My Review of the 2014 Primetime Emmys

Lena Dunham, under that skirt.

I have never hidden or denied that I love TV way too much for my own good.

Plus, this blog, from its inception, has faithfully reviewed award shows as though I were getting paid for it (if only) so why then did I not present a review for Monday night’s Emmys on Tuesday morning???

I’ll tell  you why---nothing all that much happened on the Emmys this year.

In addition, I was still in recovery from the previous evening's MTV Video Awards and, to be honest, I assumed no one would notice.

But I am both happy and somewhat annoyed to report that several of you have inquired as to where my Emmy review might be.

Thanks for asking. I think. But where are my notes?

There is a roll of toilet paper under
her skirt.

Think what you will but I take notes during awards shows lest a detail slips my mind and I forfeit an opportunity to be snarky when I am later seated and --  having flexed my fingers like Liberace at his baby grand -- ready to type my heart out here at my little desk in the corner.

My notes...right before I send them
to the Smithsonian.

But, yesterday I'd spent hours tidying up my desk which included corralling no less than 11 assorted lip balms into a zip-loc as well as chucking my Emmy notes right into the garbage.

Christina Hendricks.
Weird, beautiful
or both?

I had to fish them out but they were both soaked with, and partially disintegrated by coffee from this morning's unrepentant caffeine binge.

Luckily they were scrawled in Sharpie and I can still make them out. I am going to transcribe them almost exactly as written since the hour is very late and, according to some of you, so is my review. Ready?

Zoey and Allison.

• I am very proud of Seth Meyers.....liked him as anchor of SNL's Weekend Update...happy to see his career going well.
• Clear, horn-rimmed glasses are definitely trending right now. Good call, Fred Armisen, you weirdo.
• Hmmmm. Not so sure how well Seth Meyers actually is doing but I am still proud...kind of.
• Tony Hale (Arrested Development, Veep) is totally under-appreciated. Why?
• I hate Lena Dunham. 
• Am I the last to know that Hayden Panetierre is pregnant?? And who is responsible?
• When did Matt LeBlanc go gray?
• Uzo Aduba aka Crazy Eyes from "Orange is the New Black" looks great as herself.....not crazy at all.
• Jimmy Kimmel was so much better than Seth Meyers. Uh-oh.
• The camera just caught Lena Dunham saying “wow” (like an idiot) for the second time. Get over it, Dunham.
• Matthew McConaughey is just so darn pretty....a little off but definitely pretty. Is it the marijuana?
• Julia Louis Dreyfus simply does not age....gorgeous.
• Allison Williams (in a quirky dress) and Zooey Deschanel  (in simple and elegant) appear to be wearing each other’s clothes.
• Lena Dunham looks hideous as a blonde. Plus, I really hate her.
• Steven Colbert has two distinctly different ears*
• I love Laverne Cox.
• Who does that bitch Lena Dunham think she is?
• Oh, no. Even Jay Leno was funnier than Seth Meyers.
• The Amazing race wins again for best reality show??? How did the nominating committee forget about the single greatest reality show in the history of the medium---“Hardcore Pawn?”
• Who, in the name of Helena Rubinstein, did Lena Dunham’s make-up? I hate her.
• How good can Jim Parson really be to win the Emmy so many times?**
• Why is Lena Dunham dressed exactly like a toilet paper cover that someone's grandma crocheted in 1962?
• Damn, Louis CK looks great in a tux....who knew?
• Who exactly is Cary Joji Fukunaga and why am I strangely attracted to him?***
• Why does Brian Cranston have a porn-stache......I hope it’s for a role.
• Gwen Stefani is almost unrecognizable (More plastic surgery, Miss Hollaback, really?) and is a bit dumb, no?
• Why doesn't Jon Hamm marry his girlfriend of 15 years? Because he's Jon Hamm, that's why.
• Christina Hendricks is starting to weird me out......
• If I ever run into Lena Dunham on the street, I’m going to punch her smug little face right off.
• Why is Matthew McConaughey wearing so much self-tanner....is his wife too busy designing over-priced handbags for QVC to tell him to knock it off?
• Amy Poehler wasn’t all that funny tonight without her accomplice, Tina Fey, now was she? Ha.
• Could it be that I am jealous of  Lena Dunham?****
• Damn. Seth Meyers was awful.

