I’m toying with the idea of subscribing to DogTV. In case you (or your pooch) have not heard, that’s canine cable, a station designed for dogs to watch while their owners are out doing human activities.

DogTV features hours of dog-appropriate footage (like dogs romping, napping or riding in cars) alternating with nature shots (like a slug crawling across a patio), with a dog-friendly soundtrack. (How they determine that dogs prefer Louis Armstrong to Aerosmith is beyond me.)

The thing is, I think Oliver’s programming needs are already being met.

Currently, his favorite shows are ball-related. In fact, though its doubtful that it’s genetic, he shows a fascination with balls that I have only seen in one other creature: The human Oliver calls Dad. If there is an event involving a ball being televised anywhere in the world, Tom will watch it, and Oliver is the beneficiary of his obsession.

When Tom is not home and we are in an ESPN-free zone, Oliver will tolerate the Food Network (which I watch while exercising), although his attention wanders. Ina Garten’s recent lesson on roasting a beef filet had us both riveted, but she lost him with the gorgonzola sauce.

There are some shows for which Oliver has absolutely no patience. When I’m watching the PBS News Hour, Oliver will indicate his boredom by farting. On more than one occasion, he has subtly rolled over on the remote, sending the TV into a whirl of channel-switching that ended with the NBA playoffs.

Anyway, while I might prefer watching a slug parade to a Clippers game, I don’t think that’s the case with Oliver. The other day, when I was checking out DogTV’s programming samples, I was more mesmerized by the puppy footage than my dog was.

The fact is, after an especially gnarly day—don’t ever visit the dentist, back your car into a telephone pole and make lasagna in the same 24-hour period—I found DogTV relaxing, like watching a much cuter lava lamp. As I watched a poodle riding a surf board, a terrier wrestle a Jack Russell, a beagle gaze heavenward at drifting clouds, thoughts of tooth and bumper repairs and the recipe from hell lost their edge.

Oliver, however, was more intrigued by the neighbor’s Chihuahua nightly bark fest, and raced outside to respond.

Anyway, maybe I will subscribe to DogTV—for myself. At $9.99 a month, it’s a cheap way to chill.

There’s an annual event in Burbank called “Monsterpalooza,” a convention for people associated with horror movies. Actors come to sell signed photos, makeup and special effects artists network and demonstrate their scare skills and there’s even a museum dedicated to the craft of monster creation. The halls are teeming with thousands of fans, mingling with dozens of fabulously costumed monsters.

I had lead roles in one horror classic (“Suspiria”) and in a sorta-horror cult movie, a rock-and roll redo of “Phantom of the Opera” titled “Phantom of the Paradise.” So I have been invited to attend such events before but have always declined. But this time, I had a brain flash: I would do it to raise some quick bucks for PXE International, my favorite non-profit group.

I went to the Burbank Marriott on that Saturday morning with a bit of trepidation. I mean, who knows what might happen in a building packed with horror fans? (Not to mention monsters, who are not known for their social skills. ) The event had great potential for turning gnarly.

I had a rep, Carol, who meticulously set up my table, arranging a variety of photos of me in various damsel-in-distress poses,. At the next table was Caroline Munro, a gorgeously fify-something actress who appeared in horror flicks but is best known as a Bond girl. (Think Roger Moore.) Carol explained that Caroline would sell hundreds of pictures based on that pedigree alone, her buyers being mostly middle-aged men with lingering crushes.

On my other side was Chris Sarandon, and beyond him many tables dedicated to the cast of “Fright Night.” Jon Landis was selling a new book (“Monsters”) and other actors and directors sat at tables beyond him.

And the fans poured in.

99% of them wore logo-printed tee shirts, usually black ones. This seemed to be the uniform of the day. Many of them bought photos, but many brought other things for me to sign—DVD jackets, original soundtrack LP covers and random posters. Some brought gifts: a painting of a scene from “Phantom,” a plastic replica of the mask the phantom wears in the movie, and a beer glass with the phantom’s masked face etched on it.

The fans ranged in age from five years old to seventy-something, and they were, without exception, gracious and respectful. Each one expressed interest when I handed them a PXE postcard and helped them pronounce pseudoxanthoma. All were touched and pleased that their money was going to charity.

