Archive for Celebrity Sinuses
Because it’s unnecessary to write anything about tennis after David Foster Wallace’s hommage to the game in The New York Times, Sinus Sister will just post her pics from The Rogers Cup.
Yep, that’s Nadal on centre court. And that’s Sinus Sister enjoying the largess of the Nespresso VIP box–an excellent location from which to see Nadal prance at the baseline like an angry dressage pony. The only Spaniard with more testosterone was Picasso.
Watching Rafa bury The Other Guy, while sipping her decaf iced mochachino, Sinus Sister was reminded of a great line from Foster Wallace’s article on the limitations of watching tennis on television:
TV tennis is to live tennis pretty much as video porn is to the felt reality of human love.
This is the story of a blog whose future was abruptly cancelled and the one writer who had no choice but to keep herself together. It’s Sinus Sister’s arrested development.
When the Bluth family adopted Lindsay, they didn’t count on her having yet another sister—the third Sitwell girl. She was a writer who had recently been dragged off to Lucille Austero’s rehab clinic because of her fondness for Benadryl and Sudafed. Since her last blog post in March 2012, she’d hit rock bottom, chasing pseudoephedrine with antihistamines with Jesse from Breaking Bad. She smashed her nette pot and went back on nasal sprays, using five or six times a day. Her dealer operated out of the same corner store where Gob got his Forget-Me-Now pills. The only one who noticed her mounting addiction was Max Fowler, the pharmacist.
Angered by all the “Non-Drowsy” sinus medications, she started throwing boxes of pills on the floor.
Sinus Sister [grabbing the pharmacist by the collar]: “I want drowsy. I need drowsy!”
Pharmacist: “Sorry. That’s all we have.”
Sinus Sister: “What? First they take Teamocil off the market and now this? [dancing like a hobbled chicken] I think you’re just afraid to give drowsy to a woman? That’s sexist.”
Gob was shopping for lighter fluid in a nearby isle when he heard “give drowsy to a woman”. He was intrigued. Was there an untapped supply of drowsy pills? His dealer had just run out of Forget-Me-Nows.
Gob approached: “Nobody can accuse me of being sexist. I just tried to drug my nephew so he’d forget I kissed him at a gay bar. And I’d do the exact same thing to my niece.”
Sinus Sister recognized Gob from the news. She knew him as the satirical magician from the family of treasonous sex offenders….She was wrong about the satire. And she was wrong, a few years back, to break into the adoption agency to read her file. Her college boyfriend, Tony Wonder, helped her pick the lock and open the sealed records. [Tony uses a crow bar on the filing cabinet, but smashes his fingers and accidentally trashes the office.]
That’s how Sinus Sister learned Lindsay Bluth and Sally Sitwell are her biological sisters.
[Sinus Sister wears a SLUT t-shirt while reading her adoption file. Police sirens get louder. Tony Wonder hides inside a desk and discovers his gimmick for a career in magic]
Sinus Sister: “What kind of horrible couple would adopt only one daughter from a family with two other girls?
[Young Lucille gulps a martini, saying to Michael and his house guests, “Are these the exchange students? Irish twins are bad luck, Michael. Send one BACK!”]
Someone needed to save Lindsay from that family of reprobates….and see if her sister could score any Teamocil.
The narrator defines the word reprobate in the recap; Tobias conducts Sinus Sister’s intake interview at Austerity; Lucille Bluth confides in her new rehab buddy and Michael won’t let Irish twins buy a home in Sudden Valley.
We needed a hockey player—especially a center who can take a punch.
Brandon Dubinsky’s is on the bench with sinus pressure stemming from a few blows he sustained in a fight with the Devils’ Ryan Carter.
“I’m OK. I took it in the nose pretty good,” he said to Newsday. “The issue is the [sinus] pressure. The flight here was OK. It affects me more when I’m sleeping, lying down.
Brandon, welcome to the Sleep Sitting Up Club. I’d shake your hand, but we don’t shake hands. (See germ posts). Sinus Sister hasn’t slept flat on her back in years. Other things she does on her back notwithstanding. Here are a few tips from the Club.