Boom-chicka-wow-wow.

See. I told you....there were no wardrobe malfunctions, pretentious political statements or awful gaffes. Kathy Bates wore pants with a caftan. Ricky Gervais was under control. The status was very quo at the 2014 Emmys.

I hope something crazy happens at the Golden Globes next spring.

....something like this.

                                          * I actually googled Steven Colbert's asymmetrical ears. He is deaf in one as a result of a punctured ear drum. That, according to further research, however, should not have caused their lack of symmetry.

                                             ** I remain the only person alive who has never seen an episode of "The Big Bang Theory" and I plan to keep it that way. I have also never seen any of the Star Wars movies. There is no real intent behind either of these choices but now I want to keep my streak going.
                                             *** I realize my attraction to Cary Joji Fukunaga is purely narcissistic---his braids reminds me of myself when I was in second grade.
                                             ***** Yes. Extremely.

Cary Joji Fukunaga wearing his hair like I did when I was eight.
He is also the creator of "True Detective" on HBO.

The MTV Video Awards: The Night of the Ass

I just deleted several opening paragraphs for today’s post because, despite my efforts, I cannot sugarcoat my review of the 2014 MTV Video Music Awards with a flowery opening or even some age-deprecating excuses as to why I didn’t enjoy what I saw.

The only thing that kept me from using the vomit bag I keep handy was my hope that I was either imagining the whole thing or that the entire world will agree with me. Neither scenario, I suspect, will redeem us. I fear it all actually happened.

Contrary to the belief of many some, I am not an idiot. I understand that young people are sexual beings. I have long believed that abstinence is less likely to become a successful method of handling horny teens than a solid attempt to educate them about protection from unwanted pregnancy and damaging STDs but what I and millions of adolescents saw last night was an un-doer of all the good we try to impart to teenagers everywhere as well as shockingly vulgar for someone like me…no prude but a product of a decidedly different age.

Ugh.

On last night’s MTV Video Music Awards, at best, female sexuality was represented by glaring, sneering, snarling women who appeared to interpret “sexy” as looking as mean as possible. But, as a woman, what do I know? Maybe men are turned on by really scary, angry looking women. I hope not. What I do know was that last night’s show was a celebration of the profane and obscene, interrupted by commercials for pimple creams, fast food and promos for madcap sitcoms about teen pregnancy.

So, obviously, MTV knew who their audience was. It was kids.

Jokes were even made about certain artists who look like jail bait. They repeatedly emphasized that specific, very youthful looking performers were genuinely of legal age. Maybe the diminutive, talentless and bland Ariana Grande actually is 21 but another, who goes by the moniker of Becky G, is 17.

Nicki in one of the more tasteful moments
of last night's ass fest.

Kicked off  by senior citizens Snoop Dogg and Gwen Stefani, the evening was a total mess.

One of the first numbers was some kind of insanity with the detestable Nicki Minaj whose appeal I will never comprehend.  

Her giant and terrifying derriere was the star of the performance and, I (again, I am a woman) was more grossed out than impressed. Hers used to be the kind of rear end that women would strive to camouflage with the right clothes but Nicki worked both it and the audience into a frenzy with her ass-robatics as the camera cut to the dead-eyed but also generously tushied Kim Kardashian. I wondered if there might be an “ass-off” later on.

After last year's spectacle with Robin Thicke, Miley Cyrus, toned down in a leather bra, provided the most contrived moment of the evening as she sent up a young homeless -- or something -- young man to accept her award and read a statement about being homeless  -- or something – while she conspicuously sat nearby  trying very hard to squeeze out a tear or two. The whole thing made me cringe. As another social statement, Common (who I love…especially as the brooding Elam on the epic television show, “Hell on Wheels”) asked this sexed-up crowd for a minute of silence for the recent unrest in Ferguson that lasted all of 13 seconds. If you ask for a minute, take a minute, Mr. Common. I am a very literal person.

