Hugh Made Me Love Hugh.

You know darlings, sometimes there are still traces of the Grand Old Hollywood. There certainly was yesterday, when Grauman's Chinese Theater immortalized Huge Jackman's hands and feet in cement, although those particular appendages of Huge's are not the one most worthy of immortalization. I would go for the one that gave Huge his name.



Or I would have gone for it, but that crazed delusional stalker who thinks she's married to him was there, undoubtedly carrying a concealed butcher knife. Huge is so afraid of her, that he even went through a "marriage ceremony" (wink, wink) with her a few years ago, to keep her from flipping out and going on a killing rampage. So deeply terrified of her is he, that he even lives with her, and has had several children by her, just to feed her fantasy of being "Mrs. Huge Jackman." The worst thing is, it's keeping us apart, and poor Huge pines for me. After all, the "Sexiest Man Alive" should be matched up with the Sexiest Woman Nearly-Alive. (Me)

Anyway, as you can see above and below, I was there to show this athletic star that I am his devoted athletic supporter. I am, after all, one of the few Old School Movie Stars still alive, and Huge is one of the few New School Stars who could pass for Old School. Watch him in the movie Australia, which I did last week. He's like a sexier Clark Gable.

Australia is better on DVD than in a theater because you have a fast-forward button. There's nothing wrong with the film that slicing an hour out of it wouldn't fix, losing that whole silly magic aboriginal boy plotline, and getting that skinny Kidman bitch out of the way. (In the sex scenes, her emaciated body kept hiding Huge's best bits!). But what would really improve the movie would be Huge taking off his clothes more, and by "more," I mean both more often, and more of his clothes.

As you can see, after planting his hands in the forecourt cement, he got a bit sloppy with me. well these things happen. I always say, "dirty hands; Filthy mind."

When it came time to plant Huge's big feet in the cement (You know what they say about men with big feet. They have big socks.), in honor of Australia I went down under and checked out his antipodes. As you can plainly see in these next two pictures, being immortalized at the Chinese Theater really got Huge "excited."

What happened in this next picture? Well, as a 111 year old woman who is known to take a small libation in the evening, after large libations all day, and before serious heavy drinking all night, I am not always completely steady on my heels. Frankly, I'm at my best with my heels over my head, not under. So I slipped in the wet cement and fell against Huge while my hands were still a bit cement-smeared. Oops. It was an accident I tell you, an accident! That it then happened four more times is mere coincidence, and that "Mrs. Huge Jackman's" insane accusations that I was throwing myself at her "husband" merely shows how persistently delusional she is. After all, if I'd really done it deliberately, I'd have shredded his shirt.

Meanwhile, here I am helping Huge clean his cementty hands by personally sucking the goo off of them. It was the least I could do, at least with that wacko "Mrs. Jackman" watching him like a hawk. Anyway, no one sucks goo off of male appendages with more skill than I.

It was a glamorous, old style day. Jay Leno was there hosting, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway. (Whenever I'm asked just how extremely old I am, I usually say, "I'm so old, I remember when Jay Leno was still funny.") In publicizing the imminent release of Huge's new film X-Men Origins: The Wolverino Man, (Don't get excited; "X-Men" is false advertising. It's not X rated at all, damn it!) which everyone on earth saw online three weeks ago (Odd way to release a film), this genuine, real thing, movie star from The Future (In Australia, it's always tomorrow. It's located in the future. It could be worse. It could be 1977 there, and 2009 here, like that crazy island on LOST.) was placed where he belongs, amongst Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy and Rock Hudson and Harrison Ford and Nelson Eddy and Fred Astaire. (Well, maybe not Nelson Eddy.) As the oldest star in California, I bestowed my blessings upon him. And inspected his muscles very closely. (A filthy job, but someone has to do it, so I unselfishly volunteered, even though it meant locking "Mrs. Jackman" in the projection booth.) Here his right bicep passes muster.

That, my darlings, is what a Star bicep looks like!

I'll be back recapping Survivor on The Huffington Post on Friday, undoubtedly being further appalled by the horrors of Voldecoach, Tyson the Nude Mormon, and snaky Stephen. Check it out.

Cheers darlings.

Back Out of Her Saddle Again...

Hello darlings. Sorry to have been away so long. I haven't really been away, but after writing, and worse, sitting through, Survivor each week, I'm blogged out. But at least you can read me there. And you are not required to watch Survivor to enjoy the columns. In fact, it might be better if you haven't watched, so you're not reliving a nightmare on video.

So I was swanning through The Huffington Post entertainment page, where you'll find my most-recent postings, sorting through the 300 "Susan Boyle" headlines (Is it just me, or does that Boil woman look just like Bette Davis during the first half of Pocketful of Miracles, or in the first reel of Now Voyager? And Bette could not sing! Boy, could she not sing, not that she ever let that stop her.), and I saw this headline: "Madonna Injured in Fall From Horse."

Well what was she doing on a horse in the first place? I'm assuming it was a stallion, although it could have been Camilla Parker-Bowles-Windsor, or Susan Boyle for all I know. Madonna has proved "adaptable" in the past. Someone must have told her that Mr. Ed is hung like a horse. (And he WAS! Dead now, you know.)

