Look It's Joanne Has Moved!

Dahling Look It's Joanne Readers:

I hate to tell you such sensitive news via email, so I decided to tell you via blog. That's more personal, right?

Look It's Joanne has moved to WordPress. I guarantee it is new and improved! There, you will not only find my Margarita-motivated tales, but also my biography, videos, a list of my top writing clips, and more candid pictures of me hanging out with famous, semi-famous, and non-famous non-people. It's easier to use too. I know my new website sounds like a food processor, but you can't actually slice cucumbers with it. I'm very sorry about that.

Go here for the latest:

http://lookitsjoanne.com

I also have a new like page on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/heylookitsjoanne

Thanks for being a loyal reader. I look forward to a fab 2013 with you!

Exclusive: Bruce Stormtrooper Tells All

On a Friday night in Mos Eisley, I catch up with a certain Sith in a cantina not so far, far, away. His purple Hawaiian shirt seems to glow in the dim light, as does his white helmet. The crisp voracity of his voice, and frequent use of the word “gurr,” startles the band. But with one finger snap and jaunty raise of his cold margarita glass, everyone realizes it’s just Bruce – their most unlikely customer.

While protocol droids are not allowed in, Bruce is the first openly ridiculous stormtrooper from  Lord Darth Vader’s regiment on the Death Star to bridge the gap between the Jedi and Sith communities. His bubbly personality has won him legions of allies  –  even Yoda admitted to a "Dark Side crush" on him. In an exclusive interview, Bruce dishes about his cranky boss and a certain flame-throwing love in his life.

Q. What is the bar scene like on the Death Star? Ugh, total snoozefest. The Jar-Jar just opened and its fun but it’s all twinky kids out of their minds. Give me a good piano bar any day.

Q. What’s your favorite drink? There’s a place on the station called The Super Laser. They serve a drink called, “I have a bad feeling about this.” Legally, they can’t tell you what’s in it but you only need one.

Q. Is Darth really as big of a bitch as he seems? Vay can be a diva, between you and me, he tow up murdered his wife for getting him a non-fat skinny mocha with soy instead of a fat-free skinny mocha with soy.

Q. Do you have a special someone in your life? There is this guy. He’s a bounty hunter. What can I say, I like ‘em bad. He doesn’t talk much, but you can cut the tension with a lightsaber. I can’t say his name but he gets me all a fetter, I mean flutter.

Q. What is your idea of the perfect romantic evening? Call me old-fashioned, but take me to the slopes of Hoth all day and a lodge for some Imperial hot chocolate. And the room can’t be complete without a Wampa rug.

Q. And finally, who wears a metal bikini best: Princess Leia or Lando Calrissian? Let me say for the record, that princess is crazy. I mean she wears cinnamon rolls on her head. If that’s not a sign of an eating disorder I don’t know what is. Crazy though she may be, gurr can wear the hell out of a bikini. Winner Leia, just don’t tell Lando. He fills it out really well.

Have a Heart, Xtina

Christina Aguilera is no longer fat. There, I’ve finally admitted it.

For three months since she debuted a slimmer figure on “The Voice,” I hoped the weight loss was a phase. Maybe her current boy toy forgot to buy her weekly bag of Cheetos. Or a mega roll of sugar cookie dough complete with little sugar dough baby. But no, the traitor didn’t forget once, or twice. He forgot for several months, the bastard.

Would I ever watch Xtina belt out “At Last” with “self-tanner” running down her leg again? What about her wrecked blonde weave as she writhed in a bandage leotard, looking like she stuck her finger in an electric socket?

To my delight, I can still have all of that – minus the extra calories. I’m glad Christina is a healthy weight again, since the extra pounds may have put her at risk of heart disease, the number one killer of women in America. More than 42 million women in this country currently live with it everyday – and often go undiagnosed or treated, leading to more early deaths than men. These women could prevent or lessen the affects of heart disease by working out, eating right, and maintaining a healthy weight.

Now I didn’t mean to get all Dr. Joanne on you. I just don’t want Christina to die, because then how will I be able to make fun of her?

This, my friends, is the only reason I’m supporting my sister Evamarie Spataro’s American Heart Association Walk on September 22, 2012. She needs to raise $300 by September 15. I told her I’m only doing this for Xtina, not her, and she said I'm the worst sibling in America.

