Marlon Brando: The Man Had Talent.. And an Epic Ass.

While searching the 'net for photos of Mr. Brando, I stumbled upon one of him that was unlike any other. It showed a side view of what appears to be Marlon's very recognizable face.... with a giant dick in his mouth. Apparently, this picture has been making the rounds for years and somehow traces back to one of his ex -wives. The man whose tool Marlon is servicing allegedly belongs to none other than 1950's television comic, Wally Cox. (Insert your own naaaasty joke here, cuz I ain't gonna' do it!)

Upon watching "A Streetcar Named Desire" for the very first time, I was actually surprised to see that he was remakably handsome. Prior to viewing the classic film, my only exposure to Mr. Brando had been from tabloids or negative news stories about him being 800 pounds or for breaking a bar stool in a soda shop because homeboy's ass was just too big. Sadly, this is what most people think of when I mention Brando--that, or his legal woes later in life due to the antics of his miscreant children.

A few weeks ago, I re-watched "Streetcar" and spent most of the film pausing frames of the man and exclaiming "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu..ck", "Christ, what an ASS" or "Why wasn't I alive in 1949? Oh, to have been Rita Moreno!" He was that beautiful. His portrayal of the hateful Stanley Kowalski is so riveting that the viewer becomes completely lost in his performance. One can see why Stella keeps coming back down those stairs when we glimpse Marlon, soaking wet and in a ripped, tight tee-shirt. There, but for the grace of God go I.

You gotta' look fast, though, because in the blink of an eye, Marlon went from Red -Hot Ranger to Sir ChunkStyle. One can start to see that he is sportin' a bigger pants size while watching "The Wild One." This is not a problem for all of those chubby chasers out there (you know who you are!) and admittedly, the man is still sizzlin' -weenie hot. However, there is no comparison to the younger Brando who was painfully handsome in "Streetcar", what with those muscles and beautiful ass....Suddenly, I had this craving for a big plate of sausage and peppers!

Svelte or saggy, Marlon was a wonderful actor. Plus, I really dig eccentric men with odd voices (thus, my Crispin Glover obsession.) As a thespian, Brando paved the way for the many brilliant, method actors who were a generation away, including lumiaries such as Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro and so on.

Of course, the man was a stallion in his day. He sired eleven children and had three wives and also managed to romance the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant, Vivien Leigh, Rita Moreno, Ursula Andress and so on. His sexual prowess is legendary, although one ex- lover claimed that he not well endowed. Perhaps that was God's way of balancing things out and preventing sheer pefection? At any rate, the man was goddamned gorgeous.

I suggest that you add "On the Waterfront", "Last Tango in Paris" and "The Fugitive Kind" to your Netflix cue. Make it a triple feature. The amount of pleasure you will derive from his amazing talent and beauty is well worth the viewing.

Dive into the creamy nougat and enjoy the photos of Marlon Brando.

(this post is dedicated to my dearest Ivey Divey)

Adam Yauch: "He's Crafty... And He's Just My Type!

Nine years ago, I lived and worked in a tiny Northern California town called Chico. Eleven hours driving time from Los Angeles and two and a half hours north of San Francisco, this charming little province was populated mostly by students of the University, hippie doctors and lawyers, artists and the elderly.  Work was scarce, but I managed to land a job with a giant healthcare corporation out in the middle of fucking nowhere. 

Surrounded by rice fields and almond orchards, one felt a real sense of isolation--(and relief, having defected from Los Angeles and all of it's hustle and bustle.)  I worked first as a receptionist and then was promoted to the claims department as a customer service specialist. Everyone on the team was as clueless about their job descriptions as I, and we spent most of the day sorting paperwork into random piles, answering calls from angry retirees who had been overcharged for doctor's visits and then transferring said retirees to another department, whose function was never fully explained. 

There was a lot of downtime, so our team would spend the idle hours by sticking notes on one another's backs ("I love mullets!) or pouring salt into each other's coffee.  In this department, I sat behind a young man who was tall and lean with high cheekbones, large, dark eyes and a broody demeanor.  Of course I fell madly in love with him when he started making tapes for me and drawing me pictures.  Homeboy had talent.  The sketches he made for me were usually caricatures of our lame management team whose sole purpose seemed to be sleeping with attractive, young employees.  

