Prop 8 - The Musical

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Formatted for A-Dub

Apparently, my good friend Andrew can’t get all the way through my longwinded blog posts. So today, instead of my usual extended single post, I am simply going to list several potential post titles with respective synopses. I have enabled anonymous commenting in case you’d like to submit your own prospective topic, or perhaps something else Andrew will read, like a haiku.

Putin on the Ritz
A musical complete with a singing one-armed Ukrainian prostitute, Georgian Siamese-twin wrestlers, and a chorus line of Chechen Islamic Extremists.

Tommy J. – Foundin' Hustla
Historical science fiction. Thomas Jefferson is transported through time to modern day Washington D.C. where he immediately tries to “purchase” every black woman he sees. Hilarity ensures…until, in the ultimate irony, he is stabbed by a pimp on the footsteps of his own Memorial.

Toss My Salad
A television pitch: weekly reality show pairing American street prostitutes with classically trained French chefs to prepare full formal dinner service for D-list celebrities.

Heart of Darkness: The Bachelor Party of Clark Flobosco
Nonfiction; a weekend trip to Vegas goes horribly awry. A disturbing and sad tale. Names have been changed to preserve anonymity.

Top Ten Suffocated Gerbil Political Metaphors
Self explanatory.

Penis Non Grata
My life as a straight white Anglo-Saxon Protestant male in 200 words or less.

Noah's Arc

BOULDER, Colo. — When Donna Campiglia learned recently that a genetic test might be able to determine which sports suit the talents of her 2 ½-year-old son, Noah, she instantly said, Where can I get it and how much does it cost?

“I could see how some people might think the test would pigeonhole your child into doing fewer sports or being exposed to fewer things, but I still think it’s good to match them with the right activity,” Ms. Campiglia, 36, said as she watched a toddler class at Boulder Indoor Soccer in which Noah struggled to take direction from the coach between juice and potty breaks.

“I think it would prevent a lot of parental frustration,” she said.
-From the New York Times article, Born to Run?

Noah’s Arc – A Play in One Act

SCENE: LIGHTS COME UP on DONNA CAMPIGLIA, 36, and
NOAH CAMPIGLIA, 2 ½, on opposite ends of a orange leather
couch in the Denver Broncos-memorabilia laden office of
DOCTOR BROOKS T. WALKER, 42, sports psychologist.
DONNA leans forward, elbows on knees, anxiously rubbing her
temples with her respective index fingers. NOAH leans back, the
plush cushions almost absorbing his small frame. DOCTOR
WALKER alternatively nods thoughtfully and squeezes his
Broncos stress ball.

DONNA
You see, Doctor, this is exactly the problem; he doesn’t acknowledge the magnitude of the choices we’re making right now. Look at him just sitting there. You think Ronaldo or David Beckham just sat around watching Thomas the Tank Engine all day? I mean, I bring the whistle and the cones to the park everyday, rain or shine. Prajeet, at GNC, got us all the top-of-the-line child supplements. And Noah’s agent Shayla, is about to ink a Juicy Juice endorsement. But he just wants to sit on my lap all day like an invalid.

DOCTOR WALKER
I see, Donna. So you’re saying that you’re angry?

DONNA
Yes. I am very, very angry.

NOAH
Mommy, where Max?

DONNA
(Glaring at Noah) Maximus is not here, Noah! (Turning back to Doctor Walker) He’s talking about the dog. The fucking dog. It’s like, Noah’s here, but not really here. You know?

DOCTOR WALKER
Donna, I want you to tell Noah how it makes you feel when he doesn’t take his tremendous ability seriously.

DONNA
(Standing up, smoothing out her tracksuit bottoms with both hands, and looking down on Noah) Noah-

NOAH
Max in bic-yard?

DONNA
The damn dog is at home! We are at the therapist’s office! (She collapses back onto the couch) God! Why do I bother?

DOCTOR WALKER
Now, Donna, let’s stay on track here. Tell Noah how his selfishness makes you feel.

DONNA
(She takes a prolonged deep breath) Noah, honeybear, when Mommy gets up at five in the morning—before Pilates—and chalks the grass at Warren G. Harding Elementary, and then you just want to put woodchips in your mouth, it makes her really really upset.

