ms. parton.

So, a woman I work with drops her iPod in our gym locker-room...wait. I'll back up a bit. A very stoic, type-A, super career woman who has most-certainly given me the cold-shoulder a handful of times in the hallways—having met my twice-daily "hello" glances with silent bristle and possible ire, drops her iPod in the gym locker-room. (Yes, we have a gym at work...it's my one-and-only counterargument to the eyebrow raises I get when I describe the horror that is my 1-hour-plus commute to work.) The earphones pop out and all us half-naked ladies get the pleasure of hearing her iTunes. And will you guess what's playing? Nevermind, you won't. Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You." Yes, Dolly did it first (love you, Whitney).

Anyhoo, I love Dolly so dearly that I instantly forgave this woman's blatant oversight of my charm. What IS that? Have you ever done that...forgiven or fallen slightly and unexpectedly in love with someone just because their musical tastes align ever-so-nicely with yours?

p.s. Speaking of half-naked ladies, who knew Dolly did Playboy? Hmmm..kinda sorta curious...

a little reggae music...

makes for a lovely end to a steamy July weekend. this post is meant to honor reggae and dub legend Lee "Scratch" Perry. I prefer to avoid the overused phrase "the one and only" yet in Lee's case, the shoe fits. Anyway, this was my first time seeing him live (what a show!), and likely the only time in either of our lifetimes. He's 73...still horny (he has a song that uses the "P" word about 35 times *blushes*) and shamelessly eccentric--think bedazzled baseball cap, layers and layers of gold chains and rings, and a fuschia beard. Love it.

this will not be cool to you.

but come with me anyway.

at the bookstore on bedford, the one with about a dozen shelves of the best books by the best authors--Wilde, Butler, Atwood, Boyle. You name it, it's there, or they can order it for you. "One week. That's all." So, I'm eyeing the social activism section, without knowing i'm eyeing the social activism section. Pick up the Eldridge Cleaver biography, and it hits me "Is this the social activism section?!" Wasn't he a traitor? I recall someone telling me that. But what do I know about social activism and being a traitor? "I should read this book." I could learn something about being a black radical in the 60s.

Anyway, I slide the book back into its slot, trading it for the last literary masterpiece by some French guy. Not Voltaire--i think Descartes. I skim the back copy--it says something about him being the "world's greatest philosopher." I dunno, this wall is a bit too heavy for a Monday evening. Where's fiction? Didn't I come here to look for a cheap copy of "The Road"? I pivot--a little too fast--bolting away from the social activists, and at my 180 is this guy. We lock eyes (really, we do) long enough for me to deduce that he is not in fact someone I "know from somewhere" like college, or my commute to work, or my neighborhood coffee shop or bar. but I do kinda know him from somewhere--like somewhere on a stage performing in front of thousands, and not standing less than a foot away from me in a Williamsburg bookstore waiting for me to scoot out of his way so that he can eye the social activism section!


He's my height. Lovely eyes beyond round specs. Cool afro and beard--perfectly messed up. He reminds me of a little brown bear--the friendly kind that share honey with you instead of biting off your arms and legs. I don't do anything brave like ask for concert tickets or say "hi-omigosh-it's-you." But before leaving empty-handed, I take an extra long time perusing the shelves, pausing to sneak peaks at him (hoping he hasn't noticed), and speculating on what book he ended up with. Soul on Ice?

photo: stereogum

natasha.

r.i.p.

from Asylum

it's been ages since...

...I've had a Gawker-worthy celeb siting. Last night, it was Mischa Barton, low and behold, at one of my LES brunch haunts. I noticed her because my date Liz kept ogling her feather skirt. Liz gave it the thumbs down--I gave it a thumbs-up, but did little birdies have to die to make it? :-( Liz and I had a loverly date, munching on beet and chicken salads, swooning over our hotter-than-Jude-Law waiter, swaying in the warm tawny light to what had to be a handpicked-by-me 80s mix. Liz giggled and said, "They've got your number." When "Africa" started playing, our jaws dropped and we sang along--not knowing or understanding the words. Here's the video--my first time seeing it, and not what I expected, though, in that predictable-8-member-80s-band-with-big-hair sort of way, maybe it is. There--I just referenced Mischa Barton, feather skirts, and the band Toto in one blog post. I just made your day, didn't I?

the world is afraid of eccentrics.

or at least, Hollywood is. What's wrong with having fun, and being a bit OFF, or wearing a tacky, over-the-top shiny suit--even if it means landing on the worst-dressed list, in the case of Mickey here?!

I really appreciate Mickey--he was my favorite celeb of the night--funky suit, sequins, blonde highlights, (botox), wallet chain and all. He'd be my pick to hang out with at the after-party. Can you imagine the stories (and the drugs--but oh, lets not go there)? Perfect bores the hell out of me.

p.s. The Wrestler is on this week's must-do list.

Photo: Yahoo.com.