Sally Kellerman is a vision in a belted shawl and a Fedora. Her natural wave-and-bangs frames her venerable paleness with the ornery valor of an Ethan Allen window treatment. Her humidifier voice animates Yeats and Joyce, and when she says the word “fun,” it’s like she’s discovered a new vice she wants in on. But what I love most about Sally’s performance is her deliberate half-smile. She knows she’s a grown-up, but she’s also down with the kids, okay?
All I want to see, over and over again, maybe until I die, is that part of that movie when Kellerman—or Dr. Diane Turner if you’re nasty—slinks into Rodney Dangerfield’s party, and dances her way through the collegiate revelers to get to the other end of the frame. She’s got her scarf open, draped over her blazer like a prayer shawl, and she’s got her half-smile on, right below her cheekbones. She nods and sways and is generally like, “Yeah! Oingo Boingo! Whatever!” and she just melts through the throng of dancing dorks like she’s the only one who belongs there.
One of the things I’ve learned about writing a book is that it’s best not to quote any song lyrics in your manuscript, because the music industry (yes, that’s what it’s still called) is “spendy” and “litigious.” In other words, you have to pay for the rights to reprint lyrics to music that isn’t in the public domain. And until I write my Scott Joplin thesis, tentatively titled On ‘“The Rag,” I had to prepare myself to pay out the nose for the right to use lyrics from the last hundy years in my book, or cut-it-out, Cousin Joey.
A singular exception to The Way it Works is Liz Phair. When I approached her amazing rep, Phoebe, at Phair’s record label in hopes of reprinting a lyric from “Fuck and Run” as an epigraph to a section of my book, not only did Liz say that I could, but she let me do it for FREE. Over the weekend, I received paperwork to this effect, plus the 15th anniversary re-issue CD of Exile in Guyville.
A word about Trasbox Zolciak’s single, “Don’t be Tardy for the Party”:
When this track comes on in the clubs, the P-Townies will dance to it. It will be a huge novelty favorite. It’s not Gitarzan. It’s My Neck, My Back. Do you know why? Because gay people are wonderful. They love to laugh!
Soon enough, there will be a gay wedding that will feature the grooms’ processional to this track, and your mom will send you a link to the video on YouTube.
In response to the original question, my opinion is that Zooey is a bright-eyed Tabula rasa. She’s all projection screen under thick fringe, able to reflect with her pale limbs and heart-shaped moon face whatever it is a bewitched boy wants.
She’s like Pam in that she’s supposed to love your record collection, sure; but she’s more like Scarlet Johansson’s artistic wanderer in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, but for guys who fancy themselves intellectual enough to prefer brunettes with big eyes instead of blondes with big lips.
By the way: is there anything cringier than a guy you don’t find attractive telling you about what general qualities in women HE finds attractive? Like the guy at your office confiding to you with a big grin on his face how much he loves, loves, loves girls with short hair, but, go figure, isn’t so much into Asian women? As though the realization of his own tastes out loud brings him more pleasure than actually having a conversation with a real woman in or out of his preferred category. I guess I’m just thinking of guys I met in my 20’s who bragged about how they love brunettes with bangs, but never really got into blondes. As though that were some kind of cue for confetti to spurt from the ceiling and a brass band to charge past his nose in celebration of his irreverent beauty standards.
The definitive Zooey guide lives here, in Doree Shafrir’s bullseye piece. The only thing left to say is that however pretentious she seems, if Miss Deschanel’s performance in Elf boosted Mp3 sales of “Baby, it’s Cold Outside,” then that’s more than can be said of most of us.
Last night, I ended up sprinting to the IFC Movie Theater on 6th Avenue to catch a 10 PM show, in what quickly became pouring rain. I got soaked, and ducked into the shelter of the neighboring sex shop right before the movie started, in hopes of being able to get some dry clothes.
I browsed a T-shirt that said “My Nipples Get Harder Than Most Dicks” and a pair of Hustler magazine-brand briefs from the 5 dollar bin, figuring nobody would see me in the dark of the theater anyway, when a tiny goth hooker (incidentally, my favorite Elton John song) appeared from behind the flavored lube racks and offered me a paper towel.
I looked into the mirrored wall behind the strung-up teddies to see the rain had smeared my eye makeup so badly that a salesgirl well-versed in leaving customers alone to awkwardly browse felt compelled to save me from the embarrassment of going outside with mascara all over my cheeks.
She did not, however, dissuade me from buying the T-shirt & underwear: I did that myself. And as I sat, freezing in the A/C next door, my wet summer dress gradually dampening my seat, I regretted my decision.
To my credit, we’re not all faced with choices that are harder than most dicks.
Ms. Wilder-Taylor, a former stand-up comic, has made a career from championing cocktail play-date attitude. With books like “Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay” and “Naptime Is the New Happy Hour” and her scabrously funny Web column, “Make Mine a Double: Tales of Twins and Tequila,” she has been the toast of the antiperfection mom-lit world.
But in late May, six weeks before the publication of her latest book — a memoir in which alcohol is a merry companion — Ms. Wilder-Taylor put up a post on her blog, Babyonbored, that has reverberated throughout mommy blogdom:
“I drink too much,” she wrote. “I quit on Friday.”
I love these author photos of former alcoholics/ bulimics lit as though by God, with sad, wise, wide-open eyes, as though they’re saying “My EYES have been OPENED to my ADDICTION!”