(the following is written after watching a commercial for a horror movie on TV. I was taking Nyquil)

A young couple is being shown a three bedroom home in Long Island by a realtor.

YOUNG WOMAN: I love it. The kitchen is so cozy. And look, Ben, a breakfast nook.

YOUNG MAN: (to realtor) Are you sure the price is only $150,000. In such a nice neighborhood? Is this a foreclosure?

REALTOR: Oh, no. Absolutely not.

YOUNG WOMAN: It’s the economy, Ben. Housing prices have been going down.

YOUNG MAN: But $150,000?

REALTOR: There are some other factors.

YOUNG MAN: I knew it! It sounded too good to be true. Is there a problem withe the plumbing, because…

REALTOR: No, no, no…I didn’t mean that. It just that before it was renovated in 1965, this house used to be a funeral parlor.

YOUNG MAN: Oh, that’s fine. Isn’t it honey?

YOUNG WOMAN: Absolutely. That’s why the living room is so large. That must be where all the coffins were stored!

REALTOR: Exactly. It’s a beautiful room. Difficult to find wood paneling like that. The first family that lived here after the renovation, the Kensingtons, used to have gala Christmas celebrations in here, with sparkling lights and eggnog, and a beautiful tree.

YOUNG WOMAN: How lovely!

REALTOR: Sadly, the entire family was massacred by a roving band of escaped mental patients.

YOUNG MAN: Hmmm, that doesn’t sound very good…

REALTOR: Oh, don’t worry. The mental patients were captured and returned to the institution.

YOUNG WOMAN: You see, Sweetie. You worry over nothing! (to realtor) Can we see the bedrooms?

REALTOR: Of course.

They climb the creaky stairs to the master bedroom.

REALTOR: Don’t mind the blood stains on the walls. They’ll be cleaned off by next week.

YOUNG MAN: What happened? Why are there so many blood stains?

REALTOR: Well, this is going to sound silly, and rather unimportant, but many years ago, a group of women were burned at the stake as witches on this exact spot, and past owners sometimes complained of ghosts and evil spirts. But I don’t believe in ghosts or evil spirits, do you?

YOUNG WOMAN: Of course not. we’re professionals. We’re both web designers!

YOUNG MAN: You still haven’t explained the blood stains on the walls…

REALTOR: Oh, it’s the last owner. A young guy. A college kid with wealthy parents. He shared the place with some roommates. Lots of girls and drinking and sex, until each was killed in some grisly manner. It was a very odd coincidence.

YOUNG MAN: The owner was killed too?

REALTOR: Oh no, he committed suicide by impaling himself on the kitchen chandelier.

YOUNG MAN: That sounds a little uh, drama queen-ish.

REALTOR: Eh, you know, college kids. Sowing their wild oats. I was pretty wild myself back in Alabama State before I settled down with the little lady. Go Crimsons!

YOUNG MAN: (turning to his wife) Honey, are you sure this is the right house for us?

REALTOR: (pulling an envelope from his pocket) Oh yeah, the last owner left this envelope for “The Next Owner: Must Open Immediately.” But is it really necessary to read the letter? I think this place is perfect for the two of you. Why be bothered by anything right now that will ruin the moment?

YOUNG WOMAN: He’s right, Ben. I love it. So much room. We can have wonderful dinner parties in here with the Axelrods! We can celebrate Rob Axelrod’s early release from prison for that manslaughter charge!

YOUNG MAN: OK, then I guess we are interested!

REALTOR: And the envelope?

YOUNG MAN: Who needs to read it?! Rip it up! Let’s start fresh!

The Young Couple kisses as the realtor starts the paperwork.

I went down to Pathmark Supermarket to buy whole wheat hamburger buns and some bottles of Snapple, that were on sale for fifty-nine cents each.   In front of the entrance, was an Orthodox Jew handing out leaflets.  He was wearing a yarmulke and tzitzit, a traditional fringed garment worn under the clothing.  I’ve seen these guys before.   Some ultra-religious Jews go around and try to get less religious Jews to pay more attention to the various rituals of Judaism.  These men are not just being nice. Some of them believe that the spreading of their religious fervor will hasten the arrival of the Messiah.

