Uh oh, Paul Hogan, Aussie star of that great film of 1986, “Crocodile Dundee,” has not been paying his taxes. He lives in LA, and is in Oz right now for a funeral, and that wonderful institution, the Australian Taxation Office, is holding him hostage: he’s not allow to return to the United States until he pays up.

Being a story about an Aussie who heads to New York City, “Crocodile Dundee” is a film close to my heart. I’m not from the outback or anything, and when I’m in Manhattan I don’t carry large knives for filleting wild animals, wear crocodile skin jackets and crocodile tooth-adorned Akubras, or get perplexed by escalators, but I’m sure there’s a little Dundee in me. For example, in Australia, a purse is a palm-sized thing for holding your coins; I found out the hard way that, in America, purses are bigger affairs.

Check out Paul Hogan, pre-unpaid bill for tax on $37.6 million of undeclared income, here:

Alfred Hitchcock had a birthday this month; if he was still alive, he’d be 111. Hitchcock was a true master of suspense, and with thrilling plots, awesome scores by Bernard Herrmann, and handsome heroes/smart blondes, his films make for great viewing. To celebrate Hitchcock’s birthday, here are my top five favorite films:

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In terrifying news just in, NPR has today reported on a 75-year-old man from Massachusetts who checked himself into hospital because of a lung playing up. Doctors did not find cancer, but something more sinister: a half-inch-long pea plant. Rod Sveden had unwittingly swallowed a pea “the wrong way,” and it decided to grow.

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The woman who viciously slashed the face of Leonardo DiCaprio with a broken beer bottle back in 2005 has pleaded not guilty to the crime. I feel bad for DiCaprio. I’ve always harbored a soft spot for him and admired his ability to stay looking youthful for longer, his sandy widow’s peak, and his lack of fear of starring opposite women much more sizable than himself. In Romeo and Juliet, I lusted after him (but only halfheartedly, as I was more interested in the soundtrack featuring “Lovefool” by The Cardigans…whatever happened to them?); in Titanic I cried when he froze to death in the icy waters of the Atlantic, thanks to Kate Winslet, who hogged all the space on that floating piece of a door that clearly had room for two; and in Catch Me If You Can, I thought it was pretty damn cool that despite forging checks and medical school diplomas, he actually took and passed the Bar Exam for real. What a smart guy. Check him out here, marveling over Monet’s shitty use of color.

Guess who’s not excited about Chelsea Clinton’s upcoming wedding in the charming, wealthy region of Rhinebeck, on the Hudson River, on July 31^st? Emn Haddad-Friedman. She’s a teacher from Brooklyn who’s been planning her wedding for the past two years – and as it happens, it’s set to take place in Rhinebeck on the very same day of Ms. Clinton’s nuptials. Her single mother, apparently, has worked tirelessly to plan and pay for the wedding.

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I hate being cold in the summertime. It’s the only thing worse than being hot. Having to carry around a sweater and a scarf everywhere on a hot day to cope with arctic conditions on trains and in supermarkets, office buildings, restaurants and movie theaters is just wrong. It’s even more wrong when you continue to shake even when you’re wearing these articles of clothing. Yep, when it’s 100 degrees outside, you can easily find yourself FUCKING FREEZING in over-air conditioned environments.

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Contrary to the Alicia Keys/Jay-Z song, New York doesn’t always make me feel “brand new.” A little haggard, I escaped to Newport, Rhode Island, last week for a mini vacation. There, I felt newer than I had in a while.

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I’m a real sucker for tennis commercials that air during grand slams. Naturally, I lapped up Roger Federer’s most recent Rolex commercial, where he hits in a suit. And yes, I gave an obligatory cringe when it came on after he’d lost in the quarterfinals of Wimbledon 2010. At the risk of highlighting my lameness, I really liked Andy Roddick’s American Express commercials from a few years back, like the one where he struggles with his trophies on the airplane (they obstruct his view of the movie screen, block aisles, fall out of the overhead locker onto his head, etc.) and the one where he plays against Pong, of Mac Pong fame. In case you were wanting to relive some of this advertising greatness, which you probably weren’t, and before I embarrass myself more, here’s Roddick vs Pong.

I used to love Martina Hingis. She could do no wrong, in my opinion. She had style. She had finesse. She was crafty on the court. I liked her perfect pony tail, her Adidas visor, her big white teeth, her endearing Swiss accent and troublesome English. And I loved how she could win. For three years straight I was elated after her singles wins at the Australian Open; for the next three years straight I sank into a deep depression after her runner up results. I was obsessed with the Swiss Miss.

During the reign of Martina, I hated the very same players she hated. She said that Amélie Mauresmo, being a lesbian, was “half a man.” She demonized the Williams sisters, with their power and might, when they arrived on the scene: “Being black only helps them. Many times they get sponsors because they are black,” she argued. And she ditched a doubles partner for being “old and slow.” I thought all those comments were fair enough.

It was not until years later, after Martina had lost her grip on women’s tennis, that I was able to recognize her flaws. She was a princess. She always said the wrong thing. She handled losing with no grace. I came to love Amélie Mauresmo and the Williams sisters, and was finally able to see that a powerful serve was not the enemy. Martina had a few issues. Although, when I saw her in action at Wimbledon this week, playing doubles with Anna Kournikova for old time’s sake, I couldn’t help but like her again.

When it comes to the World Cup and all things football, I’m about as knowledgeable as Moss and Roy. Yep, while the World Cup goes on, I’m watching reruns of The IT Crowd (and Wimbledon, just to make it clear I’m not a complete failure when it comes to sports). I pretty much need the BluffBall website that Moss used; it equips you with choice football phrases and correct Cockney pronunciation, so you can go around sounding like a “big, normal man” when you’re not. In a bar, Roy and Moss, sipping on a tall glass of cold milk, try out suggested phrases like “Did you see that ludicrous display last night?” and “Thing about Arsenal, they always try to walk it in” on a group of normal men, and it works, a little too well. “I’m a little bit scared, and I want to leave…we’re messing with stuff we don’t understand,” says Moss. Meanwhile, Jen is dating a driving instructor who looks like a magician; the only hope for their relationship is for Michael to actually become a magician. Don’t tell me this doesn’t beat the World Cup.