Thaaaat's gonna leave a neck cramp

I've always been in favor of the Pam Grier-ified black afro. There's something very sexual, very primal about it; whenever I see a beautiful woman who's chosen to rock this 'do, even if she's casual as can be in a Summer maxi and wafer-thin flats or a straight-legged pair of jeans and a transition tee, I can't help but take a second look - gawk, really - and imagine what a confident little always-on-top hellcat she must be with the lights off.

Or, with the lights on.

But somewhere during my 42 minute flight between Traverse City and the Motor City last night, my love affair with the afro-puff took a sharp turn for the worse.

I didn't make a peep when I realized the massive orb I'd seen in the terminal atop a cute young thing's head was to flank me on the left and invade my personal space to the point where I had to arch my neck 70 degrees due right from taxi to takeoff to touchdown to avoid the nuisance of a constant cheek tickle.

I didn't exhibit a whit of impatience as I was forced to fold myself completely in half - nose-to-knees - to enjoy without hair-in-mouth incident the freshly-picked raspberries, Fig Newmans and Diet Vernor's 20 oz I'd packed myself for dinner.

But finally, finally I broke down and raised a minor protest when the young lady and her six-inch-radius hair-helmet settled into a position that got in the way of my being able to keep close watch on seat 2B in the First Class cabin.

Of course, I didn't come right out and say, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm really impressed with celebrities, even F-list ones like that guy up there - the portly one with the mussed red ponytail and the orange Crocs - and I really need an unobstructed view of the back of his head for the duration of this flight, so could you do whatever it is you need to do to tuck your hair in a bit?"

No, instead I decided to simply push her head-to-toe bedenimed body aside with a few swift elbow juts, exaggerated neck stretches and finally, a signature move I hadn't unsheathed since the days when my big brother and I rode the backseat of the family Volvo for our annual 25 hour pilgrimage to the lakehouse -- that's right, the *super* wide-legged Indian-sit.

In the end, I got my celebristalker view back, but after having paid $180 to count my pup as a carry-on and after having endured a flight-delaying lecture from flight attendants Julio and Evelyn concerning my airline-approved Sherpa (see below) not sliding "all the way" under the seat in front of me, I couldn't help but be a wee bit peeved this woman was permitted to bring that hair of hers aboard without having to fork over some sort of equally exorbitant head-room extension fee.

"People with fat asses have to do it," I thought to myself as I peered across the aisle at a woman plowing through a family-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos who'd comfortably poured herself (and the powdery dregs of her in-flight snack) into both the window and middle seats, "so why not people with fat-ass hair?"

Believe me, I'm squarely behind the notion of fashion over function, but in cases where a stylish choice, especially a permanent choice like hairstyle, consistently affects those around you in a negative way (thank GOD the two of us didn't meet one-in-front-of-the-other on opening night of the upcoming Clive Owen, Monica Bellucci firearm-filled release) you seriously need to rethink your game plan.

And you seriously need to buy two seats on an airplane.

Gone tannin' (pt. II)

After the wicked migraine brought on by drinking a half-bottle of Moët & Chandon with a jigger of Palma pomegranate liqueur in yesterday's 92 degree heat, I've decided to make today's field trip to the only pool in SW a little less Delta Delta Delta Vandy-chapter inspired.

So, instead of drinking $25 worth of Champagne from my out-of-town friend's fridge (kudos to R for his generosity), today I'm gonna just stick to Volvic and fruit punch Gatorade.

Instead of InStyle, I'll listen to last week's "Nightline" podcasts and read those three Dorothy Parker short stories I've been saving for a rainy day.

Instead of Akon and Britney, I think I'll revisit the soundtrack of my early childhood with some Everly Brothers, Dion, Fats Domino, Buddy Holly, The Archies and Johnny Rivers.

Instead of channeling Eva Mendes' hotness (I won't lie, that love-scenes-make-me-nervous bullshit she pulled in Cannes took her down a notch for me), I think I'll make a rare turn for a blonde with the recently-crowned "hottest damn woman period" by the sports show of similar name, six-year SI swimsuit issue veteran, Ms. Marisa Miller.

And just because I'm the kind of woman who likes to share the spoils of her Internet searches with her friends, here below are a few snaps from Marisa's most recent photoshoot.

I do warn you, though, check body-confidence at the door before you take a peek. I forgot to do so and am now bandying between a full-coverage one-piece and a makeshift burkha.

And because my Mom thinks I should talk about boys more...

Even if Paul Giamatti gets naked, I'll see it.

"Mr. Smith delivers a woman's baby during a shootout, and is then called upon to protect the newborn from an army of gunmen."

This is the uh, intriguing tagline for a to-be-released-this-September film called Shoot 'Em Up I vow to see no fewer than four times in the theater, eight times on DVD, and like Road House, Rising Sun and Commando before it, will receive a rare standing offer to remain un-channel-changed until the credits roll whenever the monkeys at TNT decide to anoint it "a new classic" and air it every other Sunday afternoon.

Why?

Well, let's begin with this "Mr. Smith." Imagine if you will the last famous movie character with that moniker and add a deeper, throatier British accent, a more believable I'll-fu**ing-kill-him-if-he-looks-at-you intensity and broader shoulders. That's right, this Mr. Smith is no fussy family man but rather the James Bond who should've been, my number one man-crush, Clive Owen.

I can hear my friends now, "Okay...but you didn't rush to see Derailed, so what's the big deal?" First off, Jennifer Aniston playing a seductress would have made the $6 worth of Chipotle in my tummy come right back up where it went down, and second...well, there is no second.

The big deal, readers, is that in addition to listening to Clive's voice for 120 minutes, his lady love in this sure-to-be big hot mess is none other than Monica Bellucci. That's right, just like the perfect storms of hotness that are the duos Bush/Cheney, McAdams/Gosling and Johanna/Montesquieu, higher forces have finally brought together the two most crave-worthy specimens in Hollywood.

Paul Giamatti playing the leader of the aforementioned "army of gunmen" notwithstanding - does anyone else think he should stick to self-deprecating comedy? - after seeing these two photos, the first released stills from Shoot 'Em Up, I know not even last-minute cast additions of Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz could keep me away from opening afternoon.