I’m not sure what Eva meant by that last part, but please heed my warning: Don’t sit back while Christina Aguilera inevitably gains the weight back, putting herself at risk for a coronary. Give her a reason to keep working out, to fit into those horrible denim cut-offs and American flag cardigan.

Please give all of your quarters to Eva's cause here: http://heartwalk.kintera.org/charlottenc/evamariespataro

From the bottom of Xtina’s cookie dough-filled heart, thank you.

Fifty Shades of Drunk

Children, you may be wondering where I've been for the last month or so. What I'm about to say may scandalize you, but you are old enough to hear about what grown ups really do on vacation. Plus there's a sweet video of me in action at the end, so stay awake.

Anyone can read "Fifty Shades of Grey" at the beach. And I tried, but Anastasia and Christian were not cutting it for me. Instead, I spent half of my hiatus on a windy Hilton Head Island beach reading a batty dead movie star's memoirs. I got some life tips from Katharine Hepburn's autobiography "Me." The book taught me three things: 

1) Always wear smart trouser pants. Especially on the beach.

2) Call Cary Grant* "chubby" as long as you mean it in a nice way. *(for kids in the audience, Cary Grant is the 1.0  version of George Clooney.)

3) Never dwell on the past, unless you are dwelling on Cary Grant's pant size, and then that's fine. 

 

Also, take up golf, because you might meet an eccentric millionaire. Aviator Howard Hughes landed his helicopter on a golf course and ripped up the turf. This made Hepburn, who was there golfing with her fat friend, think Hughes was an ass. Then, he sweet talked her over dinner one night. They were playing "The Bachelor" before it was cool and then cool in an ironic way.  And then just sad.

Speaking of reckless behavior, I spent the other half of my hiatus drunk -- just not in a bar or even a secluded ocean cabana. On a Saturday afternoon in a nail salon, I sat back in the massage chair and my pedicurist asked if I wanted a drink. I said no thanks, I'm not going to pay $5 for cranberry juice. Then she said it came with the service. It was free.

Yes, I'll have one Margarita please.

My new friend brought me a cold Margarita in a real glass with a real lime and real salt around the rim. I took small sips at first and could barely taste the tequila. Then I picked up the pace. My brain warmed up like a fresh yeast roll in the oven. My sister told me I was buzzed, but I didn't believe her. I was too busy trying to figure out how to work the remote control on my massage chair. Did I want to be flapped, kneaded, or knocked? 

Then, a random 6-year-old ran across the room, wearing the coolest sunglasses I had ever seen. 

"I love this chair; I like that kid," I said to my sister while pointing at said kid, as if we were on "The Voice" and I was putting dibs on this fresh young talent. I was Cee Lo Green, my sister was Christina Aguilera. I was cooler (and thinner) than her in my own mind.

There you have it, kids. Grown ups on vacation read books about deceased movie stars, get wasted while getting our nails done, and yak about stuff we have no right even thinking about. You have a lot to look forward to, especially self-delusion.

I'm back to writing about the hard-hitting issues in Look It's Joanne. Check out my latest report with Fox News Edge. As you can see (at second 46), American Idol nobody Justin Guarini is not going to be happy with me. He will probably stop reading this blog, unless I can interest him in a free nail salon Margarita.

Miss America (I Wanna Be)

“There she is, Miss America…”

Before a smarmy C-lister oversings a single note, before last year’s winner can bludgeon pin a crown to your bouffant of three-day-old hair without sobbing, you need to play the game. You can’t take your pageant prize of a free trip to the Bahamas just yet, cap’ain hat and white sunglasses blazing.

Actual Miss America Contestant

Winning takes time. Or at least a lot of teeth grinding. Snap in those blonde extensions for the campy opening number to “Waiting for Tonight." You can't help that the two (straight) show producers are collectively 250 years old. You will flash your veneers at the TV audience and say, “My name is Heather Mane Heather and I’m from the Corn Cob Capital of the World!” Your whippet-thin frame almost breaks in half showcasing a meticulously inoffensive bathing suit. A Danube-eyed minion with feline reflexes ensures butt glue holds up your bottom line in beachwear.

One wrong answer in the question and answer segment can turn you into a sad and unfortunate internet meme. “India is the eighth continent and largest beef producer in the world!” just hit three million views and has made your mother cry.

