May-jah Friday (poshin' it up for the 'Rambo' premiere)

You're pre-Rambo-ing with an upscale dinner at 6:30, which means you only have 30 minutes at home to walk the pup and transition your eye makeup from office-appropriate to evening. Instead of changing your entire outfit (and risk being late again), why not try saving time by blending a few of your work separates with a few 'going out' accents?

And remember, the more you dress up during the day, the quicker and easier this transition will be, affording you a few extra minutes to help find the little guy just the right movie for his fabulous Friday night.

Enjoy.

If I had a sugar daddy...

Nappa leather jacket by Alexander McQueen
$3,270 at net-a-porter.com

Silk knit top by Pringle of Scotland
$545 at bergdorfgoodman.com

‘Judy’ skirt by Julie Haus
$251 at shopbop.com

Cotton velvet tights by Wolford
£24 at wolfordboutiquelondon.com

'Rolando' platform pumps by Christian Louboutin
$610, in-store only

‘Nancy’ leather clutch by Chloé

$1,405 at net-a-porter.com

Since I don't (yet)

Zip front leather jacket by Halogen
$298 at nordstrom.com

‘Carrie’ silk blouse by Eurythmic
$108 at revolveclothing.com

Double-knit skirt by Vince

$92.50 at shopbop.com

Soft opaque tights by Pretty Polly
$9.75 at mytights.com

Round buckle Mary Jane stilettos
£30 at asos.com

Woven hinge wallet
$20 at urbanoutfitters.com

Miss me, mmm'kay?

Off to a conference 'til Friday!

I do apologize for not telling you sooner, but I figured it'd be less painful this way. You know, like a bullet to the back of the head instead of contracting Ebola?

And speaking of bullets to the head, I so strongly suggest you drag your boyfriend, girlfriend, parent or whomever to go see the new Jet Li, Jason Statham film War, now out in theaters. In addition to the absolute hotness of Li's emotionless elimination of anyone and anything that gets in his way, you'll also get to see the trailer for what promises to be - after Shoot 'Em Up - my favorite action film of the year. Between Bellucci and Kurylenko, the cinematic second half of 2007 looks like it's gonna shape up pretty darn well.

Trailers I & II for Hitman (relase date, November 21st):

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.

Why I want to live free and die hard

In just two and a half days, one of 2007's most anticipated cinematic events will be realized: Bruce Willis' fourth and final bow as Detective John McClane in Live Free or Die Hard.

The more trailers, interviews, movie clips and premiere photos I sift through, the more pleased I am that I Fandango-ed two in-advance tickets and lined up a spectacular post-work Wednesday for R and me (which includes this dress and this piece of meat) all in honor of an action hero whose legacy, in my opinion, ranks only behind that of Lyon Gaultier, John Matrix and of course, Casey Ryback.

But in addition to Bruce, who looks far more sextacular at 52 than he ever did at 33, 35, or 40, there is another ass-kicking, one-liner-delivering, rapid-firing reason to fork over your $10.25 and spend your entire day's calories and carbs on a jumbo box of tropical Mike & Ikes.

And this one's half-Asian. And looks killer in an evening gown.

I first noticed - correction, I was first entranced by - 28 year old half-Chinese Maggie Q last year in Mission Impossible III when she so elegantly and athletically stepped out of a yellow Lamborghini Gallardo in a Roman courtyard wearing a stunning red satin cut-out dress.

Just like you, I've been waiting nearly 14 long months to see more of her.

To tide you over until Wednesday night, here's a rainbow of Maggie Q in all her hapa gorgeousness in a series of gowns that range from stunning (see sixth and third from last) to highly uneasy on the eyes (see rest):

How on God's green earth did I miss this scene?

I've seen every Bond movie. Most twice or more. I'm such a Bond fan, in fact, that I can say with complete sincerity I even liked Roger Moore in his man-tits days and Timothy Dalton in his one 007 appearance in License to Kill.

With this in mind, you can imagine my surprise when I turned to the Encore Action channel a few minutes ago and caught this unbelievable 8-minute sequence mid-way through From Russia With Love -- a movie I know for a fact I've watched but can't for the life of me recall seeing so many beautiful, tanned women in such scant states of undress.

And clawing at each other over a man, no less!

