Salma Hayek: Jeffrey Mayer/; Jayanna: Mitchell Haaseth
Dalton Ross
July 18, 2007 AT 04:00 AM EDT

Dalton’s flings with Salma and Jayanna

Vacations rule. I know this because I just spent two glorious weeks out of the office. But even the best vacations are filled with a regret or two. Mine took place last Monday night. The kids were asleep, worn out by a long day of trench-digging at the beach, so the wife and I settled in for a quiet evening at the rental house. While I am a certified TV addict, when I’m on vacation I pretty much go completely boob-tube-less. I had already made it 10 days without even turning on the set, but this addict can only hold out for so long, so I decided to check in on the cougars and kittens of Age of Love. For those not in the know, Age of Love is a dating show where tennis star Mark Philisomethingorother is trying to find his soul mate from a group containing both older and younger women. I thought it would be a nice lazy way to end a nice lazy day. Big mistake.

It all started innocently enough when my wife Christina looked at one of the ”cougars,” Jayanna, and inquired, ”How old is she, 50?”

”No, she’s only 39,” I replied. ”And I think she actually looks pretty good.”

Big, big mistake. If guys know one thing, it is this: you never, ever compliment a woman on TV or in the movies while watching with your significant other. I was by no means salivating over this woman Jayanna, just commenting that she looked far from 50. Didn’t matter. I was done for. I knew it, too. Immediately after the comment came out, images of Salma Hayek began dancing in my head. And, for once, not naked images either. You see, back in 1997, not long after Christina and I had started dating, a TNT movie version of The Hunchback came on. ”Oh, I think Salma Hayek is in this,” I said. Talk of Hayek as the new hottest woman on the planet was just starting to bubble over everywhere but I had never actually laid eyes on the woman. I was curious about all the Hayek hype. Naturally, Christina was curious as to why I was curious about an actress she had never heard of in a made-for-basic-cable movie. ”What, is she supposed to be hot or something?” she inquired.

”Well, she is hot,” I replied, merely repeating what every horny male had led me to believe.

That innocent four-word comment has caused me more grief in the past 10 years than every other marital miscue since. First came the accusations that I was a skeezy horndog obsessed with clown boobs. Then came the inevitable ”Who’s hotter, me or Salma?” queries. Finally, we came to the incessant sarcastic apologies, things along the lines of ”Well, sorry I’m not Salma Hayek!” and ”Sorry I don’t have a EE-cup size like your girlfriend Salma Hayek!”

You think all this would have died down after a while, but you would be thinking wrong. Another round of Hayek harassment blew through recently when my college buddy Eric Mabius told me all about the love scenes he got to shoot with Salma in an elevator on Ugly Betty. I made the mistake of relaying the conversation to Christina (because that’s just the type of open, honest guy I am!). Her reaction was somewhere between ”Whoa, bet you’re jealous!” and ”Did you warn Eric to get his hands off your girl?”

The point is, if I could just learn to keep my mouth shut, we’d both be better off. Yet instead of agreeing that Age of Love‘s Jayanna was a Cryptkeeper-esque hag, I had to go and defend the woman. As a result, Christina was convinced that I had a major league crush on her. She modified her sarcastic apologies a bit (”So sorry you can’t be spending your beach vacation with Jayanna!” ”Sorry I can’t ride on a bicycle built for two, run, and then paddle out on a surfboard to a boat in a makeshift reality triathlon like your girlfriend Jayanna!”)

This time I didn’t even attempt to counter the blows. I just absorbed them and tried a new strategy: I figured if I dissed and dismissed one of the other female contestants it would make Christina realize that I don’t lust after every woman that pops up on my television screen. One of the ”kittens,” Mary, had kinda been freaking me out with her huge forehead and super-frizzy hair, so I decided to use this to my advantage.

”That Mary is just plain weird looking,” I said dismissively, expecting to win my way back into my wife’s good graces by pointing out how much more attractive she was than some floozy on TV. Wrong.

