Beautiful Ivanka, before her wedding day

Cheers to Ivanka Trump.  She didn’t look like Grace Kelly — as some insisted — in her fabulous Vera Wang wedding gown, but she looked good enough. She is lovely, for sure, and would have a terrific figure even without the implants.

Good luck to Ivanka’s groom Jared Kushner. He has The Donald to contend with as a father-in-law. Go with God, Jared.

Miss Trump — I doubt she’ll opt for Mrs. Kushner — is an interesting young woman. She turned out considerably more assured, savvy and work-oriented than might have been expected, as the daughter of a self-obsessed gazillionaire. She is no spoilt child of privilege. Well, she is, but she’s no Paris Hilton, let’s put it that way. (Her many titles are associated with her dad’s business, but from all accounts, she doesn’t coast.)

I like her a lot, from what I’ve seen. But marriage is going to be a hell of a journey, for her and Mr. Kushner. Did I mention her father?

One tip. Stop Tweeting, honey. You are too smart for such foolishness. Please, I don’t need to know what you two had for breakfast the morning after.

I saw the story in USA Today on cemeteries dying out. There’s just no room on any lawn anymore. And it’s so pricey. Mr. wOw, who hates a confined space, has never quite understood the appeal of burial, if appeal is the proper word, and I know it’s not. Burials date back to the Paleolithic era, so yes, we’re used to it. Still, why take up space on this crowded planet — didn’t you get in the way enough when you were alive? And why the headstone? Unless you are Elvis or Marilyn or Michael Jackson, nobody’s gonna care if you were ever here or not. (Or an Egyptian. I have to say, the pyramids are a great way to go.)

Live on in the hearts and minds of your loved ones. Keep the ashes if you must, but cremation really is the best way, especially in these environmentally challenged times. And it is cheaper. Don’t tell me that doesn’t matter.

Oh, and what you’re thinking right now is correct. Mr. wOw, that selfish, heartless beast, has no family to consider, so of course he’s all for a bonfire and a future as fertilizer.

© Fox Searchlight/Darren Michaels

Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut: the teen-angst, mom vs. daughter, roller-derby film, “Whip It.”

Mr. wOw has to state upfront he has a weakness for most things Drew. Years ago he interviewed the actress. We were seated in a dark corner of a dark hotel bar. At some point, the interview — for whatever she was doing at that time — was over, and we began to talk about childhoods and loss and life: that crappy/wonderful thing called Life. I cried. She cried. It was lovely. She is genuine and beyond mere movie-star charm. Drew is a real person who has suffered stardom and crazy parents and has come out the other side OK. (If only somebody could deliver Lindsay Lohan into Drew’s hands!)

But beside my sentimental memory, “Whip It” is very fine. The star, Ellen Page of “Juno” fame, is superb. And I have long adored Marcia Gay Harden, who plays Ellen’s beauty-pageant-winning mother, who (natch) assumes her daughter will want to continue the superficial thread of what it means to be significant as a woman. Or at least not get into a business where being beat up by other gals is just a day at the office! 

“Whip It” also brings Juliette Lewis back to the screen, as a character named Iron Maven. I love Juliette, who patented the psycho/killer-nymphet. Mr. wOw caught Juliette on Chelsea Handler’s show recently. Miss Lewis wore red gloves and silly shoes. She was promoting her music, in which she is quite invested, even if the rest of us want her to get back to making movies full-time. She still looks like a psycho/killer-nymphet, so there’s hope for film fans.

By the way, check out Chelsea Handler’s “Chelsea Lately” show. Handler is the utterly profane take-no-prisoners/screw-the-Hollywood-establishment comic that Kathy Griffin once was, briefly. (And never will be again.)

Back to “Whip It.” It’s great, it’s empowering, and it’s the only female roller-derby film I’ve enjoyed, other than Raquel Welch’s “Kansas City Bomber.”

Keith Olbermann, MSNBC’s chief ranter, and Michael Musto, the oft-witty author and Village Voice columnist, had a fine time the other night, skewering Carrie Prejean, the controversial ex-Miss California.