1. Move the clock radio out of your new sight line. You will stare at it.
2. If a hotel has thin pillows, use a sofa cushion, wrapped in a towel.
3. Drink a steaming cup of tea or broth in bed.
4. Ease the sinus pressure with a hot compress. If you can’t sleep, get up and re-heat the compress a few times.
5. Ask your Puck Bunny to do #4 when she’s done watching Jersey Shore.*
*Sinus Sister doesn’t know if Dubinsky has a Puck Bunny or an actual wife. If he does, she may not watch Jersey Shore, but I bet she has a long ponytail and lots of baseball hats.
Jack Lemmon waves his freak flag in the name of sinus comfort.
Walt White explains Zincum Gluconicum
INT. DAY – DINER
WALT WHITE, a chemistry teacher and cancer-ridden drug lord, watches SINUS SISTER, who wears her FUR HAT indoors. CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS cannot improve the shabby diner where they sit, with a PAPER BAG on the table between them.
SINUS SISTER sneezes. She takes a bottle of COLD-EEZE from the FUR MUFF in her lap and holds it up to her ruby-red LIPS.
What’s that crap you’re spraying in your mouth?
It’s not crap. It’s Cold-Eeze. Mint flavour.
It’s probably just candy. Let me see.
SINUS SISTER whips the bottle of COLD-EEZE at WALT, so he can read the ingredients.
No, no, I stand corrected. There’s an active ingredient in here. Zincum Glyconicum.
Zinc, you moron. Didn’t you just learn about zinc last week?
SINUS SISTER pulls a GUN from the FUR MUFF on her lap. She points it as WALT.
You can talk to Jesse that way, but not to me. EXPLAIN ZINC.
WALT looks at the CANADA DRY CLOCK and swallows.
We don’t have time for this.
No, we don’t have time for me to have a bad cold during the Christmas rush.
He sighs, shrugs in agreement, and reads the BOTTLE more closely. SINUS SISTER puts away her gun.
Zincum Gluconicum is a form of zinc bound to a substance which makes for better absorption.
So it works?
Hang on. It recommends two sprays a day. That’s about 26 mg.
Studies have shown that zinc can reduce cold symptoms drastically…
…if you take it fast enough. Which I did. Two sprays last night.
Steady and holding, instead of full-on sick .
So, why are you asking me?
SINUS SISTER slides the PAPER BAG toward WALT. He tucks it into his coat.
Are you going to tell me what’s in there?
Stocking stuffers for the crew.
REVIEW: Seriously … I’m kidding
Book by Ellen DeGeneres
by Joanne Latimer on Tuesday, November 22, 2011 8:05am
Since her last book in 2003, much has happened to Ellen DeGeneres. She hosted the Oscars, married Portia de Rossi, started a record label, debuted on Broadway, became a talk-show host and a spokeswoman for Covergirl—a 50-year-old cover girl and an openly gay cover girl, at that. Most readers of her new book will be fans of the show, hoping for more of Ellen’s loopy charm.
As an extension of her talk-show personality, Seriously . . . I’m Kidding is a success. It has funny rants about meditating, gambling, Portia’s addiction to hand lotion, their pets and punctuality. As a book about the last eight years of DeGeneres’s life, it’s an artful dodge. She tries too hard to entertain readers, and forgoes thoughtful reflection. The substance of the book is supposed to be advice from DeGeneres about how to be happy. She throws out predictable chestnuts like enjoy every day, accept yourself, get a mammogram and colonoscopy and think positively. What are missing are personal stories. The result feels less intimate than an episode of her show. Some chapters are so empty generous readers will suspect they’re satirical—Ellen’s spoof on the genre of comedy autobiography.
Still, a few chapters nearly redeem the entire project. Her “Letter to Mall Security” is priceless, as is her riff on endorphins. She speaks honestly about the difficulty of hosting a daily talk show and being a gay role model. “[When I came out], there were extreme groups that didn’t think I was gay enough. There were other groups of people who thought I was too gay. It didn’t occur to me that when I announced I was gay I would have to clarify just how gay I was.” DeGeneres also speaks openly about her and Portia’s decision not to have children. These candid moments are too few. Ironically, Ellen could take a page from Portia’s book, The Unbearable Lightness, which is more accomplished, personal and entertaining.
