My Weekend Crush

Growing up Princess Leia was, of course, my heroine. And by heroine, I mean lady hero. I didn’t want to inject her and listen to jazz. So Carrie Fisher was, of course, also one of my heroines. The thing about Princess Leia is that even though we first met her she seemed to be the classic damsel in distress, she was always so much more. She was a leader and a fighter who never once stopped herself from speaking her mind. And all of that came from the inherent spunk and sass of Carrie. She gave as good as she got. As a little girl that was tremendously encouraging. Strength, determination, humor, smarts – these were the things I aspired to thanks to Carrie.

Yes, yes, there was the gold bikini. But, I say, if and when you’ve got it, flaunt the fuck out of it. Trust me, it made an indelible impression on my little mind, too. Over the years I’ve kept up casually with Carrie’s career. Sure, she never replicated her “Star Wars” success. But cut the woman some slack; that was and continues to be one of the biggest movie franchises of all time. So, pretty much no one has replicated that level of success – ever. She has gone on to be a bestselling author and now has a one-woman show about to open on Broadway. Through it all she has continued to give her unvarnished, unapologetic assessment of everything from her own life to the world at large.

Which brings me to her blog post this week. You see, someone somewhere on the vast and faceless internet posted something rude about how she looks now. And Carrie happened to read it and – being only human – it hurt her feeling. Then she thought about her audacity to have grown older, had a life, eaten food and – God forbid – gained weight in the almost 30 years that have passed since the gold bikini. And she decided to send a very simple message to her nameless, classless assailant: “BLOW MY BIG BOVINE tiny dancer COCK!” And that, right there, is why Carrie Fisher will always be my heroine. Happy weekend, all.

That land called Honah Lee

The universe has a funny way of circling back on itself sometimes. The news of Mary Travers death yesterday came as both a shock and a reminder. A shock because I didn’t know she was sick. I’m not sure many people did. A reminder because Peter, Paul & Mary was a large part of my childhood. Some of my earliest memories are of my father singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” to me as I drifted off into sleep. Mary came from a time when folk singers wore button-down shirts and tweed jackets, but spoke about revolution and a better world. They sang about changing the world with nothing more than a hammer and the will to swing it against what needed fixing. Mary’s voice was big and urgent, filled with both fire and ache. Throughout her life she used it to both lift it in song and against injustice.

My parents had all their albums and my father in particular, with his Martin guitar and own tweed jackets, would often sing their songs to my sister and me at bedtime. He died five years ago this summer. In a few days, my sister is expecting a baby – my first nephew and my mother’s first grandchild. While my dad won’t be there to sing “Puff” when he arrives, I know that Mary and the group’s music will still be there to serenade him about strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. Yesterday, when I came home I also found the paperwork for my father’s scholarship fund in the mail. My family has worked for five years to set up the fund, a modest but hopefully helpful endowment. Perhaps it will give that student just enough to find his or her own hammer. And, as I sign it and put it in the mail today, perhaps I’ve found mine as well.

If I Had a Hammer


Puff the Magic Dragon

Thanks, Mary. May you frolic in the autumn mist forever.

I said goddamn

Olivia Wilde in GQ. Excuse me while I go nonverbal...

Oh, and did I mention there's a video?

Find more bikini, and actual words, at AfterEllen.com later today.

Tank Top Tuesday

Oh, thank God, TV is back. Look, I like the summer cable shows as much as the next gal. But there comes a point when you want your main squeezes back. And this is that point. “Glee” is already back, Thursday sees the return of “Bones” and “Fringe” and the rest of the shows start back up soon. Gosh, I just feel like hugging all of my faithful female favorites with my legs in friendship. And if they’re wearing a tank top while it happens, well, even better.

Michaela ConlinBones premieres Sept. 17

Jennifer MorrisonHouse premieres Sept. 21

Cote de PabloNCIS premieres Sept. 22

Mariska HargitayLaw & Order: SVU premieres Sept. 23

Sandra OhGrey’s Anatomy premieres Sept. 24

Marg HelgenbergerCSI premiere Sept. 24

Summer GlauDollhouse premieres Sept. 25

Yvonne StrahovskiChuck premieres March 2010

Bonus: Dude, it’s really hard to find a picture of Anna Torv in a tank top. But here is one of her pantless; hope that makes up for it.