Unfortunately, this young man also happened to be Christian.  No, I'm not talking Catholic or Unitarian, but the Pentecostal type that speaks in tongues, prays with their hands in the air and "rocks out" to modern Christian music.  Hymns and masses in Latin, I can handle.  Baptist choirs? I'm all over  it.  Witnessing to non-believers and totally eschewing science and evolution?  Uh, no thanks.  

Soon, we began debating the Bible and organized religion.  All of my attempts to lure him over to the dark and Agnostic place proved impossible, so I did what I thought I had to do to win him over and played the spiritually thirsty student, who was oh-so curious as to the ways of his church. 

That's the crazy thing about love-- one minute you're sticking to your core beliefs and the next you end up singing religious Christmas songs with an overzealous church group to Alzheimer's patients.  It didn't help matters much that before I met up with my fellow carolers, I had taken several bong hits while lying on the back seat of my car.  This undoubtedly caused me to forget the words to "Silent Night, " giggle throughout "The Little Drummer Boy," and repeatedly demand to sing "fun  songs" like Rudolph or Frosty.

Of course, nothing ever came of my love for this young man.  He was firm and confident in his beliefs and I quickly burned out on the prayer meetings where strangers would place their hands on me and scream out to God to save my soul.  Alas, he found himself a young, blond, virginal, Christian gal and the last I heard, they were engaged.  Looking back, I wondered why on earth I had such an attraction to this man.  Surely, I enjoyed his wit, talent and intelligence, but there was an odd familiarity to his looks that I just could not place.

Finally, I figured it out... He resembled, to a "T", Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys.  Adam was always my favorite- the tall, serious, hot guy with the deepest voice out of the trio.  Adam Yauch has been fueling my fantasies since I discovered the Beastie Boys' "Check Your Head" when I was 21 years old.  I listened to that CD obsessively, along with their previous record "Paul's Boutique." I waited outside of Tower Records, in the fucking rain, for the Beastie Boys next CD, ""Ill Communication."  It was not nearly as good as "Check Your Head," but it did continue to offer some fabulous instrumental numbers that showcased the B-Boys' growing talent as musicians.

Adam Yauch was raised Jewish, but is now a practicing Buddhist who raises both cash and consciousness for Tibetan causes.   I find this infinitely more attractive than Born Again Christianity, and I soon realized that the young man whom I adored was no more than a poor man's B-Boy fantasy and not a good match for me.  It was a sad moment of realization, much like watching Star Wars years later and discovering that the special effects were at best, cheesy. The mirage ended, but it's still nice to know that Mr. Yauch is out there, doing his thang and aging quite handsomely.

Pass the mic and check out the pics of handsome MCA.

Hot Messes: A Compendium of Poorly Dressed Celebrities

Paulina Porizkova...Is that you?  Really?!  Jesus, I cannot believe it.  That color... it makes me think of orange sherbet floating in a punch bowl at some church basement function.  Wow, that's a whole lotta' tangerine for one outfit.  God damn it!  It's floor length and bell-sleeved and pretty high up on the neckline, as well. So what accessories does one wear with this fuckery?  Why, bright orange beads, of course! And a gold bag!  I gotta' look away, I'm feeling really ringy right now....And nauseated.

Ma-fucking-donna.  I  know, you're like, Ms. Trendsetter, or at least, you used to be. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fantastic that you are 50 years old and still have a thriving career and all that, but quite honestly, you look like the Great God Pan in this outfit. All you need is a goddamned flute.

Poor, poor crazy-eyes Ryder.  It looks like she bought this dress for an event and then had a Liza Minelli-esque breakdown and took the scissors to it.  Somewheres between a few cocktails and a handful o' goofballs, she must have regretted slashing the dress and decided to perform some makeshift repairs by applying black felt with hot glue to patch up the holes. She appears to be thinking: "Just smile and smile and smile nonstop and no one will notice the dress!"

Leighton Meester dons the "pick me up and ring me, I'm a bell!" ensemble that is sweeping young H-Wood these days.  Oh, and it's still all about the leggings. Still! Apparently, it's now okay to wear them in the bright and swirling colors that one would see on an acid trip in Morocco.  In ten years, she is going to burn every photo she can find of her wearing this outfit and will cry real tears when it's used over and over again as a "Classic Fashion Don't!"

Pete Townsend: Wind it up. Smash it up. Tear it up. Jump around. Do whatever the F*CK you want, Pete!