The entire evening was a showcase for countless asses, crotches, humping and bumping around, simulated sex and the aforementioned sneering and glaring. If my mother were still alive and watching this show with me, it would have  – without question – killed her.

Lorde, looking gleeful, at
last year's Grammys.

The only ass-free portion of the evening was Taylor Swift who, taking a semester off from country pap to put a skinny toe into the waters of bouncy pop, attempted to shake her invisible booty to a new hit which, shock of shocks, I did not hate. 

That doesn’t mean I’m softening toward Miss Swift. She was as incredibly annoying as ever, acting coy and earnest from the front row, applauding enthusiastically as her “friend” Lorde (whose fashion and make-up choices make Morticia Addams look bright as a new penny) accepted an award. My advice to Lorde: watch your back.

Nothing could save this show for me. Not Adam Levine. Not some recently landed extraterrestrial named Iggy Azalea who appeared to be channeling an angry rapping robot...not even Usher who I usually love and was the only one all night who smiled while performing. By the way, he also interacted heavily with yet another appearance of Nicki Minaj’s ubiquitous ass.

This was, indeed, the night of the ass.

This leads to a different problem with last night’s MTV Video awards. They were boring as hell. Yes, yes, America’s youth, to me…not you. Or, maybe you were a little bored.  

Did you enjoy Beyonce’s marathon of grinding and thrusting (once you’ve seen one thrust, you’ve seen ‘em all) or did you fall into a mercifully dreamless coma like I did? 

Luckily, I'd recorded the whole thing in case I missed something wonderful so I rewound Beyonce and watched again later. Nope. It was more of the same:  mad faces, flared nostrils, sidelong glares and moves that will land Miss Bey, as well as her dancers, in traction one day. Yawn.

Mean Face #74

More yawning for Blue Ivy and her Daddy who presented “the greatest living entertainer” with a Moon man for something or other.

So, despite all the people with initials instead of last names, all the videos  “featuring” people with initials instead of last names and one Mr. Riff Raff who won the “Susan Says…”  for the "Most Ridiculous Looking Human Ever,” I was bored and antsy or bored and fully asleep or bored and grossed-out which is why I am never going to watch the MTV Video Music Awards ever again.

Riff Raff.
Aptly named, no?

The Box...

I had one job to do that day.  

If it were your job, you might not have worried at all. In fact, you might be good at this sort of thing, even consider it a challenge…but I was worried.  

This job, literally looming before me on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, was to wrap one enormous, unwieldy, huge monolith of a box in order for it to join other gaily dressed  boxes at a baby shower. I did not want my box to be embarrassed among the other pretty boxes. This was serious.

I am a terrible gift- wrapper. 

Years ago, I lasted but one pre-Christmas day in the wrapping department of Macy’s. Truth be told, I was a fill-in while the others were either gift wrap prodigies or, apparently, had devoted their entire lives to the science of neat corners and hand-tied bows but I soon had tape tape in my hair and was warned to never return.

I learned to wrap gifts at the famous "Three Stooges Gift Wrapping
Academy.

Based on this memory, I should not have been so cavalier about my chore, allowing the hours to tick by until the event was the following day. But, no worries, mate---I had Seth and his freakishly long arms and good nature to help me through it. Read that as do it for me while I sat back with a glass of iced and a cat on my lap.

But, what are the odd--Charlie unexpectedly called to lure Seth up to Massachusetts  for a male-bonding weekend and --  poof! -- Seth was gone, leaving nothing but a cereal bowl in the sink and the faint scent of banana in the air.

...notoriously tricky to gift wrap.

Now, all alone with the box, I got nervous. I anticipated, quite correctly, that my task would involve bending and lifting which are the two things I hate most in this world…so, I decided to tackle it the evening before in case I hurt myself and needed time to recover.  I was glad I’d bought enough paper to wrap the Taj Mahal since I knew there’d be mistakes.