It’s always reassuring to be reminded that one can, even in the most unusual settings, depend on the kindness of strangers.

Other highlights of Monsterpaloza: 1. Meeting Boris Karloff’s daughter. 2. Having my picture taken with the most fabulous monsters I have met, well, ever. 3. Watching a makeup artist transform an ordinary fanboy into Schreck. 4. Going home Sunday feeling like Scrooge McDuck carrying a bulging sack with a $ sign on it.

Next time I do this, I think I’ll try selling a picture of myself with my head photo-shopped on a scantily clad, Bond-quality body. I’d certainly double my take.

P.S. Please also see my post on William Finley, my co-star in “Phantom,” who passed away last month.

I knew William Finley because we acted together in a movie, directed by Brian de Palma, called “Phantom of the Paradise”. In the 70’s, Bill and I spent two months in each others face in Dallas, Texas, shooting this rock-and-roll redo of “Phantom of the Opera.” Bill played the phantom, and I his muse.

It was my first movie, and on the first day of shooting, I was clueless and terrified, wracked with self-doubt and fears of screwing up.

My condition was not helped by the fact that we started the day with a scene in which I was sexually assaulted by a 400-pound man (wearing turquoise boxer shorts and cowboy boots). This did nothing to allay my fear that I had chosen the wrong profession.

But then Finley showed up. We had a key scene together, the one in which our characters met for the first time…

Bill was tall, kind, smart, focused, and almost immediately I appointed him my big brother, my protector…and my explainer. All day long the crew shouted mysterious things (like, “Checking the gate!”“Bring in the baby junior!” “Set up for the martini shot!” “Hit your mark, you stupid cow!”), and Bill patiently translated for me.

But mostly, he was just reassuring. He treated me with respect and kindness, as if he had complete confidence in me. He may never have said the words out loud, but he made me believe that he was thinking, “You’ve got this. You’re gonna be fine.” And once I calmed down and got over myself a little, I had one of the better acting lessons of my life, just by watching Bill’s skill and commitment in the creation of his character.

I can’t tell you how much I valued his warm friendship and his talent.
Whenever he was not on set, I missed him.

After the Dallas days, I did not see as much of Bill and his family as I’d have liked, as we lived on opposite coasts.
But he was one of those rare people who, even if you know them for a limited time, etch their initials on your heart.

To paraphrase a line from “Phantom,” we’ll remember you forever, Finley.

(For more on William Finley, click here.)

I wish New York Times columnist Gail Collins would stop writing about Romney’s canine carelessness. Today she mentioned once again that, on a family vacation, he strapped his dog to the roof of his car, and dogs everywhere went ballistic.

Although he’s not what you’d call outspoken when it comes to politics, I have reason to believe that our dog Oliver has been disappointed in Obama’s performance as president. I think it was right around the time the President was pumping troops into Afghanistan I found my old YES WE CAN tote bag half buried in the garden. Still, I never thought any dog of mine would lean Republican.

But some months ago, while I watched one of the way-too-many debates, I noticed that Oliver was right there next to me, intrigued by the goings on. After a few minutes, he began wagging his tail whenever Romney spoke. When Cain or Santorum chimed in, his tail assumed the disapproval position. Newt Gingrich inspired a growl. Oliver growled too.

The dog watched many other debates with me, until I gave up and got hooked on “Downton Abbey,” which seemed less soap operatic by comparison. The dog seemed to find the show less entertaining than the Republicans, although he perks up when there’s a fox hunt.

But when the news emerged of Romney’s faux paw, the love fest was over.

All the neighborhood dogs started chatting about it. The trouble is not that they are   adjusting their political agendas, but that they are making new demands at home.

Oliver is making it very clear that any such treatment will not be tolerated at our house. Obviously, as Democrats, we would never strap our dog to the roof, at least not without offering him a helmet. But now our dog will not even put up with the back seat. When I took him out to Doggy Yoga the other day, he bounded into the place he really thinks he’s entitled to, behind the wheel.

And I really wish Romney had kept quiet about his wife’s “couple of Cadillacs.” Next thing you know, Oliver will be requesting a separate vehicle.

So far, he’s unaware of that photo of Obama’s Bo flying private. Let’s hope it stays that way.

I have this fantasy about opening a clothing shop for women of a certain age.