Pete Townsend is one of those rare and exquisite types of men who can don super-TIGHT, white trousers and jumpsuits and pull it off well. VERY well.   Townsend, who was voted "50th Greatest Guitarist of all Time" by Rolling Stone Magazine, was also the primary songwriter and co-lead singer for the Who.  His energetic, "wind it up" style of guitar playing added a dollop of sexiness to his performances and set him apart from other guitarists of 1960's Britain.

Watching footage of Pete playing live at Woodstock or the Stones' Rock and Roll Circus is quite an electrifying experience.  He is tall and very lean with a generous mop of curly-esque hair, giant blue eyes and a smile that could instantly melt a bag o' frozen burritos.  He sings very well and plays the death out of the guitar that is most likely going to be smashed to bits or shoved into an amplifier before the night is through.  

Just watch him!  He jumps up very high--- first to the left, (massive guitar riff while in midair) now, to the right (another riff) and then he is spread eagle, high over the stage, jumping into an impressive split while (you guessed it) delivering yet another perfect riff.  

Let me also mention his nose.  Dear God, he has the nose-to-end-all-noses.  Check out the photo that showcases his impressive profile and you'll see what I mean.  I'd like to kiss his nose, send his nose roses, sculpt his nose out of clay, write a dissertation about his nose and on and on. 

And if you don't get why his profile is so attractive, then you must be one of those annoying Roger Daltry fans.  Daltry is fine, I guess, if you're into that whole "wooly-headed caveman who likes to wear lots of fringe" look.  Personally, I love Pete Townsend and Keith Moon the best, as they were the most talented and outrageous members of the band.  And John Entwistle?  Well, God rest his soul.  He was neither here nor there for me.

Today, Pete donates both his time and money to various causes, such as children's charities, Amnesty International and drug rehabilitation facilities and it's nice to know that there is a good man behind that impressive nose.

Feel good and check out the attached pics of sweet Pete T.

The Worst, Part Two: (Very) Guilty, Shameful Pleasures.

John Mayer- "He's the douchiest!!"

Dear John Mayer:

Oh, John Mayer.  You're so handsome and talented and I have tried, tried, TRIED to like you as a person, I really have.  You make it so hard for me to do so, what with all of this "circuit dating" bullshit you have going on.  Okay, I understand, you're a young and stappy lad and there's the whole "Naked Ape" theory that basically says you are conditioned to go after the fittest of the females, but bitch, why do you have to Twitter about it?!  

Seriously.  Okay, we know, you dumped Jessica Simpson and not the other way around and you want the world to know that.  O-kaaay.  Pretty douchey, John.  But that's not even the tip of the iceberg-- not only did you let everyone know that you dumped her, but you then proceeded to tell us all how she is still in love with you and you aren't with her and to leave you alone and blah de blah blah.

Fast-forward to Jennifer Aniston.  You did the same fucking thing to her, dude.  Why are you Twittering about it AGAIN?  I think you actually enjoy squiring these recently-dumped or desperate women around H-Wood because it gives you a whole lotta' press coverage and another opportunity to show the public what a stud bull you are.  Personally, I don't see why these women don't just have an affair with you and then leave after a few days or so, refreshed from a tropical vacation, a couple of free meals and plenty of PDA and just chalk it up to a one-time experience, or twice if you're extra lonely. 

You would be infinitely more attractive if you stopped trying to whore yourself out to the media and focused more on trying to write a decent song.  You're an incredible guitarist, I admit, but your songs really suck.  I am very, very sorry to be so bold, Mr. Mayer, but I really had to get that one off of my chest. 

I bet if you spent as much time trying to further your career and less time chasin' the muff around, people would start taking you more seriously as a performer.  And for God's sake, get rid of your fucking Twitter account. Really, boys who kiss and tell are not popular with any kind of decent woman.  That cock of the walk attitude gets old real fast with women over the age of 23.

Well, thank you for reading this letter, Mr. Mayer, as I am sure that you are quite busy breaking up with and getting back together again with Jen Aniston.  I hope you decide to take my advice and that in the future, you write something really meaningful and lovely.  If you want to come over to my house, I can play some music for you that you might like.  And then maybe you'd, well, you know, develop a singing voice that isn't so fucking breathy and a little bit more masculine? 

And hey, don't be bummed out about the constructive criticism.  You've got a lot going for you, really.  You're pretty goddamned good lookin' and I am liking the muscles and even the slightly lame tattoos.  A few good squat thrusts and you'll be looking at having a finer ass, too.

Ciao!

Missy D.

PS-Send me some photos of you in the shower or something if you have the time.  Maybe Jennifer Aniston could take them?  Lemme' know.