”You are so mean,” she replied.

”Mean? Soooooooo, you don’t like it when I point out when a woman on TV is attractive, and you don’t like it when I point out when a woman on TV is unattractive?”

”It’s just mean to talk about her like that.”

”But if I said she was attractive then you’d say I was mean for pointing out hot women on TV.”

”No, if you’d rather be with Salma Hayek and that stupid 50-year-old, then be my guest.”

”She’s 39!”

”See! Now you’re defending her again!”

”I’m not defending her! That’s how old she is! I’m just stating a fact.”


This went round and round until she said she couldn’t watch this ”garbage” anymore and excused herself from the viewing area. I could blame her, but you know what? I blame myself. I should know better than to comment on the looks of any female on television in front of my wife. Or my girlfriend…Salma Hayek.

I was this close. This close to having my summer back. As previously mentioned, I generally don’t turn on the TV during vacation, which means I did not watch the first four episodes of Big Brother. Not only that, but I had forgotten to set up a Season Pass on my TiVo so it did not even record them. This past Sunday night I looked at the clock and it read 8:28. Then it dawned on me — Big Brother was on. I had now missed four-and-a-half episodes. Should I even bother tuning in at this point? I had read some back and forth emails from coworkers talking about what a hateful group of housemates the contestants were this year. Maybe I would be better off without them. If I just wrote off the season, I would have more time with my family, more time for writing, and maybe even more time to catch up on some of those movies that have been collecting dust on my shelves. At 8:29, I made the decision to do it. I WAS A FREE MAN!!! No Chenbot for me this year! It was an exhilarating feeling. And it lasted about 60 seconds. At 8:30 I got an itchy remote trigger finger, and decided to just ”take a peek.” The first thing I saw was an insanely attractive brunette named Jen (please don’t let my wife be reading this), which was quickly followed by everyone talking about how much they all absolutely despised her. There was even some guy named Dick who got all up in Jen’s face and repeatedly kept yelling ”Bitch!” at her. Naturally, I was hooked. It’s too bad really. I almost made it. Maybe next year.

NEXT PAGE: The Five and Reader Mail

Every so often I come across a channel showing the movie Woodstock. I try to watch it, get bored of seeing acid-tripping hippies dancing around in place and turn the channel. Maybe that’s just my hatred of music festivals rearing its ugly head. I have nothing against concert films, however. In fact, to prove it, I’ll hit you up with my Five Greatest Concert Movies Ever.

1. Stop Making Sense
The big suit. The running-around the stage like it’s a track meet. And, of course, the music. This Jonathan Demme-directed document of the Talking Heads has both style and substance.

2. Gimme Shelter
In how many rock docs do people actually die? The tragedy at Altamont coupled with the Stones at the height of their powers makes for a riveting document.

3. The Last Waltz
And I don’t event like the Band!

4. Dave Chappelle’s Block Party
”Party” is the operative word. Everyone in this film seems just so damn happy to be there.

5. The Song Remains the Same
Okay, the fantasy sequences are pretty weak, but damn if Led Zeppelin wasn’t a complete monster of a live band. And damn if ”Stairway to Heaven” doesn’t still remind me of seventh-grade slow dances that always got painfully awkward when the music sped up (and then back down again).

Are you ready to rock? I saaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiidddddddd, ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?!? Sorry about that; just had to get my rock ‘n’ roll stage voice on in honor of all the reader responses to my hatred of music festivals piece, as well as more nominees for the list of Stellar Celebrity Mustaches. Warning, things are about to get a bit hairy…

After laughing hysterically throughout your ”Music To My Fears” piece, I turned to look at my 45-year-old ponytailed husband (full head of hair — not that scary bald-on-top, three-hairs-pulled-back-with-a-rubber-band look) and read the entire article out loud to him. He got up off the couch, and in a few minutes brought back his ticket stub from the 1988 Monsters of Rock concert in Indianapolis. Although he felt your description of Dokken, Scorpions, and Kingdom Come constituted blasphemy (my big word, not his), he did agree about Van Hagar, remembering that Sammy had apologized several times during their set because of his poor singing voice, due to ”laryngitis.” Thanks for a great article, which led to an interesting conversation about drinking and driving to get there, whippets(!), and afterwards, sneaking people through a hotel bathroom window to crash in a hotel room reserved for only two people, because they were too trashed to make the long drive home. —Jennifer