Mila Kunis is the spoonful of sugar that makes her cold remedy go down. Only a ravishing starlet like Kunis could get anyone to try her health potion. She recently ladled it into ailing writer Michael Idov while he interviewed her for a GQ article.
“This will kill everything”, said Kunis, boiling up some water—the first step of her recipe:
Mila’s Germ-Killing Tonic:
To a saucepan of boiling water, add Cabernet, an avalanche of green-tea powder (“It’s vitamins!”), two gelcaps of fish oil (“What’s the difference? It’s all going to end up liquefied and syrupy”), apple-cider vinegar (“‘Cause that’s just always good for you”), and Ayurvedic chai. She finishes with a generous splash of vodka. Okay, two generous splashes. Hold your nose and drink.
REVIEW: by Joanne Latimer on Wednesday, October 5, 2011 4:15pm
The author of 21 other books, Roger Ebert has finally written a memoir about his personal life, touching only tangentially on his career as a Pulitzer Prize-winning film critic and TV personality. That’s risky business, since many readers will expect Hollywood anecdotes in a 415-page book written by someone who saw an early draft of Mean Streets, made movies with Russ Meyer, visited the set of Ingmar Bergman films, bought Quentin Tarantino a chicken sandwich at Cannes, drank with Robert Mitchum in Ireland and went on a pseudo date with Oprah. The memoir is a much more thoughtful reflection on Ebert’s trajectory from a sports reporter in Urbana, Ill., to the living rooms of America.
“I was born inside the movie of my life” is the opening line. Thankfully, he soon drops this conceit and tells an uncontrived tale about his family, his hard-living mentors and his alcoholism. He examines his uneasy relationship with his mother, Catholicism, his weight and his late co-host Gene Siskel. (They were strangers thrown together by a PBS producer. Originally, each thought the other was redundant.) When he does reminisce about showbiz, it’s to record his awe for freewheeling legends like Mitchum, Lee Marvin and John Wayne.
Ebert has had time to think about the Big Questions—God, death, love—while recovering from thyroid cancer treatments that left him unable to talk or eat. Bergman films and Cormac McCarthy’s book Suttreegave him cheer because he “had no use for happy characters. What did they know?” Without a hint of self-pity, Ebert describes what it’s like for an articulate man to have no voice, aside from a computer generated stand-in. What has been his saviour, aside from his selfless wife, Chaz? His blog, where he still follows his winning film-review formula: “Focus on what you saw and how it affected you. Don’t fake it.” Ebert took the same approach to writing this memoir, and the unflinching honesty sent this reader to the library for his other books.
Sinus Sister meets her Irish Idol
Sinus Sister is still giddy from meeting her idol, Irish writer Roddy Doyle!
Doyle entertained questions after reading from his new collection of short stories, Bullfighting. He took it remarkably well when a self-satisfied moron in the audience suggested his male protagonist lacked reflection. The nerve! She was dead wrong. The entire story is basically one father’s reflection on parenthood. Doyle took the high road, but I wanted to pelt her with dog biscuits—since the story, called Animals, is about pets.
Doyle proved he was a good sport, yet again, by letting me photograph him with our mascot. Thanks Roddy! And thanks for discouraging the questions about football. In all the excitement, I forgot to ask about your sinuses…
Revelation: he’s a big Arcade Fire fan
Another Revelation: despite runaway gentrification, Dublin still has a working class district.
Thing We Have in Common: his father was a printer in the Republic of Ireland; my grandfather was a printer in the North of Ireland.
Another Thing We Have in Common, aside from Arcade Fire: his mom won’t let him talk about something scandalous in their family history; neither will mine.
Why I Love Roddy Doyle: for creating the character Jimmy Rabbit Sr., who is an easy reference when friends ask what my late father was like.
Another Reason I Love Roddy Doyle: for showing us what masterful dialogue looks and sounds like.