Balls and Walnuts
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Category Archives: Stardust
Blue Gal speaks
Blue Gal is on vacation and she still found time for me. Is that a pal or what? On top of that, she’s a dead ringer for Angelina Jolie (just check out her blog and you’ll see what I mean) AND she has the right politics AND she has the world’s largest panty collection.
About the panties. Blue Gal shows only “disembodied” panties, as she calls them, because she wants to engage men’s BIG brains and not their little ones, or so she says. Here at Balls and Walnuts, however, I have no qualms about showing panties as God intended them — being worn, damn it. Thus:
Here’s Blue Gal.
***
Doug has given all of us “serious political bloggers,” heh, a lovely opportunity to, as guest bloggers, let our collective hair down over here at Balls and Walnuts. Thanks, Doug.
Usually at Blue Gal, I’m pontificating about an Atlantic Monthly article on Roe v. Wade, or at least holding forth on why anyone would buy a pint glass with Hillary Clinton’s chocolate chip cookie recipe on it. All this interspersed with disembodied novelty panties. Works for me.
Since Doug occasionally blogs about television (I don’t have one) and also about sex, and also has the occasional fearful meme, I offer the following poll-type question for his readers:
‘Kay, which is the gayest moment in the history of television? My nominations:
1. Clay Aiken sings Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” for Ryan Seacrest and impersonator boy on American Idol Five’s finale.
2. Ryan Seacrest and Anderson Cooper should get a room while Nicole Richie giggles on Larry King Live.
Maybe it’s not fair that both clips feature Ryan Seacrest. Maybe.
Leave your own nomination or vote in comments.
— Blue Gal
Portrait of Christopher Walken as a Young Man
Yet another adventure in Random Flickr Blogging. This week’s random number: 0382. Image shamelessly copped from Chapster.
For those of you who consider this post a little odd, I spent the last fifteen minutes of my life washing the dishes and singing (in baby talk) Romeo Void’s Never Say Never to my Tabby, Faithful.
I might like you better
If we slept together
But there’s somethin
In your eyes that says
Maybe that’s never
Never say never
There. That should put everything else into perspective.
Portrait of Christopher Walken as a Young Man
Because Blogger won’t let me leave comments
I’m enjoying Jim Donahue’s Blogiversary retrospective at the moment, and I really really wanted to comment on his Land of the Lost vs. Sigmund and the Sea Monsters Smackdown, but Blogger (it’s free!), as many of you know, is a buggery (but free!) affair, so I can’t tell Jim these important things:
I can still sing the theme to Land of the Lost.
You’re right: Land of the Lost wins against Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, hands down. But what about H. R. Pufnstuf? Gaaaaah, now that song will be with me all night.
Must think of something different.
Must think of Land of the Lost‘s Holly, grown up and clothed in nothing but ganache. (Hat tip to YesButNoButYes for their Where are They Now: Saturday Morning Babes article. Check it out.)
D.
Son of Godawful? Mostly.
Let’s get one thing straight right from the start. The villain of The Da Vinci Code is NOT albino, dammit. He’s leucistic. Look at his eyes — they’re blue, not pink. Trust me on this. So you albino rights groups can chill out right now.
(Edited to add: okay, according to Karen, I effed up on this one. Turns out albinism is a complex condition with more than one possible genetic basis. Some folks with this condition have red eyes, but many have light blue eyes. My bad. I’m sympathetic to the albinos, by the way. It’s stupid — no, worse than that, it’s lazy writing — to use color as code for evil. So stop it, Hollywood, stop it right now!)
But you’re not here for a biology lecture, are you? You want the dish on The DVC. It’s below the cut.
Meat Loaf
No, not another recipe. I’ve never made a successful meat loaf. In fact, I’ve given up on it entirely. Even the sound of the words meat loaf makes me think of a meat-brick slathered in ketchup and baked to leathery badness.
Naw. I’m feeling weird and tired this evening, wishing I could be one of those blokes who drinks espresso at night and still gets to sleep. Even George Bush’s scraping-bottom approval ratings and Rove’s impending date with fingerprint ink can’t energize me. And that’s why I’m taking the easy way out.
Hat tip to Pat Johanneson for shouting out (A) Terry Bisson’s short story “They’re Made Out Of Meat,” available online, and (B) linking to the video dramatization of that same story. Pat got the links from BoingBoing. You don’t really need a link to BoingBoing, do you?
Recognize anyone on that “They’re Made Out Of Meat” video? How about Tom Noonan, uber-tall character actor whom I most fondly remember as Frances Dolarhyde in Michael Mann’s 1986 movie, Manhunter? Screw Anthony Hopkins’s version of Hannibal Lecktor. Brian Cox is Lecktor, just as Noonan is Frances Dolarhyde. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, rent the damned movie and see for yourself.
There. Amazing. I wrote an evening post, feeling like crap.
D.
ETA: It was bound to happen. Spock has a MySpace blog. Make sure you check out “Video 2”.
Thirteen television memories
Sometimes, I get an idea for a Thursday Thirteen, but I’m not certain I can meet the number. It’s a two-part challenge: come up with something new and interesting, and find thirteen things which apply.
This time, the challenge is different: can I come up with only thirteen television memories — and can I pick the best thirteen?
You folks will undoubtedly have a few of your own television memories, too. Feel free to tell me about them in the comments.
Don’t screw with satirists
I’ve been itching to find out how South Park creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker would wreak their vengeance.
Live blogging the Oscars
The 78th Annual Academy Awards kicked off with a stretch of uninspired animation meant to evoke Hollywood’s rich history. Bleech. They had all year to do this? And that’s how I feel about the lead-up to Jon Stewart’s introduction, too. What began as a sort-of funny riff on Brokeback Mountain soon became a tired, uninspired joke.
Jon Stewart’s opening monologue had one, count it, one good joke (the actresses not having enough cloth to cover their breasts), plus a fun medley of gay themes in Westerns. The closing clip of Charleton Heston and Gregory Peck was priceless. (more…)
Nipples, damn it! Does there have to be another reason?
Celebrities and thier wardrobe malfunctions.
It’s so nice to have a li’l cream for my morning coffee.
D.
A star-studded golden shower
Isn’t it ironic that I’m stunned, blinded-in-the-headlights by a woman who makes her living deriding the famous and wealthy, who has written at length on the soul-raping effects of fame?
Well, maybe not ironic. I’m enamored of Cintra Wilson because of her writing, not her fame, since after all she’s not particularly famous. Hell, Maureen Dowd probably has much greater name recognition, but I’d take dinner with Wilson over Dowd any day of the week. Sorry, Maureen.
In the February 8-21 issue of The Wave Magazine, in her column The Dregulator, Cintra writes:
Paris Hilton has apparently been leaving her territorial mark anywhere she feels like it — just because she feels like it — and she can do anything she wants — so there. The New York Post reported in October that Paris had an “accident” in the corridor of a Las Vegas hotel. And a couple of weeks ago, Mike Walker of The Enquirer wrote, Maui cab driver Harden Jamison picked up Miss Piss late one night with Greek man-o-kopeta Stavros Niarchos. While he drove, Jamison claims, the heiress hiked up her blue satin dress and relieved herself on his back seat. Jamison had the good fortune to serendipitously run into Paris the next night, and he confronted her. She whined outraged denials. Jamison reportedly screamed, “I kept the towel . . . I’VE GOT THE DNA!” One of her entourage allegedly tried to buy him off for $200.