DOCTOR WALKER
Donna, that’s good, but tell Noah about the physical manifestation of the feelings his cowardice brings up in you.

NOAH
Mommy, I have go pee-pee. I have-

DONNA
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Noah, Mommy’s about to have a breakthrough.

NOAH
Mommy? Pee-pee! (Noah’s expression abruptly turns sad)

DOCTOR WALKER
Now we’re getting somewhere. Go Donna. Run with it!

DONNA
Noah- (She begins to choke up) Honeybear, you…you have such a gift-

NOAH
Pee-pee!

DOCTOR WALKER
Noah, come on, pal. (Dropping the stress ball and raising his palm to Noah) Pull it together. We’re really making progress.

DONNA
(Through tears) When you squander your talent...it makes me burn…burn inside…want to burn to feel…want to press the hot curling iron onto my leg until I can smell the charred flesh. (She breaks down, sobbing into her hands)

DOCTOR WALKER
That’s it! Let it all out, Donna.

NOAH
Pee-pee!!!

DONNA
(Turning her entire body to Noah) You’re not my father! (Her lower lip quivers) I love you, honeybear.

DOCTOR WALKER
Yes!

NOAH
Mommy?!? (Looking down to his lap)

DONNA
(She leans forward to hug him, but retreats abruptly) Ew.

LIGHTS GO DOWN

Fume le Cigare

“My question is whether a President Obama and a Secretary of State Clinton, given all that has gone down between them and their staffs, can have that kind of relationship, particularly with Mrs. Clinton always thinking four to eight years ahead, and the possibility that she may run again for the presidency. I just don’t know.”
-Thomas Friedman, in Madam Secretary?

I can’t quite get behind the appointment of Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State. I’m trying but I’m definitely not there yet. She doesn’t strike me as a team player, someone who will always have Barack’s back. I can already hear the passive-aggressive praise being dished out to foreign heads of state: “Yeah he sure can hoop it up, just don’t put a bowling ball in his hands;” “Americans do love him, especially the annoying ones with PhDs;” and “Of course he’s cool, he’s a black guy.” The real deal-breaker is that Hillary is reminiscent of the weaselly smart kid in class who, instead of simply refusing to let you copy his test, goes out of his way to pass you the answers. Except they are the wrong answers, handed over in a deliberate attempt to paint you as a moron…and if Martin Fitzenberger from Mrs. Kozak’s 5th grade class is reading this, you still have a beating coming.

Other than the Fitzenbergers of the world, the person who will reap the maximum benefit from this appointment is good ole Bill Clinton. I bet he’s already thinking about the official State visit to France…

While President Sarkozy and Secretary Clinton are busy discussing the state of Franco-American diplomacy, their respective partners, Carla Bruni and Slick Willy, will be ushered off to the spousal lounge. Can you imagine Bill Clinton alone with the First Lady of France in a room filled with aperitifs, cordials, and overstuffed horizontal furniture? You don’t need a black light to see this international incident coming. One can only hope that some Élysée Palace maid won’t have stocked the lounge with cigars.

Foreign Diplomacy

I received an interesting phone call from an old friend last night. We grew up together in Los Angeles. Dude is quite a character. Combine Larry David’s bluntness and lack and of tact with Will Ferrell’s physical demeanor and haplessness, and you’ve got an idea of the fellow I am talking about. Bad luck and worse judgment have frequently rendered him the victim of extraordinary circumstances. He stumbles into the kind of escalating pandemonium that no sensible person would ever have to face.

I could literally tell you thousands of ridiculous stories about this guy. I’ll dangle a short yarn, for background. In his early twenties, late one lonely night, my husky Jewish pal found himself wandering into an East Hollywood massage parlor. This was no day spa. No clients came in hoping to be wrapped in seaweed with cucumbers placed gently over their eyes. Upon being buzzed in through a steel door, customers were made to look into a video camera and recite: “I am not a law enforcement officer.”



