TOO BAD ABOUT JOHN RITTER BEING DEAD

My boss's publicist called me today because another one of her clients, a seriously b-list babe named Kim Something, is moving to NYC and needs an assistant. She was wondering if I knew anybody...

I suggested Law, my friend and co-writer of my genius, undoubtedly soon-to-be-produced television pilot. He is organized, enthusiastic and broke. Plus, he has seen me in the throws of my professional challenges (Oh no! Boss lost the AC adapter to his favorite UK-purchased personal DVD player. Whatever am I to do?! To Radio Shack, Cabbie! On the double!) so he knows what to expect.

To my suggestion the publicist responded:
"Is he gay?"

Implication: Not gay? Not interested. And poor Law is married. To a woman.

What is this, some kind of reverse homophobia? Affirmative Action for the light-footed among us? Is a homo more equipped to book a table than a straight dude? Better at buying sliced turkey or light bulbs?

The gays have been taking jobs from straight women for years now: Interior decorator, makeup artist, aerobics instructor, arm candy. Now they are taking jobs from straight men? When will it stop? Soon we non-queers will be made irrelevant!

And then I realized...what we had on our hands was the makings for a fantastic new sitcom.

20-something single male pretends to be gay so he can work his dream job--assistant to obscure TV actress! Hijinks ensue when he has to keep his over-active love life a secret from his boss---quite possibly the only woman he really loves!!

I knew that prejudice had it's benefits.

SELLING OUT

Vegas Elvis, sell out?

Elvis grew up poor. He started singing because he thought it might make him some money. "Artistic integrity" is the stuff of high-minded academics. It's the kind of phrase we unsuccessful writers comfort ourselves with during long, sleepless nights where dreams of time and age and anonymity have us sitting up, sweating, doing Sudoku.

"But I have never sold out," we say, panting, panicked.

Of course, no one ever asked us to.

A SLOW DAY AT THE OFFICE, A SERIO-COMEDY

PART ONE: SOME THINGS ARE NOT FUNNY
This is not a political blog, and for the most part, I am not a political person. But today I am going to share something I read in the New Yorker:

On Social Security, Clinton has avoided a detailed approach to fixing the system, which is expected to run out of money by the twenty-forties; for now, she would appoint a trusty “bipartisan commission” to recommend solutions. Obama proposes raising the ceiling on income that is subject to the payroll tax. As a political strategy, this appears to be a terrible idea. A potential crisis in the Social Security system is a long way off. Why, then, would a new President spend political capital on yet another tax hike when he will almost certainly seek to undo the Bush tax cuts for more immediate demands, like universal health care? When I asked Obama about this, he smiled and leaned forward, as if eager to explain that my premise was precisely the politically calibrated approach that he wanted to challenge. “What I think you’re asserting is that it makes sense for us to continue hiding the ball,” Obama said, “and not tell the American people the truth—”

I interrupted: “Politically it makes sense—”

He finished the sentence: “—to not tell people what we really think?”

I am so very tired of being lied to. I am so ready for someone to tell me the truth. Anyone else?

PART TWO: I'M GONNA EAT YOUR ASS UP LIKE STEAK AND SHAKE
But that's enough serious for today. Here's one of my favorite moments of onscreen musical comedy. The basketball scene from Charlie Ahearn's Wild Style.

I TAKE REQUESTS

My oldest friend, Jordana, was in New York this weekend, and she expressed an interest in making an appearance in this blog. I am not a diva. I will happily fulfill requests from loyal readers!

Full Disclosure: This is the first request I have received. I didn't realize that I had loyal readers. Sometimes I worry that my life/blog is like a Sting song, "Just a castaway, an island lost at sea, oh./ Another lonely day with no one here but me, oh."

I have known Jordana for so long, that in the course of our evening out with friends on Saturday, she said, "Oeenka!" and I knew that she was referring to Demi Moore's nipples in the movie, Ghost. If that's not friendship, I don't know what is.



In elementary school I got a curling iron with a brush attachment thoroughly stuck in Jor's hair. I had picked up the conventional wisdom that peanut butter is just the thing for liberating objects from hair. For the record, it isn't.

When we were in middle school we would go to open swim at the high school. We would shower in the locker room afterwards and get a Strawberry Crush from the pop machine. We felt so "Sixteen Candles".

Also in middle school, we were assigned a country to study for an entire year: art projects, cooking projects, research papers, all of which would culminate in a Culture Fair at the end of the year. Groups were assigned countries like China or England or France. We got Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe! We wrote a song:

"Zim, ba-ba-ba-bab, take me away away away to Zimbabwe!"

We would sing the song at the Bat Mitzvahs of everyone in the group.

Freshman year of high school, Jordana, Annie (you remember Annie, readers. She was the child with the ziplock baggies) and I decided to choreograph a dance for the annual dance show. Annie and I were committed to making our dance an allegory for the fall of communism. Jordana thought that was stupid. The teacher in charge of the show sided with Jor.

We once shared a bottle of wine at the foot of the Andes. I felt arty. She felt posh. During that trip we visited a Chilean vineyard. Our tour group was overrun with Mormons. We concluded that the Mormons were either doing reconnaissance or looking for sinners to convert.

It was nice to see Jor.

STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

Last night, while eating homemade Croatian goulash at my friend Jeremy's house, I put the following question to the group:

If you could be any ethnicity other than your own, what would it be?

I answered first. I chose Cuban. Good food, wonderful music, an interesting fiery culture. Bright and hot and sunny.

Josh, in a move that betrayed a lack of interest or understanding in our game, said Canadian. When we protested he changed to Ukrainian, because the men there are good looking.

Jeremy picked Swedish.
"I love the food," he said. "And it's a very progressive culture."
"But what about the suicide rate?" I asked. Jeremy shrugged. I offered, "It will be a short life, but at least it will be a Swedish one!"

Then onto Greg. My partner in love and life. He took a moment to deliberate. Finally, he chose Russian. For their crazy/seriousness, he said. Good art. Drinking and dancing and violin playing into the wee hours. A funny people.

To recap: I picked Cuba. He picked Russia. Chiles and black beans and plantains vs. potatoes and vodka and beets. Sarongs and old cars and mambo on the one side. Fur-lined hats and great coats and Rachmaninoff on the other.

Well, at least we will always have Communism.