Prejean is suing Miss USA pageant officials for “religious discrimination.” In her suit, she mentions, among other things, being held up to ridicule by Musto and Olbermann in the wake of “The Perez Hilton Incident.” You know: Hilton was a pageant judge (I’ll still never understand that!) and he asked Prejean what she thought of gay marriage. She said, politely, she didn’t believe in it. Perez then posted savagely on his website, calling her a bitch and a “dumb c***.”

After that, relations began to crumble between Prejean and pageant insiders, none of whom were happy with the ugly publicity. And, perhaps, they were unhappy with Miss Prejean’s answer. They said she was a diva, not living up to her commitment to be blonde and vapid and available. She said she was being persecuted for her beliefs. In the end, despite the initial support of Donald Trump, who owns the Miss USA pageant, Carrie was canned. She feels she was just too Christian for her own good. (Unlike Laura Ingraham, Carrie doesn’t feel the need to weld a crucifix to her chest to persuade us of her faith; she lets the light shine through her Maybelline.)

Olbermann and Musto, now named in a lawsuit, went to town on Prejean again – lots of childish schoolyard talk about her implants. Both avoided the fact that it was Perez Hilton – not Prejean – who turned her answer into an incident, and that she had never mentioned gay marriage, pro or con, prior to that fateful query. Do these guys really think it is OK, funny or correct to call a woman what Perez called Prejean just because she has a different opinion?

Of course, as soon as Perez attacked, Carrie was picked up as a martyr by the right wing, and she took to that role enthusiastically. (Hilton gave her a lemon and she turned it into an enormous vat full of intolerant conservative lemonade.)

If everybody had just let Carrie’s opinion, which she is entitled to have, cling to the vine and die, we wouldn’t still be talking about her. She wouldn’t be suing, she wouldn’t be writing a book, she wouldn’t be campaigning for Sarah Palin in 2012. And Mr. Olbermann and Mr. Musto wouldn’t have felt compelled to spend valuable air time “defending” themselves from an ex-beauty queen. It was very nasty viewing, this segment of “Countdown.”

Mr. wOw used to think Mr. Olbermann was the Bill O’Reilly of the left. But no more. In terms of ridiculous, over-dramatic presentation, Keith is vying to compete with that sobbing, paranoid Glenn Beck. It hardly matters that Mr. wOw is ideologically in step with Mr. Olbermann. His performances are increasingly unpalatable. Who cares if Keith is (mostly) correct when one cannot bear listening? Combined with the sputtering whoops, interruptions and high-decibel meanderings of Chris Matthews, MSNBC is down to Rachel Maddow for any watchable liberal discourse. When she’s not trying to be too, too cute, that is.

There is nothing even remotely funny in the Professor Gates, Policeman Crowley, President Obama drama that has played out over the past two weeks.

This incident and the rise-again of the infamous “birther” conspiracy aficionados – cluelessly helped along by the likes of Chris Matthews and Rachel Maddow, who are supposed to be on Obama’s side! – are deeply depressing. Fear mongering and racist sentiments against Obama have been prevalent for two years, but since he had the audacity to be elected president of these United States, the hate and outrage have been seething, and looking for any good excuse to explode. Unfortunately, Obama gave his enemies the opening by weighing in on Gates/Crowley. It’s too late now, and beer won’t cauterize this ugly, festering sore. (Nor will Gates’s daughter, the haughty Elizabeth, whose blogs don’t do anybody any favors.)

But Mr. wOw has been reminded of something amusing and instructive on the subject of race, a lighter thought in a terrible time.

Years ago, Mr. wOw had the opportunity to interview Miss Dionne Warwick. Having always been a fan, we were excited. That enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by everybody I spoke to. “She’s a bitch!” “She’s a diva!” “You won’t get a thing out of her!” “Don’t do it, she’s such a bad interview!” Still, we’d heard that before about any number of entertainers, and things turned out just fine. Mr. W. was also warned against mentioning Dionne’s stint as huckster for The Psychic Network. As we’d always looked askance at that bit of business, there was no interest in reminding the star of something she probably did for money. (Funny thing is, I don’t remember exactly what Dionne was pushing at the time.)