After confirming he was not wearing a wire, my friend insisted that he receive services from a Japanese masseuse. Eventually, following some bickering, the madam of the house told him that he would indeed be serviced by “a girl straight from Tokyo.” Instead, he was met at the massage table by a woman who was clearly not Asian, with a distinctly Mexican accent, wearing heavy eye makeup in an apparent effort to appear Japanese. The situation deteriorated rapidly from there. Suffice to say that his evening did not have a happy ending.

So last night, my friend told me about a conversation he recently had with his wife. The two of them had fallen into a spontaneous serious heart-to-heart talk. They spoke about their family together (two kids), career ambitions, and life in general, over multiple glasses of wine. Well into this dialogue, she nonchalantly throws out: “If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?” At first he wisely resists the question, but his wife eventually breaks him with, “I promise I won’t be mad at whatever you say. Just be honest.”

Now at this point any reasonable man would give a pat answer like: ‘I would make you less attractive because you are so incredibly beautiful that I can’t stop thinking about you all day and it distracts me at work.’ But instead, my forthright friend looks his wife in the eye and says, with sincerity, “If I could change one thing about you I’d make you Asian.”

His wife, who is in fact blonde and very fair-skinned, flips out. And in response to her fury, my old pal shrugs and says, “I was just being honest.” Un-fucking-believable.

Oh yeah, one other thing, they currently have a teenage Thai au pair living with them. No shit.

I don’t know exactly how to articulate the moral of this story. I do know, however, what holiday gift I’ll be giving my friend and his wife this year—his and hers kimonos.

Fowl News

You cannot beat the symbolism in this video: watch as a sassy smiling Sarah Palin rambles on aimlessly, completely oblivious to the carnage unfolding over her shoulder.

A Well-Styled Bailout

“There’s a delicious irony in seeing private luxury jets flying into Washington, D.C., and people coming off of them with tin cups in their hands. It’s almost like seeing a guy show up at the soup kitchen in high-hat and tuxedo. . . .I mean, couldn’t you all have downgraded to first class or jet-pooled or something to get here?”
-Rep. Gary L. Ackerman (D-N.Y.), to the chief executives of the Big Three automakers arriving to beg for cash from the public.

I must admit, I’m torn over this auto bailout. I’m not torn over what to do to the CEOs of Chrysler, GM, and Ford. They should be publically drawn and quartered, but by American cars in lieu of horses. It would give them a sporting chance, and thus, make it more fun to watch.




On Tuesday, I read Mitt Romney’s New York Times Op-Ed, Let Detroit Go Bankrupt. I found myself nodding my head, thinking that he really made some valid points. And indeed he did. But every time I find myself agreeing with Mitt Romney, I secretly wonder if it’s his hair? I’m convinced that if I stared at his immaculately well-coiffed dome long enough, I’d stop drinking, put on a nametag, and start going door-to-door singing the praises of Jesus and that Smith guy. I might even have sex to procreate. The horror.

Then I remembered the Mitt Romney we all met circa January 2008. The Republican Presidential Candidate who told his native Michigan: “Look at Washington. What have they done to help the domestic auto industry? Look, you can't keep on throwing anvils at Michigan and the auto industry and then say, ‘How come they are not swimming well?’” and, “I hear people say, ‘It’s gone, those jobs are gone, transportation’s gone, it’s not coming back.’ I'm going to fight for every single job. I'm going to rebuild the industry. I'm going to take burdens off the back of the auto industry.”

It’s hard to remember everything Romney said during the Primary (again, the hair gets in my way), but I don’t recall him mentioning anything to the autoworkers about a massive catastrophically spiraling bankruptcy. Of course, handsome Mitt is no stranger to contradicting perspectives. Although he professes to believe that the consumption of alcohol is morally repugnant, he keeps a fully stocked bar in his house for entertaining. Go figure.

Ultimately, concerning the auto bailout, I think I’m steering towards the perspective of economist Jeffery Sachs. I won’t bother to re-articulate the argument he made this week in The Washington Post; you can read it here: A Bridge for the Carmakers. The opening of his last paragraph sums it up: “We face an unprecedented financial calamity, energy crisis and environmental threat. A vibrant, growing U.S. automobile industry should play an essential role in solving all three.”