Sometime after midnight and multiple inner pep talks that would have made Dale Carnegie look non-commital, I grabbed my scissors. 

The cats gathered and perched on the back of the love seat upon which I’d recently been sprawled when, suddenly, we heard an ominous thump upstairs on the deck.  Frozen, the cats and I exchanged fearful looks and shared the thought that on the one stinkin’ night Seth is gone, something scary is happening. And, here we are, with nothing for defense but three rolls of bunny-themed wrapping paper.

The cats scattered as the thumping morphed into the sound of deck furniture being shoved about and even though I soon deduced that my visitor was probably an animal and not the ghost of John Wayne Gacy in his clown suit, I was still shaken up. 

Oh, hey....can I come in?

I didn’t want to waste my one true emergency call to a neighbor on a raccoon (or even a sasquatch) so, instead, turned off the lights and cowered beneath a crocheted afghan under which I ultimately slept until morning. I woke with the cats around me again – a signal that the danger was over -- and emerged. The threat was gone but the box, still unwrapped, looked even bigger.

Relief , however, propelled me forward. After all, I’d  survived  with a possible sasquatch rearranging the deck so what’s a box, albeit a gigantic one? Plus, I had to leave for the baby shower very soon.  

After coffee and a phone call to Seth recounting my travails, I stood to circle my prey, roll of paper in hand and fire in my bell. Before you knew it, I’d figured it out. My shame as a poor holiday wrapper behind me, I was all about snipping, folding and taping and – boom! – the box was done. 

The cats and I took numerous selfies with it until I accidentally tore the paper and had to make a minor repair. The box had nothing to be ashamed of at the party later and I discovered that I had left the tub of bird seed on the deck after filling the feeders and a raccoon (or sasquatch) had chewed through the plastic and done some serious partying during the night. The end.

The actual box which exists now only in my memory....and this picture.

Aging, Advertising and a Bad Latuda

Does anyone still get their news from television anymore?

There was a day when the country used to snap on the TV and watch Walter Cronkite or even two curmudgeons named Huntley and Brinkley deliver the goods every evening. Raise your hands, please.......

Hmmm, only a few. And I’m sure you’re mostly over 50.

Uncle Walter kept us all informed.

Although I, myself, belong in the afore-mentioned age group, I get some of my news at the computer, too.

Thanks to the internet’s proliferation of schlock, I am equally aware of when a family of six rents out Kim Kardashians’s cleavage or exactly which expletive Shia LeBeouf recently shouted at a police officer, as well as the developments in the White House, the middle east and under Hilary Clinton’s bangs.

Actually, maybe a family
of eight could live there.

For the most part, however, Seth and I watch nightly world news on TV and have been noticing a clear and unsettling trend that has usurped all advertising time during the half hour format: All the commercials are for hip and knee replacements, incontinence supplies for women and a variety of prescription medications.  

The most popular and bizarrely obnoxious commercials used to be for Viagra and its ilk, showing attractive middle-aged actors sitting in farted-up bath water in tubs out on their lawns or men with well-clipped beards ogling women as they cheerfully re-pot plants (apparently the writers of these ads find transplanting a geranium before lunch to be a huge turn-on) but now, most of the commercials seem to be about depression.

"Why are our bathtubs out here, dear?"
"I have no idea."

Everyone knows that depression is not exclusive to the older set but there must be a lot of it to justify the advertising blitz on the small screen. Perhaps we are kind of bummed that we need to replace our joints, take up gardening in order to have sex or buy handbags large enough to carry our spare Depends but that would mean that all that malarkey is true. Well, it ain't.

Still, the ads do come fast and furious throughout the 30 minutes it takes Dianne Sawyer to tell us that the world does indeed seem to be in quite a fix. Or, come to think of it, maybe we’re melancholy because we know what's going on from watching the news in the first place.

By the way, have you noticed the names of the medications?