The day arrived and we were met in the lobby of a midtown NYC hotel by Miss Warwick’s PR person of the moment. He warned me again about the Psychic Network and kept looking at me mournfully, as if I was in the tumbrel, heading for the guillotine.

Up to her suite, and nervous for sure. This was a big mistake we were now certain. Knock, knock and enter. There is Dionne, seated in the middle of the room. She is … lovely, welcoming, intelligent. She did not breathe fire. Great bone structure. I wish I could recall exactly what it was we talked about, but she was open to all my questions, did not evade, was not difficult. But what I do remember is that Dionne had a considerable entourage and perhaps some family with her. While nobody “sat in” on the interview, people came and went, paused nearby as she spoke, took calls, etc. And as the hour or so passed, I suddenly realized that I was the only white person there. And really white – naturally pale and recently bleached blonde. I felt … odd, alone, uncomfortable. Nobody made me feel this way – certainly not Miss Warwick. But the sense of edgy singularity, of being a stranger in a strange land was oppressive, and perhaps even – absurdly considering the benign circumstances – threatening.

As I rose to leave, and took an affectionate good-bye from Miss Warwick, I thought, “Wow, this is what it’s like to be separate, not among your own, adrift culturally, and wary.”

I felt instantly and do today that this was one of the major moments in my life. This totally innocuous meeting, safe in every way, challenged all I’d thought I was as a person. (So liberal, so relaxed!) If I could feel this way as a white person interviewing a black celebrity in a luxurious hotel suite – with drinks and a snack – what did the average black person feel when confronted by an all-white, un-glamorous “real life” situation? Every white person should have what I now refer to as “The Dionne Warwick Moment.”

Believe me, you’d understand just a little bit more.

Elvis Presley was an irresponsible drug addict. Marilyn Monroe was an irresponsible drug addict. Judy Garland … Billie Holiday … Janis Joplin … Jimi Hendrix … Jim Morrison … John Belushi. All died of their excesses and their excesses are always cited within the first paragraph of any article written about these brilliant train wrecks.

Mr. wOw mentions this because I see our favorite rabble rousers – the “Rev.” Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson – are gearing up to condemn all mentions of Michael Jackson’s fabled bad habits as somehow being criticism exclusive only to Michael. Perhaps even racist in nature. Bull crap.

Jackson was a great big talent and a great big substance abuser and general all-around nutcase. Just like Elvis, Judy, Marilyn, etc.

Jackson’s genius and accomplishments will be remembered forever; and that genius will take precedence over anything else – just as his famous compatriots in unnecessary early death are remembered: talent first, foibles next.

But so too will live those pedophilia charges, his drug-taking, his surgeries, his deliberately bizarre antics. Not to mention Michael’s laughably giant ego (ineptly cloaked by phony humility) and his whispery poor pitiful-me pose. Mr. wOw always had just three words for Michael Jackson: Get. Over. It. Oh, and two more: Get. Therapy. I wonder if his “dear friend” Elizabeth Taylor ever suggested that.

This unique American tragedy made his own extravagant prison and wallowed in infantile excuses. He had absolutely no common sense. None. Michael deserves every single tribute paid to him as an artist. And deserves every slam as an artist who destroyed himself because he “wanted the childhood he never had.” Who the hell has the childhood they “want”? Mr. wOw sure didn’t. Did you?

(How about a bit of sympathy for the boys in those child molestation cases?! Oh, they got money for their trauma? Michael was similarly compensated for his unhappy childhood, and you see what money did for him.)

As for Michael’s “shocked, shocked” family – every one of whom became rich and/or famous off his back – whenever one of them speaks, I want to roll my eyes. His father, Joe Jackson … I guess I’ll bow to some sensitivity and not attack a grieving father. Though I sure want to put quotes around grieving. As for the kids, I think they’d be best off with Janet, though I don’t figure her as a perfect model of stability, but likely the best of them.

I know this is very harsh – but don’t let Mr. wOw’s cynicism stop you. Go ahead and weep over Michael. So few did while he lived.

Now … can the front pages get back to health care, North Korea, Iraq and Iran?

Woody Allen’s cinematic return to his stomping grounds? Well, the after party was good, anyway …  Continue reading “Mr. wOw: Less Than Wowed by ‘Whatever Works’” »