Weekend at Crazy’s

WTF, weekend? Seriously. Tina Fey wins an Emmy. Dr. Horrible wins an Emmy. Serena Williams threatens bodily harm with a tennis ball. Madonna stays classy. Kanye West does not. Lady Gaga is movable performance art. And Beyoncé is, quite possibly, magic. Whew. That is a lot of shit to process in just two days. That’s like a month’s worth of awesome/crazy/WTF. It’s like Saturday and Sunday exploded and we haven’t even talked about Kristen Stewart’s new dangerously Kate Gosselin-esque hairstyle. Madness, I tell you. MADNESS. So, naturally, I turn to ridiculously hot women to help me make sense of the world again. Nothing soothes quite like ridiculously hot women being ridiculously hot. Some of them might even qualify for Naked Lady Monday. Mmm, naked ladies… See, all better. [Click any to enlarge The Hot.]

Padma LakshmiFeel stupid for not watching “Top Chef” now, don’t ya?

Anna FrielGod, I miss Pushing Daisies.

Jennifer ConnellyRemember that movie “Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Set a timer.

Olivia WildeIs there such a thing as pantyline-high boots? There is now.

Katee Sackhoff, Tricia Helfer, Grace ParkSci-fi is just for geeks, eh?

Lucy LiuI believe the correct words here are hummina-hummina.

Sarah ShahiQuite fittingly, the end.

My Weekend Crush

Drew Barrymore is that rarest of Hollywood creatures. She is not a Peter Pan (because heavens knows there are too many of those, Judd Apatow), but a Wendy instead. She grew up too quickly, then acted out trying to postpone adulthood, and eventually settled in a healthy maturity. I grew up with Drew, that adorable little moppet who helped E.T. phone home. She survived the early stardom, though it nearly destroyed her. Entering rehab at age 13 is a hell of a thing. But she came out the other end and not only survived but thrived. She took her image from cute kid to teenage sexpot to America’s sweetheart, which is no easy feat. Once you’re branded as a sex kitten, it generally sticks. For reference see Marilyn Monroe. But Drew came out of that David Letterman flasher, penciled-in eyebrows, month-long marriages period and transitioned into adorable again with “Never Been Kissed” and the rest. Today, she is what Kate Hudson wishes she was: Hollywood’s resident free spirit, go-to romantic and all-around likable gal.

Making her even more likable, of course, is her support of the gays. She has discussed her bisexuality before, which seems to come from a place of genuine openness and not crass exploitation. She has an irrepressible energy and an earnest silliness about her. And she is now thoroughly in control of her own destiny, preparing for the release of her directorial debut “Whip It.” Not that she can’t still break out the sexy. Like, say, her all-straddling, all-kissing, all-sexifying photoshoots with Ellen Page. Sure, it’s a clever publicity ploy. But what makes it great is that you can tell from the way Drew is pinning Ellen that she has done it before. Not necessarily with Ellen (though that’s how it plays out in my head), but before and in private – and for real. Happy weekend, all.

Dog day afternoon

Doggone it, you knew this was coming. After a day of nothing but cat calls, I’ve had to let the dogs out (yes, forgive me, I went there). I had dogs all while growing up. In fact, until I got a cat I considered myself strictly a dog person. So I know that special, unspoken bond between a girl and her dog. Sure, dogs may be man’s best friend, but they’re a woman’s best friend forever. Who’s a good dog? Who is? Who is?

Kate Moennig & FloydVenus Williams & HaroldKatee Sackhoff & MeatballHilary Swank & Karu & friendsLisa Edelstein & Wolf EAmy Adams & Pippy & SadieZooey and Emily Deschanel & KatrinaEllen Page & Patti (*yes, named after Smith)Christiane Amanpour & her newshoundJordana Brewster & one lucky puppyAli Larter & two really, really lucky puppiesGlenn Close & her blogging puppies Jake & BillDid you know Scribegrrrl is practically BFFs with Glenn and her pups? Well, now you do.

Here kittie, kittie

I would like to interrupt this blog about pop culture, lesbians and lesbians in pop culture (and every now and then politics – but only when I’m feeling too big for my britches) for an important public service announcement. I do not support A Day Without Cats. In fact, I abhor the idea. Cats bring the LOLs to The Internets. Without them, who would play us off? Look, I love all creatures great and small. But to artificially omit one does not uplift the others, but instead diminishes them all. Also, they’re just so damn cute. How could we go without them? And this is coming from someone who for most of her life was an avowed dog person. So with that, for one day only, I will do what I told myself I would never do: cat blog. What can I say? All that stuff about lesbians and their cats? TOTALLY TRUE.

Whoops, that last one is the wrong kind of “Cat.” Totally my bad.