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by J.D. Oxblood

isabella

I know, I know, we’ve been bad little bloggers.  Between my out-of-country exploits in August and the proprietor’s impending nuptials, we’ve been a little slammed.  And my “Back to School” story is SO late my editor is threatening to dock my wages—which, being nonexistent, provides little leverage as threat.  So consider this notice:  We’re coming back, and we’re coming back in force.  Brace yourself for the New York Burlesque Festival.  And before I rave over Isabella, one WAY belated thanks—Brian Newman, for having us at Duane Park to celebrate the bachelor party.  Brian, you got class you ain’t even used yet.  Thanks a million for taking care of us—that was a night to remember.  (Too bad none of us do.)

So last night I went down to Tribeca to see the lovely, luscious, internet-lascivious Isabella Rosellini.  I’ve been in love with her for 20 years, natch, so the chance to see her in person was a draw in and of itself.  And yeah, she still looks fantastic.  But her latest claim to fame—as if being Ingrid Bergman’s daughter wasn’t enough, or as if anyone could ever forget that scene in “Blue Velvet”—is the runaway internet hit “Green Porno,” now a book, complete with DVD of all the episodes so far.  As Is put is so candidly, the internet has no business model, no way for the artists to get paid, “no way to bring the money back.”  Seeing how the Redford rubles (Sundance) only foots the production bill, releasing a book is a way for everyone to cash in.  And here I am in Tribeca watching “Green Porno” with a bunch of strangers.

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