Celebrity Fantasy: Special Panel Edition

My latest fantasy is the only one I have that takes place in my actual house, and it's a three-way.  You see, ever since Ian bought me a full-sized, fully functional replica of Tom Servo, I've been watching a TON of Mystery Science Theater 3000.  And this, along with my rantings about the sorry state of cinema, lead me back to Kevin Murphy's brilliant A Year at the Movies.  Because Jay Sherman is fictional, that leaves Kevin Murphy to be my favorite film critic.  Not only is he a genius, but he is also hysterical and has a strong midwestern common sense, which I can respect, probably because it's a foreign concept to me.  I believe that most movie critics are wimps paid off by the movie studios (how else can you explain Roger Ebert giving Daredevil "two thumbs up!") but Kevin Murphy is no one's man.  He also hated Rocky Horror Picture Show, which almost makes me want to marry him. 

The other participant in this little exercise is Geena Davis . . .  and they both come over to my house and I invite them in to sit on the couch, and because this is a fantasy, the arms aren't all clawed up from Bosco's constant climbing.  I offer them a drink and some spinach triangles and we get down the business of discussing film.  I want to hear Geena Davis speak on women in the media.  I want to hear some of Kevin's own rantings.  I want to add in my thesis and hear them both tell me how smart and perceptive I am for a 28 year old, the exact target audience for drivel like Scott Pilgrim vs. The World and yet, how wisely I eschew the pop culture idiocy of my peers. 

We drink some coffee and take some pot-shots at Nathan Rabin.  Kevin gives me a high-five.  Geena Davis tells me I'm the smartest girl she's ever met and offers me a job at the Institute.  Because I want to feel smart.  I want to feel well-versed and intellectual and like someone cares about what I have to say . . . I guess that's the fantasy of every blogger.

Celebrity Fantasies Special Birthday Edition: Ewan McGregor

In honor of Ewan's birthday, I dedicate this post to him.

. . .  so I have this fantasy that Ewan McGregor and his beautiful wife and his perfect children ask Ian and I out to dinner, and we go to this really nice place for sushi.  And we're all laughing, and his kids are perfectly behaved, and his accent is adorable and for once someone's wife doesn't think I'm totally after her husband (I get that a lot).  And when dinner is finished, he picks up the check.

He drops his wife and kids back at the hotel and Ian back at our hotel, and we get his motorcycle and he even got me a helmet with a bunch of cool voodoo/rockabilly designs on it.  He and I are going to see The Police play at Madison Square Garden, and we have front row seats, and Ewan is wearing a really awesome striped sweater that he has to keep rolling the sleeves up off his hands.  Oh, and he's wearing skinny jeans, not like emo skinny jeans, just a nice, slim, well-fitting pair.  And the Police are playing all my favorite songs, and it turns out that Sting and Ewan are pals so he gets to go up on stage and sing "Can't Stand Losing You" and "Walking on the Moon," the latter which he dedicates to me.  And afterwards I get to meet Sting and Stewart Copland, and that's cool, and then Ewan and I go to the Sunflower diner and drink coffee and laugh until, like, 2 in the morning, and then we get back on his motorcycle and he drops me off at my hotel and gives me a kiss on the cheek.  "We should do this again sometime," he says, in that awesome accent.  

Celebrity Fantasies: David Arquette

I have this fantasy that I’m walking down St. Mark’s place towards Jas Mart to buy some of those little pink rice flour cakes that taste like clouds and I see David Arquette (pictured, left) walking on the opposite side, heading towards the Astor Place subway station. He’s got a large bag from Trash and Vaudville and I can only assume it’s filled with striped pants. I have a large, mostly-full Orange Julius, which I heft it at him.

I also, apparently, am a professional shot-putter because it hits him square between the shoulder blades, splattering all over his blue orange Hawaiian shirt and dripping down his green checkered pants. He turns to see who threw an Orange Julius at him. I wait until he spots me to yell, “You suck, David Arquette!” He starts to cry, drops his bag and runs away. Turns out the bag is just filled with some empty Keystone Light cans that he was probably returning for the deposit.

The next day his picture is on Perez Hilton with big white teardrops drawn on his cheek and a dong sketched in his mouth. I imagine it’s the most fame David Arquette will ever know.