Thursday, August 27, 2009

"Anyone Had Any Dirty Phone Calls Lately?"

Apparently that's what a lascivious John Gielgud would be asking you if he were still alive. But he's dead as dead can be, so I'll ask instead: Anyone had any dirty phone calls lately? I haven't. A few days ago I picked up on the third or fourth ring and was greeted by heavy breathing that was ultimately revealed as the work of my grandfather, who sucks in air like Darth Vader over the phone (when he isn't coughing and loudly repeating everything he is told to my poor disinterested grandmother). Was I disappointed? Perhaps, but only a little. You never know what obscene phone calls tomorrow might bring, and I'm always hoping for something that mirrors the famous "212 Fuck You" exchange from Serial Mom.

Anyway, writer Michael Thornton wants everyone to know that Gielgud was a dirty birdy (TM Misery) who liked younger men, didn't practice monogamy (is that like practicing the clarinet -- the longer you do it, the better you get?), and (presumably) whacked it to pictures of a nude Iggy Pop. And then told Judi Dench about it. Or something. I lost interest a few paragraphs in and moseyed over to to check out the draw for the U.S. Open; Roger and Rafa are on opposite sides, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of them doesn't make it to the final. Hopefully Nadal's knees will hold up, as I like what he'll be wearing this year and would rather see it than the bland ensembles most of his competitors sport...

(Yes, my thought process is a bit muddled today, but I swear it isn't my fault.)

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