Take for example, Latuda. That sounds like a bad attitude about latitude but, instead, it’s a medication  for bipolar depression. Prolia sounds like a rapid moving flesh eating bacteria but actually is a medication for osteoporosis while Spiriva is for bronchial issues. To me, spiriva sounds like a religious cult (or, possibly a Chasidic entertainer...either way, she's in trouble) as in, “My daughter's run off with Spiriva!! What shall we do?”

 There’s also Toviaz which is a prescription for overactive bladders but should be a futuristic and poorly reviewed  movie starring Will Smith. 

You go break a leg, you crazy bitch.

A very heavily advertised anti-psychotic called Abilify does actually sound like something sturdy and life-empowering but Cymbalta, for depression, sounds like a party: They’re having a big cymbalta on Saturday for their 25^th anniversary, wanna go?”

Chantix, which  helps you stop smoking, sounds like fun, too while Lyrica -- for seizures -- sounds lilting and musical.

Then there’s the granddaddy of them all….Viagra. It’s chemical name is sildenafil citrate which does actually sound kind of droopy while viagra could be something to rub into your scalp to make your hair grow or, well, you know. Just seeing the word Viagra makes us all feel empowered and strong. I salute the drug namers for that one.

You might be next!

So, if someone under 25 were to turn on the evening news (as likely as Justin Bieber not hitting someone with his Ferrari) or, for that matter, even the decades-old news show, 60 Minutes on Sunday nights, he or she would be certain that the advertisers are very sure their audience is a bunch of pee soaked, creaking and depressed wrecks who need help in the bedroom.

Maybe some of us are but most of us would just like to be invited to a good cymbalta now and then and have a little fun.

"Toviaz!" starring Will Smith opens soon.

The Power of Oz

Since I love fewer things than saying "I told you so," I am reviving this post from nearly two years ago. Now that Dr. Oz has been dragged in front of a congressional committee to talk about his claims that you can you lose weight with a variety of "miracles," I thought this might be fun (for me, especially) to read again:

Who didn't love Dr. Oz in the beginning?

Introduced to the public by Oprah, he was refreshing and kind. He told us things we needed to hear and taught us stuff about our health and bodies that was new and helpful.

While never entirely comfortable with his insistence on wearing green operating scrubs on the show every week, he was kind of cute with that flip of hair on his forehead and his droopy upper eyelids.

While I was never one of them, I suspect many women imagined him handling their pancreases with the same sensuality he fondled the preserved organs he brought as show and tell to the Oprah show.

Look at that body language!

Angry Steadman

This went on for a while.

Oprah's boyfriend, Steadman and I endured the increasingly touchy-feely relationship that appeared to be developing between Oprah and Mehmet (I call him that). They both seemed in a bit of a lather over the dessicated lungs and heart valves they were petting and, if you combine all this with purple latex, the show was starting to get a little breathy for my taste.

Rumor has it, he wore no underwear beneath those scrubs. *

Then he got his own show and it didn't take long for me to grow annoyed.

Between the infatuated women in his audience who thundered to the stage to participate in some demo illustrating why we're all going to die very soon, to his constant groping of everyone in the studio, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Then as his producers realized that weight loss tips and tricks drew the biggest ratings, this became the focus of the show.

It now seems that every day he touts the miraculous properties of some new extract or powder harvested, perhaps, from the enlarged thymus of the Amazonian transvestite--freeze dried, packaged and express shipped to obese America to hasten the loss of belly fat, cellulite and bank account.

Instead of his original message of less food, more exercise there were endless supplements or ways to trick your metabolism, awaken one's enzymes or meditate your way to a slender figure.

As I grew tired of all this,  I noticed there was a co-host on "The Chew" (for those new to this blog, it is no secret that I have TV addiction issue but don't worry, I watch "Intervention" every week in the hope of learning how to overcome it) who was ditzy in a very uninteresting way and did not seem to know a parer from a grater from a ricer.

When I learned she was the daughter of Dr. Oz, it all made sense.