And why were they too trashed to make the drive home? Because they are freakin’ Monsters of Rock!!! I will say this about Kingdom Come, Jennifer: As horrible as they may have been — and make no mistake, they were horrible — the drummer was able to throw his sticks about 50 feet up in the air and catch them on the fly. He’s probably still performing that trick in a circus somewhere.

Thank you for putting my thoughts into words for all the viewers to see. You forgot to mention the $8 beers, and $40 concert tees. That’s why I fill my water bottle in the sink all day, and I buy my concert shirt for $10 from the guy in the parking lot. —Cathy Chrusciel

Back in 1988, I remember going to a big rap concert with Public Enemy, Stetsasonic, EPMD, Rare Essence, and a bunch of others. I bought one of those cheapie T-shirts from a dude in the parking lot. It looked so rad and I was so proud of saving so much money. Then I washed it and all the band logos smeared into one unrecognizable red smudge. You get what you pay for, I guess.

When I went to Curiosa in 2004, the food and alcohol were overpriced. However, here is the funny part. In a bad attempt to promote soberness, the owners of the venue locked all of the port-o-potties with baby locks. You know, the childproof locks mommy puts on the bottom kitchen cabinets so that their youngsters won’t eat the Comet cleanser. One stoner had to go to the bathroom so badly that he took his Bic lighter and melted all of the locks. I am still shocked that he did not light the potties on fire. —Stephanie Travitsky

Locking the port-o-potties. Interesting strategy. Personally I would have just gone on stage and pissed on the Cure if necessary, and this is coming from someone who loves the Cure. But hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go. (Incidentally, I have been known to whistle ”Just Like Heaven” on occasion while urinating, although I suppose that is neither here nor there.)

What are you on? You don’t have Burt Reynolds in your top celebrity mustaches. He should be number one or two. (It is a toss-up between him and Tom Selleck.) Go watch Smokey and the Bandit one more time and then get back to me. —Danny Duerden

It’s good. Not doubt about it, but better than Oates? The Village People biker? Geraldo? That’s some stiff (upper lip) competition, Danny.

I agree with all of your mustache choices, but I must point out one glaring omission…Ned Flanders rocks one of the most awesome ‘staches in celebrity history! Without it, he’d be a nobody. —Tammy Folkersen

Ooooooo, that is a nice one, Tammy. Big, bushy, yet perfectly sculpted. My badeldy-dadeldy!

Dalton, I have been reading The Glutton since the very beginning, and I have always had one problem with it: How can you list your top five anythings without pictures? This week was especially difficult; moustaches are things to be admired! Sure, I’ve seen some of them before, but to be able to look at all five next to each other would be glorious! —Becca Jones

I hear ya, Becca. Although, if you subscribe to Entertainment Weekly, you could have seen said ‘staches. As some of you online folks may know, the Glutton currently appears in the magazine once every three weeks, in rotation with my number one homeboy Stephen King and the one and only Mark Harris. In that spiffy, glossy version, we actually do print pictures to go along with The Five. So you do actually get to see Billy Dee and Oates in all their hairy glory. As for the other weeks, well, sorry, can’t help you there. That would simply require too much work for a lazy bastard like myself.

Ladies, should your significant others be allowed to comment on the hotness of women on TV and in the movies? Big Brother fans, can you explain to this latecomer exactly what makes Jen so annoying? Have a favorite concert movie that should have made The Five (and concert docs like Some Kind of Monster don’t count)? Send your questions, comments, and quibbles to, or just fill out the handy-dandy form below. See ya next week!

You May Like