At my shop, you will find the following:

1. Sexy shoes that are comfortable even when you’re standing.

2. Dresses with sleeves long enough to cover misbegotten tattoos.

3. A handbag that automatically changes colors, depending on your outfit.

4. No thong whose crotch consists of a string of pearls.

5. Sweaters that are long enough to conceal a VPL so you don’t have to wear a damn thong every damn day.

6. High-necked blouses to cover that thing you’ve developed that makes you look like a turkey.

7. Scarves. (See #6)

8. No bathing suits. I will not subject clients to trying them on. Go to Bloomingdale’s for that torture.

9. Panti-hose, whatever brand Beyonce wears.

10. Bras that invite your breasts to face front instead of down.

11. Pants with a waistline that covers your Caesarian scar by at least two inches.

12. Skirts that are constructed to prevent underwear exposure in a brisk wind, but are not so tight they reveal your muffin top.

13. Coats that are warm but don’t make you look like the Madison Avenue bus.

All mirrors are inside the dressing rooms, not outside in plain view of critics. Lighting will be low and rosy. Alcoholic beverages will be available, free of charge for those who have just been trying on bathing suits at Bloomingdale’s. Family members who accompany shoppers will be sent to Starbuck’s if they utter any discouraging words.

Got any other thoughts, ladies?

At my age, it’s more fun to shop for my daughters than for myself.  (Those 3-way mirrors aren’t as friendly as they used to be, and  it’s so hard to find a dress that covers the aging zones and still looks chic, I sometimes wish I could just throw on a Hefty bag.)  So when Elizabeth had a party dress emergency recently, I offered to do a mall run.

There’s a mall that I like because I know it so well. Due to its proximity to my daughters’ elementary school, I used to spend much errand time there, buying everything from the girls’ first shoes to their first bras. I’ve got that floor plan down; I can buy socks in less than eight minutes.

I knew what my route would be  even before I’d parked: I’d pop into Betsey Johnson, then shimmy over to Out Of The Box and on to BCBG (after stopping in at See’s Candies for a free, energizing sample).  If those stores yielded no good frocks, I would move on to the big guns, the department stores that weigh down either end of the mall, their massive doors open like jaws.

Betsy Johnson’s inventory was exceptionally hookery, O.O.T.B. too country club, BCBG too ordinary. More importantly, my internal divining rod, the one that directs me towards bargains, was quivering, shifting my body in the direction of  Bloomingdale’s.

Occasionally, under the influence of this device, I have made unwise purchases—a  certain lichen-colored, overly-hairy sweater springs to mind—but for the most part, it is unerring. So, even though I don’t much like to enter Bloomingdales except to buy their exceptional frozen yogurt, I let the divining rod guide me to the second floor, to a massive sale rack, jammed with limp, sale-weary garments.  My hand, as if controlled remotely, reached between a couple of garish size 14s and pulled out a glowing dress.

It was a gold, stretch satin Nicole Miller, size 0, reduced from over $400 by 70%.

I walked straight to the register, where, thanks to some department store combo of sale events, the price was further reduced until the dress was almost free. I paid and left quickly, before the management realized how flawed the discount system was.

As I exited, I heard a bell ring, which I took to mean that some retail angel had gotten his wings. He may have received another promotion when Elizabeth tried on the dress: It was perfectly amazing on her. (She wouldn’t allow me to post the picture.)

But then, she’s at that age when she could wear a Hefty bag and look good….

Penn Station was a zoo, as it always is pre-Thanksgiving, but I was looking forward to what I thought would be a peaceful, zone-out, clickety-clack, two-and-a-half hour train ride to Old Saybrook.

Sadly, the “quiet car” was full, bursting with silent people. In the rest of the train, large families trolled for seats, people squawked into cell phones, electronic devices leaked game noise, and food smells wafted. . Thanks to my aggressive behavior (shadowing a big guy who bulldozed his way through the crowd), I secured one of the few remaining seats in a decidedly un-quiet car.

I glanced at the lady next to me and, in that mini-assessment you do with strangers, I thought, she’s older, a grandmother, dyed hair, nice coat. It took me a few minutes to realize that she could easily have summed me up the same way.

The lady pulled out her cell phone–no, it was not a smart one–and made a call.