In general I have no issue with nepotism---it's how the world works. I, myself, pine for a successful relative to set me up but this girl was just so blah. Plus, I was insanely jealous that she got to hang around with my beloved Clinton Kelly--every straight woman's idea of the perfect man: funny, clever, can help you dress to minimize your ass bags, whips up delicious cocktails and does not want to sleep with you.

I just checked out the young Miss Daphne Oz and, guess what, I did not see any culinary or nutritional training. Hmmmm.

Then, to complicate matters, Dr. Oz's wife pops up on a morning show, introduced as a "relationship expert."

First of all, what is a relationship expert? By current television standards, it appears to be someone who has not yet taken hostages or killed a co-worker.

Hold on...let me google her. Well, no education or training in relationships...but, wait, she was captain of the tennis team in college!

All this worried me. We have an unqualified Oz talking about food on TV and another one giving advice--to millions of people. Was the Oz family attempting to take over the world?

Daphne Oz

I DVRed "The Chew" so I could avoid Daphne and go directly to the intoxicating Clinton Kelly, put my fingers in my ears and said "Lalalalala" when Lisa Oz came on and stopped watching her husband in the afternoons. 

But then I tuned into a summer medical show about real life doctors in New York City....and there was Dr. Oz, again-- and this time wearing scrubs for more than just foreplay with Oprah.

He was actually interacting with sick people and I found myself falling in love. This guy was warm and approachable. I found myself desiring bypass surgery just so I could playfully tug at the tie of his sterile mask and bask in the reassuring glow of his smile.

It was then I realized the power of Dr. Oz.

While I am still boycotting his show, I can understand it all a little better now.

* I started that rumor today.

I love you, Clinton.

The Little Pot

This morning -- while preparing steel cut oats to share with the guy who, despite my general cantankerousness and morning hair, consistently returns here nightly demanding food and clean socks -- the handle of the little pot I was using came right off in my hand.

It snapped off cleanly.

There was no damage and minimal mess---a little noise and some oatmeal on the burner, but that was all.

Upon closer examination, I realized that the pot, most likely older than I am, was unfixable. The guy waiting for his oatmeal agreed but the little pot had led a good life. Part of a set of Farberware owned by my grandma, it had cooked things for three generations of women, myself being the last as of this morning.

It had, in fact, been such a stalwart little pot, that I washed it before discarding it so that it might get a better reception from the other little pots in the garbage dump or wherever it might end up. I suddenly felt very sad as I remembered that this little pot and none other was the “pudding pot” of my childhood.

Few things are better than a
fluted dish.

Not tiny and not large, it was the perfect size to stir a package of Royal brand chocolate pudding into two cups of cold, fresh milk, await the bubbling stage and then turn down the heat as the loose chocolate “soup” thickened into the perfect consistency for pouring into four small fluted dishes.

Once it cooled a bit, I was handed the pot to clean out with a chubby finger. After I'd licked everything clean, I’d put the pot in the sink for, in those glorious days, I was still too short to do the dishes myself.

Are you a "skin" person?

As for the pudding, some people hate the “skin” that forms on top as it sets, so to prevent it from forming, place saran across the surface before it goes in the fridge. We, however, did not.  Not a man among us did not love the skin best and, when I was little and enjoying the last throes of cuteness, occasionally someone would give me their pudding skin, the ultimate gift.

Now that the little pot lay in the garbage, it was time to mourn it and, believe it or not, tears were shed. Not for the pot, although its status as a relic from my past was duly acknowledged in my sentimental mind, but for the era in which it had enjoyed its popularity and purpose.

Some do this on purpose now....

Originally shiny and bright, it had been lifted from the large box it had shared with its matching companions, only one of which -- a stock pot with a dented lid -- remains.

Knowing my grandma, she had relished its modernity, its newness, the fact that it matched other things in a household where very little matched anything. We ate from different plates, drank from assorted mugs and, to be honest, ignored much about the 20^th century in general.

We were a tiny village unto ourselves in a neighborhood full of such households, mismatched in their own right as they stood testimony to the ethnic hodgepodge of mid century Brooklyn. And, at the time, mid century Brooklyn was not all that different from medieval Europe. The seventies had not yet happened…my friends and I all came home and ate our ethnic food with our ethnic families and that was that.