For inspiration not to remain - or aim to become - a size 2, check out the wide-hipped belly-dancing hotness and gypsy fem-brawl in this, one of my (new) favorite James Bond films:

Like a cast-off mistress, I just can't stay away

As well-intentioned as my self-imposed break started out, I've realized in our first 10 hours of ripped-apart separation just how incomplete I am without you. I love you. I really really love you. And we could be together, we could, if we just worked hard enough at it. If we just looked at the good, just celebrated the effortless every-level chemistry, if we just took a time-out and focused on...on the love. The love.

So yeah, in addition to all that, I also felt selfish for not sharing with y'all (see, it's already coming back...) clips of the best training montage and kick-ass fights from a time not so long ago -- a time when action movies really mattered. A time before Seagal went all bloated earth-shaman on us, a time before we realized Swayze was a primordial dwarf, and a time before films in this genre suddenly became beholden to the same highbrow standards - i.e. logical plotlines, plausible hero-to-enemy kill ratios and scores not built around synthesizer solos - as dramas and foreign comedies.

Yes, I'm talking about the '80s, a decade when Rocky IV, Bloodsport, and Commando may not have been as critically acclaimed as Terms of Endearment, The Accidental Tourist, or Sophie's Choice, but at least they were mindless fun, at least they were motivating before big sports events, and at least they gave us great scenes like these below.

Enjoy. I already did - all three in their entirety plus Cobra - on my couch in head-to-toe sweats.

Rocky IV -- the training montage that set the standard:

Bloodsport -- the Chong Li fight:

Commando -- the infamous island mowdown:

Where I'll be tonight

April 6th has finally arrived. I may be in the MItten-state instead of DC, but I'll still be in the middle seat of the middle row cheering hard for Cherry Darling (McGowan), Abernathy (Dawson) and even though he won't be on-screen, director of the first-half of this double-feature - Planet Terror - my new man crush, the delicious, baby-young, 39 year old Robert Rodriguez.

Not that it matters to me, but for those of you who need good reviews to justify forking over $10.75, try this and this. See, it's good. Go see it. And then dream about how bad-ass it would be to have a stripper girlfriend with a machine-gun leg.

Mmmm...machine-gun leg...

The uncut Grindhouse trailer, here below for you to enjoy:

Rosario and Rose -- *almost* perfect.

There's nothing I don't love about the concept of this cover.

Ammo-belt dresses? Check.

Hot naked brunettes with come-hither expressions? Check.

Hot naked brunettes' asses touching ever so slightly? Check.

The words "bad girls" placed on-level with their lady-bits? Check.

Token NOT hot female listed so as not to piss off the fat chicks? Check.

Perfect, right?

Actually, not quite...

With all the liberties magazine editors have taken lately to make ugly less so on their covers (see examples one, two and three), couldn't they have done a little bit more to make circa-2007 Rose McGowan look a little more circa-2000 Rose McGowan? I know she got in some kind of car accident a few months ago that wonked up her eye - and apparently shaved off half her body weight - but really, this was the best shot of her from the roll?

I thought I was looking at a picture of Rosario Dawson back-to-back with the VHS cover of Mommy Dearest until I put my glasses on.

I'm just praying Rose's facial deterioration isn't the result of some witch-spell Marilyn Manson cast on her when she left his ass back in 2001. Not because I give a whit about her, but because I fear for my precious Dita.

That of which I am most proud

The 500th post.

As painstakingly difficult as self-congratulation is for me, I can't help but share with you the wee bit of pride I'm feeling upon reaching this milestone. Granted, embedded in the accomplishment of writing 500 posts in just over 3 months is the admission I have little or no social life, but even so, it feels pretty 'effing good, and you should at the very least give me golf claps for continually ripping apart - and occasionally building back up - the unfortunate looking women on and around the ConnAve/M Street intersection.

As I was deciding how best to celebrate number 500, I started thinking about the vast spectrum of all that which I have earned, stolen and been unfairly given based on my looks over the past 27 years. Where does this blog rank among these?

After much thought and a close call among learning Chinese, going without food or water while enduring two-a-day crew practices for three straight seasons and that which ended up at number five, here for you all is a peek into your editrix's self-absorbed soul:

Proudest achievement #5: Vidalia on M Street. That's really all I want to say about it.

Proudest achievement #4: My 200+ collection of purchased-in-China action movies. I have every Van Damme, Seagal, Stallone, Snipes, Schwarzenegger, Willis and Lundgren movie ever made. Even the rare straight-to-DVD ones like The Last Patrol and Today You Die. And the best part is, if I ever want to watch any of them with Chinese voice-overs, Thai subtitles or Chinese voice-overs with Thai subtitles, that fantasy is only a menu click away.