“Well, we were supposed to be on the 172 out of New York (pronounced ‘Noo Yawk’) at 3 but they bumped us to the 46 at 4. It’s all right, all trains go to the same destination. (Listening pause.) Yeah, but it’s okay, they all go to the same destination. Did you get the turkey?”

I deduced from what followed that it was her daughter on the other end, because the lady was so relaxed about dissing her chosen cooking method.

“What? You’re gonna brine (‘broin’) the bird? Aw, don’t do that, Shelley, it adds salt (‘sow-ult’).”

She came back to the top of her conversation loop: “Should be there by 7. Woulda been earlier (‘uhr-leeyah’) on the 172, but they all go to the same destination. Don’t broin it, hon.”

She hung up and dialed again. “Hi Pearl. Yeah, they bumped us from the 172…Shell wants to broin the bird. I told her (‘huh’), no, too much sow-ult…they all go to the same destination, thank Gawd.”

A young man approached us. “Ma’am, is your husband seated in the car ahead?”

He was addressing the other lady, not me. “Yes,” she said, cautiously. The young man had not washed his jeans or face lately, and he smelled like an avid drinker.

“I’m sitting next to him, if you’d like to switch seats,” he said, as intensely as if he were notifying the lady of a lottery win.Mrs. Nice Coat gratefully made the switch, leaving me seated with Mr. Dirty Jeans, who snapped open his laptop and a thermos containing something with a  high alcohol content. He played a video of modern dancers in a frenzied performance, and he moved with them, as much as one can in an Amtrak seat.  He danced with his hands and upper body, feet tapping and stomping. He’d stop for a thermos break often, then he’d beat his tray rhythmically, muttering “I love you, Leonard Bernstein.”

The activity in the seat next to me was distracting, but that was not the reason I missed my stop. The conductor neglected to tell us where we were when we paused in Old Saybrook. When questioned later, he said, “Oh, our loud speaker doesn’t work too well. Usually I walk through the cars and tell people what stop is next.”

“But you didn’t chose to do that today?” I asked, channeling Cruella DeVille.

“Nope,” he said, cheerfully oblivious to my deadly tone.

So, I (and other pissed off Old Saybrook wanna-goes) disembarked at New London, a stop well down the tracks from our desired one.

Yeah, the trains all go to the same destination, except when they don’t.

Reward for this dubious train ride? The delight on the faces of my ninety-something parents when I finally showed up and regaled them with the (slightly exaggerated) story of my travels, and one fabulous (un-broined) turkey.

While I am baking ugly but delicious Christmas cookies, wrapping a cat calendar for my feline-obsessed brother, wondering why none of my seven pairs of black shoes seems to work with my Christmas party frock, wishing I had some peppermint bark, debating whether to send a holiday card to the ex-friend who made rude remarks about the mulled wine I made, and fretting over what to get my husband for Christmas when I know all he wants is Lakers tickets and new socks, I am listening to the Christmas CD I made some years ago, and I’m getting a kick out of it.

While you are tangled up in pre-holiday moments, take a listen. It might be just the thing.

• Children Go Where I Send Thee – Listen Now >
• Ain’t That A Rockin’ – Listen Now >
• Mary Had A Baby - Listen Now >

All songs from my album Not A Traditional Christmas.

I get it now. I was wondering why everyone is so disgusted by Herman Cain’s infidelity but not by Newt’s.

I mean, yeah, Newt’s transgressions go back a few years, but does that make them less bad? Do the skeletons in the closet get a hall pass after a certain amount of time?

Maybe not, but apparently Newt has figured out the effective way of shaking off blame. He talks to The Almighty.

“I found that I felt compelled to seek God’s forgiveness. I do believe in a forgiving God…And I do feel, in that sense, that God has forgiven me, has blessed me with an opportunity as a person.”

Republicans bought this, and they have forgiven Newt, too. If Herman Cain wants a future in politics, he would be well advised to follow Newt’s example and schedule a forgiveness session.

Should Newt be the nominee, he will need support from a whole lot more people than Republicans to win next November. Gingrich has been tagged as (among other things) the person most responsible for our current gridlock politics. If he is to be granted his dream “opportunity as a person,” he might need to apply for a forgiveness upgrade that encompasses sins beyond adultery.