-of-it, then becomes a crazy mean banshee woman when her poor handlers try to reign her in. I mean, it’s really sad, and yet hilarious. Sad because she AGREED to this project, and because her PR people must hate her enough to let this really really unflattering portrait of their boss go to air. Hilarious because she spends the entire show either “playfully growling” at her teacup dogs, whining about how tight her jeans are, or talking about how horny she is. YIKES.

But as I thought about it (I changed channels and watched reruns of “The Office” instead, allowing my brain peace) I realized why Paula is so messed up! I mean, look, this lady:

is obviously the product of a very difficult home life!! I mean, it can’t be easy growing up on the…

PLANET OF THE APES!!! dum dum dummmmmmm….

(Please remember, I’m not here to coddle the crazy. I’m here to call them out.)

I am friends with famous people. You didn’t know? Well it’s true. I went to see my friend Shira in the AWESOME Broadway show “Frost/Nixon” at the Bernard B. Jacobs theatre.

The show itself is really sharp. And historically accurate. And entertaining. To combine these three traits is actually near-impossible. The cast is rock-solid and staging is bare but very effective. I’d recommend it to everyone!

But this entry is not about the play. It’s about the two face-offs I had that evening. I am a classy lady. If there is anything my parents taught me, it was to shake hands firmly when you meet someone and always be ready to break a chair over someone’s head at the theatre.

Fight #1: Wylie vs. The Elderly

Fact: Once you reach the age of 75, you can no longer whisper. It’s true. Ask your doctor. But when Old People are the majority of NYC theatre-goers, they are impossible to avoid. And if they don’t have their assisted-listening devices turned up to earth-shattering decible levels, they are going to ask what is going on….VERY LOUDLY. For example, at “Frost/Nixon” during the climactic showdown between David Frost and Richard Nixon, the old lady next to me turned to her husband and asked loudly “DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN THESE INTERVIEWS AIRED? I COULDN’T SIT THROUGH THEM.” I almost died of embarassment to be seated next to her. Her husband mumbled something back (he kept making noises like he was about to vomit, so I guess I can thank my lucky stars he didn’t) and she went “WHAAAT?” at which point I hissed “SSHHHHuuut it.” I don’t know if she heard me (I’m not sure she would have heard the explosion at Hiroshima) but she quieted down.

Standings – Wylie: 1  The Elderly: 0

Fight #2: Wylie vs. Beckinsale

While leaving “Frost/Nixon” I glanced around me and caught the gaze of a pretty brunette woman. After a blink I realized this woman staring at me was Kate Beckinsale!! She was looking at me with this kind of crazy intensity, I was really thrown off. (Kate Beckinsale was Michael Sheen’s girlfriend for years, they have a daughter together, that’s why she was at the show). We seriously held gaze for about 10 seconds (which doesn’t seem long, but is when you’re staring at a stranger). None of the old people knew who she was. She looked at me as if to say “I can tell you recognize me, but please, I’m with my child, if you make a scene I will tear your heart out.” I should have said “Oh Kate Beckinsale, your privacy is safe with me” but I think I just shot her back a look that said “Girl, don’t you give me that look. I saw Underworld and I will put a stake through your heart like whoa.” Then it was over.

Standings – Wylie vs. Beckinsale: Draw.

My throwdown standings are currently 1-0-1.

At least I beat the elderly. I can sleep well at night for that one.

Walking down the street.

It’s something we New Yorkers do for hours every day. Probably for longer than we eat. We dodge many obstacles including dog poo, construction, other people, and of course….pigeons.

Pigeons. New York Pigeons. They are extra-filthy, and as hardened and bad-ass as any city dweller. Which is why they enjoy flying very close to your head and refusing to move when you walk towards them.

Yesterday I played chicken with a pigeon on the sidewalk. I strode towards him. His little beady pigeon eye met mine. I kept walking and he suddenly began to walk towards me.

“Oh shit.” I thought “It is ON now, pigeon. You’re fucking with the wrong girl.”

We walked toward each other, firm, unyielding. Granted, I did most of the walking, seeing as my steps are about 500 times larger than the piegons. It was like a terrible parody of a Western. But damn, I must tip my hat that pigeon did not falter. We came to within 12 inches of each other. I could in theory have stepped on the pigeon and squashed him. But that ain’t my style. So I swallowed my pride…and side-stepped to the left. I stood down.

The pigeon had won. Though I am a giant, he refused to move. That is balls. Pigeon balls.

Well done, Pigeon. Well done indeed.

I told you I look like an Oompa-Loompa.

But hey, I’m an organ donor. Not like my tiny Oompa-Loompa organs will do any normal sized human much good, but the sentiment is there.

Can you feel the nuclear heat coming off my skin?

I should change my last name to L’Orange.

Yesterday, I finally got my driver’s license renewed. As the nice lady with really long, airbrushed fingernails handed it to me, I thought there had been some kind of mistake. But that was in fact me in the picture.

“Look at this” I handed the card over to my mother, as we walked out of the DMV, “I look really tan. REALLY tan. And mildly retarded.” She did not disagree.

I needed another opinion. DAD. I showed him my new license. “Really weirdly tan, right? Maybe they have a filter on the camera lense or something?”

My Dad was quiet. Then he started to softly sing and cackle with laughter….

“Oompa-loompa, doopity-doo…I’ve got another puzzle for you!”

MY OWN DAD ACKNOWLEDGES THAT I LOOK LIKE AN OOMPA-LOOMPA ON MY DRIVER’S LICENSE.

“Actually” he ammended “Like an oompa loompa and George Hamilton combined.”

So, like this, Dad?

MEETS

Great. Just….great. I’m not going to post my picture, but don’t worry, I’ll have this license until 2012 (my 30th birthday) so I’m sure you’ll have the chance to ridicule it in good time.

Where did your pants go?

Who is watching the babies?

Why you still famous?

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