Usually, these Jews only bug other Jews.  They frequently ask passerbys, “Are you Jewish?” before they annoy the hell out of you.  They aren’t being rude.  They are just on a mission.  The only time I’ve ever said that I WASN”T Jewish had nothing to do anti-Semitism or wanting to fit in with my Christian friends.  I’ve only said “No, I’m not Jewish,” to avoid one of these ultra-religious guys pestering me on the street about lighting the Shabbos candles.

“Here, take some candles. Light them on Friday night. Do you belong to a temple?  Come to our temple.  We even will feed you!”

They will feed you. I know their trick.   You go to their temple.  They feed you some good chicken soup, and then they OWN YOU!

Let’s pray.

Let’s keep kosher.

Let’s not flirt with women on the internet.

Yeah, right.

What surprised me about this guy outside the supermarket was that he was not asking, “Are you Jewish?” to anyone.   He was handing out his leaflets and talking to every passerby, whether they were black or white or Latino or Asian.  Some of these shoppers quickly walked by, while others politely took one of his leaflets.

Was he trying to convert everyone to Judaism?

Three years ago, I wrote a post advocating Jews trying to convert other religions. I was being a little tongue in cheek.   At the time,  I felt that if other religions are always trying to convert you, why not return the favor.   In reality, conversion is a dirty word for most Jews because it brings up a sad history of forced conversion, mostly at the hands of Christians.   Even though I wrote that post, I don’t really feel comfortable with anyone trying to convert another person.

I wondered if this zealot outside my Queens supermarket felt safe trying to convert others to Judaism because we were in Queens, and there were many Jews in the neighborhood.   Maybe he felt safe in numbers, despite the fact that there was a mosque right across the street.

This made me angry.   If I were a Jew in a Christian neighborhood, I would hate having someone try to convert me outside my local supermarket.  I would feel as if I was being pressured to be “one of the majority.”  I’m not a hypocrite.    Why should a Jew try to convert others in our neighborhood?   Surely, the religions of others — whether it be Christianity, Islam, or Buddhism — is as worthy a religion.   This smug Jewish guy, passing out leaflets, was arrogant.  It didn’t matter if he was “part of my tribe.”

I walked into the supermarket, using a side door, just to avoid him.

After I finished my shopping, I looked through the store window, and saw my Jewish friend deep in conversation with a black mother and her son.  The mother took the flier, nodding in agreement.  Did he just sucker in another victim to leave her own religion behind?  My face grew red.  This idiot was giving the Jewish people a bad name.

I walked outside, waiting for him to hand me a flier and engage me in conversation.  I walked by and he completely ignored me.   What was up with that?!   Did he see that I was angry and was worried about a conflict?   Or could he tell that I was already Jewish so he didn’t need to convert me?   And how did he know I was Jewish?   Was he judging me on my Jewish nose like a racist would do?   Was this Jewish man stereotyping a fellow Jew?

Hell, I wanted him to try to convert me!   I wanted him to hand me one of those leaflets, so I can shove it back in his face and tell him that this is not the ways Jews should behave.  That it is a shame for him to stand there in his yarmulke and tzitzit and show such disregard for other cultures and other religions.

I did a 360 and entered the supermarket again, just so I could exit a second time and get one of those leaflets.  I quickly re-walked my steps, leaving the market as I did before, not even waiting for the electric door to fully open.  I walked past the ultra-religious Jewish guy, who was eagerly handing out his leaflets — and the asshole ignored me again.

That was enough for me.   Like Abraham, who would sacrifice Isaac, his son, because of God’s word, I knew that it was my moral obligation to confront my Jewish nemesis.  I stepped in front of him.

“May I have one of those leaflets.”

“Sure,” he said reluctantly.

He handed me one. I held it tightly in my hand, ready to start my diatribe against religious hypocrisy.  And then I read the piece of paper:

“Looking to sell your condo?  Call 718-555-1212.”

When I arrived home, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair had gotten long again. I was unshaven. I was wearing an old t-shirt. Apparently, I was stereotyped by this guy as someone who can’t afford to own a condo.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Truth and Fiction

The “love scene” from my latest screenplay, a romance titled “The Secret Affair of the Mommyblogger”:

The couple meet in his car, which is parked outside the “other” suburban Bed, Bath, and Beyond – the one the neighbors DON’T go to, because there is no Chipotle next door. The are immediately all over each other, the passion intense.

She: “I think we should put on the breaks.”

He: “And I think we should shift gears.”

She: “And I think I need an oil change.”

He: “And I think you turned on my ignition.”

She: “And I think you’ve just opened my glove compartment.”