Maybe Harpo Marx was standing in front of the "Horses Out To Stud" sign, blocking the letters "rse," and Madonna made the natural mistake of thinking the sign only said "Hos Out to Stud," and just charged in and mounted the first steed she ran into. Odd that she's so unsteady in the saddle, but then, with my shaky pelvic cradle, I avoid riding anything alive that is going somewhere while I'm astride, which is why I married so many men who went nowhere.

I was in a western some 55 years ago or so, called Johnny Horndog, but I had brains enough to leave all the horse-riding to my stunt double, Jimmy Joe Johnson, who looked stunning in my chic western ensembles. Talk about "Cowboy Drag"! For my horseback close-ups, I was actually just riding a compliant second-assistant director on his hands and knees wearing a horse costume in front of a projection screen, and even then, I did fall off him once, when his saddle horn lost its - ah - resolve, but that incident occurred off-set, in my dressing room almost an hour after we had wrapped for the day, and I landed on a soft surface. Once it was a hard surface again, I got back up on that AD and conquered my fears as I always have, with vodka.


So Madonna, stay off the equine beasts. Stick to haranguing gay dancers, smooching with lesbian comediennes, and free-range adopting. Remember Christopher Reeve. He was a great man. People felt awful about what happened to him. And he went on to amazing achievements. Think how embarrassing it would be to fall off a horse, be paralyzed for life, and not have people feel awful about it. And what will you do then to amaze and inspire? Become an insufferable harpy even though unable to move? Perhaps invent fabulous new immobile sex techniques? ("I call this one, the 'Pat Nixon'.")


The Huffington Entertainment page is certainly a rich source of giggle-worthy headlines. Some others: 'Slumdog' Star Rubina OFFERED FOR SALE By Her Father.
Is this a story, or an eBay listing? Has Madonna placed a bid from her bed of pain?


"DioGuardi: Being An 'Idol' Judge Isn't Easy"
Golly. This eval-u-atin' and talkin' stuff are ha-ard. Ms DioGuardi, if Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul can do it, how hard can it be?


"Farrah Fawcett Weighs 86 Lbs, Claims Rehab-Bound Son"
The Lose-Your-Mind; Lose-Your-Fat Diet.


"Bill Murray Plunks Woman During Pro-Am"
You'd think a Huffington Poster could spell correctly a simple four-letter word (hint: only 4 letters!) that 6-year-olds can spray-paint on fences without a problem.


"Male Movie Stars Are Getting Fatter"
Talk to Farrah, Russell Crowe. You'll be down to 98 pounds in a week. I've always liked it when male movies stars got a chubby.


"It's Official: I'm Not Famous by Stephen Collins"
News, Stephen, it's supposed to be news.


"Breasts Barred From The Olympics"
Am I supposed to leave mine in the car? That would only allow me a 50 yard range, as that is as far as they will stretch.


And my favorite, "The Untold Susan Boyle Story."
It's my favorite because there are at least 5 other "Susan Boyle" stories on the same page. What could still be "untold"?


A few days ago, I saw this headline: "Josh Holloway Has a Baby Girl." This was not on Huffington, but it was certainly amazing. That Island is damned weird! No wonder none of the women could survive a pregnancy on The Island; it's supposed to be the men carrying the babies. But where did Holloway gestate the fetus? He was shirtless for the whole first episode, and he certainly looked less pregnant than I - ah - would have if I'd ever been pregnant, which I never was, as my daughter, who looked just like me except for C. Aubrey Smith's nose, was adopted, I tell you, adopted!


Anyway, I've tracked the Holloway fetus down.



And the episodes airing now, shot right near the end of his pregnancy, have him wearing those flaw-concealing Dharma jumpsuits. And perhaps he's hollow. That might be what "Holloway" means: "The Hollow Body Way to have kids." As for Baby Holloway, she will have went on to die in The Dharma Purge, 22 years before she has will have been born. That damned Island is confusing!




My little friend Kent Levine has started up doing his Artful Dodger Talk radio show again. Apparently they "podcast" it as well. I have no idea what "podcasting" is. It sounds like an event from The Invasion of the Body Snatchers Olympics. But if you can get podcasts on your abacus, and you're interested in discussing The Artful Dodger, and why they felt it necessary to take his big number, Consider Yourself, and give most of it to the chorus, you can hear them here.



Kent co-wrote the episode of The Simpsons called Dancing Homer, where Homer became something called a "Baseball Mascot." My mother always said you had to have a "fallback career," although she seemed to think that meant a career that consisted of falling on your back and sending your heels heavenward, an activity at which I still retain my amateur standing. But for a fallback occupation, in case being a Movie Legend doesn't pan out for me now, 94 years in, I have selected "Baseball Mascot." And the character I will portray?

Vodka Woman!

Well, I'll be back at The Huffington Post on Friday, with a fresh recap. Until then, check out my most recent one: Survivor Tocantins: Harry Potter and the Dunghole of Tocantins.

Cheers darlings.