Stacy Keach, Jedi Master Chef

Stacy Keach, Jedi Master Chef

Yes, Stacy Keach is a man of many talents. You may be familiar with him as an actor; you may have heard of his charity work; you may know him from his colourful personal history, but are you aware that this veritable Renaissance Man is also a qualified Jedi Master Chef?

Indeed, in the crowded ranks of celebrity Jedi Chef wannabes, only a rare few make it through to the revered rank of Jedi Master Chef. The years of training, the discipline necessary to wield a lightsaber or boning knife equally with not only a straight face, but a threatening one, the dogged pursuit of the scoundrel known as “Santa Clause”, and the ability to instantly recall the correct method for preparing non-weepy custard, are accomplishments beyond the ability of all but a rare, ascetic few.

Undertaking the way of the Jedi Chef is the choice of those remarkable individuals whose paths wind through tangled underbrush, dark valleys, and science fiction conventions.

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fan dumb

Sorry, Tuffy; the name is just too good not to steal – uh, recycle.

This story is stolen from the book I’m reading now: Starstruck: When a Fan Gets Close to Fame by Michael Joseph Gross who was, and is, a fan himself, so he aught to know.

On April Fool’s Day, 1934, when Ray Bradbury was thirteen years old, his family packed up and left Waukeegan, Illinois, for Hollywood, where his parents would search for work, and he would spend his free time outside studio lots with the packs of fans who collected autographs from movie stars. Remembering those days, he told me, “Of all of the people who did that sort of thing, I was the only one who had a dream of the future. I had a purpose for what I was doing. I was standing outside the wall of Paramount Studios when I was thirteen years old and I had a dream that I would jump over the wall and land inside and write a picture.”

About twenty years later, that dream came true. Walking down the red carpet with John Huston at the premiere of Moby Dick, Ray Bradbury was shocked to see, standing on the pavement, some of the autograph collectors he had known as a teenager. He left John Huston’s side and approached them, hoping they would recognize him. “I said, ‘I was that crazy boy who used to stand with you in front of Paramount.’ They said, ‘Oh yes, what are you doing now?’ And I suddenly got very embarrassed and didn’t want to tell them. There was this chasm that opened up between us, between what we had done together, what they were doing now, and what I was doing now. And I said, ‘I worked on the screenplay.’ And they said, ‘Did you type it? Were you in the stenographer’s department?’ And I said finally, ‘No, I wrote the screenplay.” And a strange thing happened at that moment. Suddenly their hands shot out, and there were half a dozen autograph books in front of me, and somebody handing me a pen. I crossed the border. I was not collecting autographs now. I was giving my first ones. It made me cry. I had made it over the wall. But none of those other people had made it over the wall.”

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the consolations of a gossip blogger

We at the ol’ raincoaster blog are experiencing several layers of technical difficulty, some, but not all, relating to our roomie’s streaming video addiction. Tomorrow we shall pull plugs or go out and deal with the public (gasp!) until this thing works better. In the meantime, here’s something I found while doing my “soul-killing” day job as a gossip blog link wrangler. If there’s a beefcake shot you’d prefer to see (Shia Leboef, Colin Farrell, whoever) drop your requests in the comments. I’ll do my best, although I draw the line at Federline. I’m so, so tired of him making sock puppet comments.

Welcome back, my Butterscotch Stallion.

Owen Wilson

Celebrity Gossip: the roundup!

Garbo

Because I have so many blogs, and because I am yea, very easily confused, forsooth, I wrote a post for Ayyyy.com which place does, in fact and in actuality, pay me to read gossip blogs (NOT kidding. Life is a cabaret, old chum) and say “go look at that…now go look at this…now look at that” etc.

Yes, I am getting paid to read gossip blogs.

My sister is going to eat her lips when she reads that.

In any case, here’s the post that was going to put food on my table this month, until I remembered that I’m only supposed to do this during the week. And it’s the weekend. And I thought, bugger it, I can at least feed the ol’ raincoaster blog with it.

Mindy McCready behind bars, not under them this time (PerezHilton)

Viggo Mortensen‘s computer-enhanced nude scene (Agent Bedhead)

Alyssa Milano: Who’s the Sportsblogger? (Daily Stab)

The Celebrity Cover Corral (Celebrity Smack)

Katie Holmes is no Richard Avedon (I’m Not Obsessed)

OJ Simpson is looking for the real burglars (Holy Candy)

Christina Aguilera visited by the Titty Fairy (Wizbang Pop)

Carmen Electra bringing the respectable back? (Hollywood Tuna)

Angelina Jolie rocks the Mother of the Bride look (Just Jared)

Lindsay Lohan is delusional (and easy) (A Socialite’s Life)

Colin Farrell‘s homeless shopping spree (Defamer)

Ryan Gosling loves his costar (Jezebel)

Larry Birkhead‘s graveside photo-op (Mollygood)

Amy Winehouse before the wine (Dlisted)

Paula Abdul has something you don’t…besides memories of sex with Emilio Estevez (Evil Beet)

Prince is suing…YOU! (CeleBitchy)

Well, this should be good for hits.

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Let’s all hate Toronto! Wait…WHERE?

Why, you ask…to which I reply, ever been there? Here’s the must-see movie of the year, coming soon to a theatre anywhere but Toronto.

 

From the movie’s site:

If there’s one thing that truly unites Canadians it’s our national pastime of bashing Toronto. The first film on the subject, Let’s All Hate Toronto is a hilarious tongue-in-cheek road doc. The film follows “Mister Toronto” as he embarks on a coast-to-coats Toronto Appreciation tour, encountering “recovering Torontonians” and those who would be quite happy never to step foot in TO.

Is Toronto really Torauma, Onterrible? Yes, according to a “professional Toronto hater.” And in Calgary they finally discover the answer to a question that has boggled them for ages: why do all the trees point west? (“Because Toronto sucks that much.”)

Now, this all sounds fairly straightforward, and I, of all people, am not one to dismiss something that unites all of our great, yet divided, nation (really, only laughing at Conrad Black comes anywhere near close) but there is one little problem, one teensy thing preventing me from joining in the risibling and the ridiculizing.

What is this “Toronto” of which they speak?

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