Brooklyn when I was a kid.

True enough but the pudding
will be lousy.

But sometimes there was pudding.

Made from a small box with a corresponding picture, it was very easy and even though it was not “instant pudding” (“What is this instant pudding?? You can’t make anything good in an instant!), it was quick and convenient and was always cooked in the little pot that gave up the ghost this morning at breakfast.

Seth saw me staring at the pot in the garbage and simply said “No.”

He knew that in my thwarted hoarder’s soul  I was assessing whether I could find another use for it….sprouting seeds next spring, mixing paints or spices?

Nah, he was right. Sometimes you just have to throw something out despite its years of loyal service.

So, I said farewell to the pot but not to the memory of my mother, pink-cheeked and smiling, surrounded by family in a teeny-tiny kitchen stirring chocolate pudding for us all to enjoy, skin and all.

"She wants that little pot back, guys...."

On Broadway: A Celebrity Encounter

Last night I watched the Tony Awards on TV. 

I always enjoy them but the Tonys remind me of how much I wish I attended the theater. Living a mere car trip (and a king’s ransom in garage fees) from the theater district in New York City, I haven’t seen a Broadway play in years.

The reason for my absence is not that I don’t love theater because I do. 

In fact, I love it all--spilling, with the excited crowd, from the sidewalk through the glass doors into the lobby and onward to the dark interior (always smaller than expected and, therefore, creating the magical intimacy of a true Broadway experience)…the strains of a tuning orchestra… a last minute set adjustment by a headphone wearing stagehand as you find your seat…receiving your playbill and, later, reading it in the dim light.

There is nothing quite like the anticipation as the curtain rises…except, perhaps, the feeling you get at an amusement park when, once buckled in, the roller coaster springs to life beneath you and the tickle in your belly tells you it’s going to be a great ride.

Why, then, don’t I attend? Well, it’s the cost of a ticket, silly. 

Maybe so.

Despite that it, apparently, seems to be what the market will allow, I refuse to spend $350 for a ticket….for anything. The days of my youth when my mother used to take me to Broadway for a $5 mezzanine seat are over. Back then, she and I saw the original casts of Fiddler, Man of La Mancha and so many others thanks to her attitude of “we may not have much but art--we got. ” 

Mmmmmmmm.

Afterward, we’d grab a pretzel for the ride home and hum the songs on the subway. But ticket prices steeply jumped when I was a young adult…first to about $100 for an orchestra seat and, later, to the insanity of what they go for now.

The theater thrives and I’m glad. It doesn’t notice that I’m not there.

Occasionally, I have stumbled upon a deal or two. Most recently, we managed to get great seats to “Chicago” and, again, to see “Rent.”

What's the big deal?

Now, I – unlike the rest of civilization hated --  “Rent.” The music didn’t move me…nor did the tale of a bunch of freeloaders trying to avoid fiscal responsibility.

While trembling adolescent girls in leg warmers sang along, I waited for the lights so I could make a run for the ladies room. Poised to bolt, I rose and staggered up the aisle only to come – to my genuine shock  --  face to face with a sullen and narrow-hipped Sean Penn who leaned, in a studied pose, against the wall directly on the way to the bathroom. 

I somehow sensed  I’d now gotten my money’s worth…

Jeff Spicoli

Sorry, friends but I hate Sean Penn. I think he’s an over-rated creep who hasn’t offered an inspired performance since he played Jeff Spicoli in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." My immediate reaction was to glare at him in disgust.

Already in full pre-sneer mode, he was more than ready for me and, whether his nasty expression was a reflection of mine or mine, a mirror of his, we looked at each other with deep and lingering hatred. 

If looks could kill, Sean and I would have fallen dead -- each a victim of the other’s loathing.

Oddly, it was a great moment for me since I do not deny being excited by celebrity encounters and this one, while the opposite of a happy autograph moment, was still pretty exciting. Who among you can say that Sean Penn glared at you with a death stare right before getting in line to pee? I didn’t think so.