Proudest achievement #3: This blog. It was close between achievements three and four -- the blog only beat out my action movie collection by an Olsen twin.

Proudest achievement #2: My legs. I've only recently realized the now obvious connection between my love for my legs and my unusual - so it's been described - habit of going entire seasons without wearing pants. Some women hold dear their kindheartedness, some relish in their ability to whip up a dinner party four-course, and others would probably cite their critical analysis or conflict mediation skills. That's fine. For them. But I happen to love my runner's calves, my gave-up-Haribo-gummis-for-these thighs and the insanely high arches in my feet that afford me hours and hours of painless 4-inch heel-prancing. Yes, prancing. Just the way I was born, haters.

Proudest achievement #1: Well, duh. You saw this coming. I'm not sure exactly how Montesquieu qualifies as an achievement, but since the day that 2 lb dollop of jasmine-conditioned wonderful was given to me, I made a promise to place him at the top of every list I made.

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.

"Pain don't hurt."

We may not admit it out loud - okay, I do, but you might not - but isn't Dalton exactly the kind of guy we're all hungering for?

Don't we all want the man who kicks major ass in tapered jeans and an '80s blazer, turns away the town skank for the town doctor and on top of that, has a degree in philosophy from NYU?

Where art thou, rugged Dalton? K Street?

Now that we can FINALLY bear arms

In case you didn't hear, Friday was a big day for gun lovers in DC.

The US Court of Appeals for the DC Circuit struck down the District's strict gun control law on Second Amendment grounds, and as a result, I'm now allowed to not only liberate my Israeli-made holster from a fire-proof safety deposit box in Michigan but my best-graduation-present-ever Walther PPK as well.

I wasn't going to muse about this legislation, but well, Goldfinger is on right now on the Encore-Action channel, and I just can't help myself.

Before all of you clipboard-toting Obama-ites get on my case for mingling politics with fashion critique, I'll have you know there are no two-legged, opposably-thumbed children in my place of residence, nor will there be any live ammunition. My old-school James Bond gun may be, as a crusty old Marine with whom I work told me, "a fu**in' good piece to kill a motherfu**er with at close range," but were I to actually bring my handed-down darling to the District, it would solely be for those Sunday afternoons when I piled myself into an SUV stacked with fresh-off-the-Iraq reservation contractors itching for a few hours in rural Virginia with a briefcase full of (licensed) semi-automatics and a stack of $.20 Bin Laden targets.

The obvious question that begs to be asked and answered, then, is this: "what does a fashionable girl wear when she's off to the range?"

Do I break my iron-clad no-jeans-and-sneakers rule?

Do I go for the Angie a-la Tombraider look?

Do I opt for the extended clip even though loading the extra bullets almost always ruins my cuticles?

In my view, the shooting range, whether indoor or outdoor, is a venue that falls outside my urban fashion guidelines. In other words, when I'm spending upwards of $50 on ammunition alone, my time better be spent getting better, not looking better.

I recommend jeans, of course, but not skinny jeans, not straight-leg jeans, and not anything nicer or pricier than your sole pair of wouldn't-mind-getting-'em-irreparably-soiled jeans.

As for footwear, it's a coin-toss between sneakers and boots, though I tend to favor the former because I find my taking-it-from-the-hip timing to be considerably faster when I have a less restrictive, more cushioned foundation.

Up top, depending on the weather (remember, the deeper into Virginia red country you go, the colder it gets), I'd either wear my thinnest, faded-to-gray purple MTV tee on its own or coupled with my children's size alma mater sweatshirt. More so than below the belt, a shooter's upper body needs to be agile and unrestricted, a tougher-than-you'd-think equilibrium achieved only through a not-too-tight and not-too-loose upper body garment.

As for how to wear your hair, if you're serious about hitting Bin Laden in the larynx at 10 meters with a body pistol, you'd better ponytail it like a Marine: high and tight.

And just because you're in the sticks doesn't excuse you from the makeup basics of mascara, concealer and bronzer. There's no need for foundation, cream-based shadow or eyeliner, but just because you're packing a PPK and not a briefcase doesn't change the fact that you're still a woman and you're still leaving your front door.

Once you've got the gun, the ammo, the look, and your own bevy of private mercenary instructors at your disposal, you're almost there.

The last steps are getting that NRA membership card and a custom pair of Lara Croft thigh-holsters or Bandidas-esque high-waisted ass-less chaps.

Or both.