 

Beauty pageants force you to live in the moment. The tension is high and you can't stare too long at the finish line. Voting is a similar (yet surprisingly butt glue-less) process where one voice is added to a chorus you won't hear until later. You can't rummage through your competitor's dressing room when you're supposed to be onstage singing a Christina Aguilera ballad. Focus on what you came there to do. Who knows who will be accompanying you after the winner is announced, because what counts is your winning few minutes in the voting booth. Keylight or light musical accompaniment is optional.

 

This is my platform: on May 8, do a solid by our Miss America ladies and gorgeous drag queens alike: Vote no against Amendment One and keep North Carolina Powered on Dreams. Come May 9, we will hopefully be laying on a sandy white beach, savoring our Miss America win with pineapple rum or chilli cheese fries. Or both. But for now, we have a tired ass Jennifer Lopez song to slog through.

Song of the Week: "Miss America (I Wanna Be)"

Powered on Dreams

Stuck in a Dress, Green Glasses Powered on Dreams

When my sister and I hit our early teens, we formed an underground band. You probably haven't heard of us because we were that cool. Or that obscure, but you get it. We dubbed ourselves Licorice Snap, an electronica-infused, spoken word phenomenon that was bound to blow the minds of our then emo, pre-hipster audiences.

Every spare afternoon, we headed into the recording studio to lay down some sweet tracks. It was the start of a new millennium, hot on the heels of Ricky Martin and MTV Total Request Live. YouTube and widespread recreational music programs were a mere sparkle in the eyes of their future creators.

At the time, Licorice Snap had a new sound. Eva cranked out sweet electronica beats and I rocked the spoken word. We even had a handheld dictionary called Franklin (which, incidentally, you could play hangman on too) that would talk in a Stephen Hawking-like voice. We programmed (fine, manually typed in; this was before smart phones!) our background vocalist to say "Lambs Love School" for our house remix of Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Our songs were about loving yourself like the fabulous queen you were or aspired to be. Miss America (I Wanna Be) should have been a number 1 hit. We should have been on the cover of "Rolling Stone" playfully giving everyone the finger or using said finger to rage on a keytar. 

Alas, our unabashed ode to peace, love, and fierceness was too ahead of its time.

No one heard our music because we didn't know where to play it or who would listen to it. How would we even lug our sweet sound machine, a desktop computer in our parents' house, to a gig? Our studio was our parents' house. Pretty soon, we unceremoniously lost the music-making program when the computer went out of commission. The dream seemed to die. I clutched our EP, emblazoned with Eva's color pencil cover art, to my chest like my Christina Aguilera drag queen cookie held her sugar dough baby.


 With the looming Amendment One vote to ban gay marriage and benefits for unmarried or domestic partners in North Carolina, up for vote on May 8, we can't afford to keep our fabulous soundtrack of hope locked in the archives.

Licorice Snap's opus, Powered on Dreams, says that anything and everything is possible. The imagery of a flying car that puffs purple exhaust describes a utopia that will overcome bigotry, homophobia, and racism if we just believe in ourselves. And yes the song is kitschy, because it's our right to be tongue-in-cheek with a message. Politician Harvey Milk understood that balance of theatrics and politics. When he was running as the first openly gay member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors in the late 1970s, he said, "You gotta give 'em hope."

If Powered on Dreams inspires you to go out and be fabulous, or more fabulous than you already are, then Licorice Snap's ten-year hiatus was well worth the wait.

Licorice Snap Track of the Week: Powered on Dreams

My Tote Bag, Myself

Actual Photo of Wonder Woman and me
at the 25 Most Stylish - Charlotte Style Magazine

The golden lassoed lady always has my back. When I’m on the bus, she holds my memoirs, worn notebook, and gel pens in her turquoise, star-dotted lap. I can give her a business card or research print-out and she’ll gladly file them for later in her red shellacked boot. We don’t take an Invisible Plane to work, at least not everyday. We'll take the city bus in, where we (OK, she watches me) annoy Jeff with questions about what fortune cookies mean for my life. When my coffee clutch of bus friends ask if that’s really her, I say yes, it’s really Wonder Woman. 

On my book bag.

Let Lynda Carter brighten your day like she does on my canvas tote. Watch as her boomerang tiara pierces that evil doer's flotation device. You're welcome.

 

Happy Beginning of the Work Week!