Doubtless I’ve seriously angered both the “Rent” and Sean Penn fans among you and, in this politically correct world, have surely crossed some line of propriety.  

As for Sean Penn, I like to think he’d actually defend my right to hate him and maybe even remembers the moment when a middle-aged woman attempted to stare him down in a theater.

As for “Rent, ” if you can’t afford it, move back home with Mom and Dad.

I loved "Rent." "Susan Says..." is a horrible bitch.

The Bell

The actual bell I now own.

It looked simple enough in the video.

How hard could it be? Only a few items were involved and I already had the cat. 

There’s always a bag of treats in the cabinet and the bell would be here in a few days. I also was in possession of determination, time and just enough crazy so this all made sense. My plan, you see, was to train Buzzy to ring a bell (by himself, with his paw) before I dispensed a cat treat! Pavlov--make way! Here comes “Susan Says…!”

The result of watching way too many adorably hilarious cat videos on youtube, the idea was born. Upon checking Amazon to see if I could inexpensively purchase the most important component of the operation – a counter bell (the kind people impatiently ring in movies,often at the front desk of a hotel, but the clerk is in the back trying to train a cat), the answer was not only of course but which color would you like and, most important, Buzzy is brilliant. 

This was going to be fun.

I would then make my own video with Buzzy ringing away to earn treats and later receive a Pulitzer (or something) for my efforts as well as the adulation of viewers around the globe who would watch the video and say things like “How cute!” and “What a great cat” in the comments section. Glory awaited. I could smell it. Or, was that the litter box?

The bell arrived.

Somehow, I resisted ringing it until I was situated with my “subject” (Buzzy) stomping about in the “testing area” (the kitchen table), already a-twitter over that which he loves more than life itself: Friskies Party Mix, flavor of Wild West Crunch.

Buzzy lives for treats. He would sell me to a traveling circus for a mere handful. 

If I so much as think about opening the door to the cabinet in which they are kept, he will wake from deep slumber and  run --  not unlike a crazed zombie -- into the kitchen and shout until there is a handful before him. 

Forgetting his manners, he will inhale them at the speed of light and beg for more. It’s fascinating and awful and God only knows what’s in those things because they cause well-mannered gentleman like Buzzy to totally lose their dignity. Surely, he’ll understand about the bell and the video and my future fame as a cat trainer.

Hours later, Buzzy is full of treats and sprawled like the Emperor Nero after an orgy. The bell has been rung (by me) so many times that Seth has fled in tears and, oddly, I have developed a strong craving for Chex Mix. Buzzy, however, has yet to ring the bell.

Despite the cat crack that Friskies adds to their product and Buzzy’s ensuing addiction, my cat training prowess (uh, that would be none) and desire for notoriety in the increasingly competitive world of cat videography, he is not interested.This leads me to question the cat in the video.

Who is this shameless cat whore, anyway?

I am no longer "in training."

Maybe it wasn’t even a cat. Maybe it was a monkey .  Or one of those other, popular pets, er, what are they called again? Oh, yes---dogs! Maybe it was a dog wearing a cat suit and it wasn’t even party mix but some sort of dog thing like bacon nuggets….yeah, that’s it. If Buzzy could not be trained, then the whole thing was suspect….a fraud….a sham.

Before drifting off into a treat-induced coma, Buzzy looked at me, slumped in my chair, purple bell taunting me from the corner into which I’d thrown it, empty bags of treats strewn about and then, without so much as a flicked whisker, closed his eyes.  I reached to tickle his round little Wild West Crunch filled belly. 

After all, part of the allure of cats is their untrainability, is it not?

Getting in the car to go buy the biggest bag of Chex Mix they sold at Stop ‘n’ Shop, I heard it. The bell rang, just once. Chances are it was Seth who had emerged from his hiding place and not the bloated cat I had just tried to make act, well, not like a cat at all. I never asked. 

Train me? I don't think so.