He: “And I think I feel your airbags.”

She: “And I think we should go hybrid.”

He: “And I think your cupholder is convenient.”

She: “And I think I need a lube job,”

He: “And I think I’m going zero to sixty.”

She: “And I think we’re stuck in a fender bender.”

He: “And I think I’m overheating because of the steep incline.”

She: “And I think your timing belt needs adjusting.”

He: “And I think it is my internal combustion.”

She: “And I think you’re not watching the road signs.”

He: “And I think I blew a gasket.”

She: “And I think you stalled before I reached my destination. Hand me the GPS and I’ll get there myself. Then I need to pick up the kids from day camp.”

Greetings to you, the lucky finder of this golden ticket, from Mr. Willy Wonka!  I shake you warmly by the hand!  Tremendous things are in store for you! Many wonderful surprises await you!  For now, I do invite you to come to my factory and be my guest for one whole day — you and all others who are lucky enough to find my Golden Tickets.  I, Willy Wonka, will conduct you around the factory myself, showing you everything that there is to see, and afterwards, when it is time to leave, you will be escorted home by a procession of large trucks.  These trucks, I can promise you, will be loaded with enough delicious eatables to last you and your entire household for many years.  If, at any time thereafter, you should run out of supplies, you have only to come back to the factory and show this Golden Ticket, and I shall be happy to refill your cupboard with whatever you want.  In this way, you will be able to keep yourself supplied with tasty morsels for the rest of your life.  But this is by no means the most exciting thing that will happen on the day of your visit.  I am preparing other surprises that are even more marvellous and more fantastic for you and for all my beloved Golden Ticket holders — mystic and marvelous surprises that will entrance, delight, intrigue, astonish, and perplex you beyond measure. In your wildest dreams you could not imagine that such things could happen to you! Just wait and see!  And now, here are your instructions: the day I have chosen for the visit is the first day in the month of February.  On this day, and on no other, you must come to the factory gates at ten o’clock sharp in the morning.  Don’t be late!  And you are allowed to bring with you either one or two members of your own family to look after you and to ensure that you don’t get into mischief.  One more thing — be certain to have this ticket with you, otherwise you will not be admitted.

(Signed) Willy Wonka

(from Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory)

Who has never hoped for that Golden Ticket that will gain him entrance to the places of his wildest dreams? 

On Saturday, I was walking along the street in Long Beach when I notice that a new candy store had opened down the block.  It was one of those upscale candy stores that was geared as much for adults as kids, with a large selection of exotic and nostalgic candies from the past.  Outside the entrance, a few adults were online waiting to get a signed headshot from some “celebrity” who was there to promote the store.   I’m pretty good at recognizing those in the public eye, but I had no idea who the celebrity was at first, even when someone told me that this was “Mike Teavee.” 

“Who?” I wondered. 

Then I saw a poster for the 1971 version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and immediately remembered the obnoxious kid in the cowboy outfit, one of the winners of the Golden Ticket to the factory.  Sitting here was Paris Themmen, who played Mike Teavee in the film.  I stood on line.  The woman in front of me was next.  She was thrilled to meet a character from her favorite movie.

“Can you please write “To Meg, Martin, and the two girls — Mike Tevee says, “I love TV, Willy Wonka Candy, and I love YOU!”

The actor quickly scribbled the message.  It seemed as if he’d done this countless times before at other candy stores and movie conventions.

Next, It was my turn.  I had never stood in line to get a signature before… well, other than for Crazy Aunt Purl’s book signing in LA, who then promptly stopped coming to this site after I told her to sign my book “Neilochka, I’d knit you a pair of socks anytime, anywhere.”

“Hey, how ya doing?” asked Paris Themmen, the former Mike Teavee.  I’m a big fan of the original Willy Wonka, and the books of Roald Dahl, but I wasn’t really prepared for this random meeting with the former child star. He seemed like a cool guy, and seeing that I was a little down in the dumps over things with Sophia, I saw this as a pick-me-up.

“Uh, great,” I said.  “Thanks for coming here.”

“What would you like me to write for you?” he asked.

I really had no idea.

The result:

After he handed me his signed photo, some pretty girl handed me a free “Willy Wonka” brand candy bar.  Now, if I were Mike Teavee or a character in Willy Wonka, I probably would have ripped open the packaging to see if there was a Golden Ticket inside.  Unfortunately, my first destination was to read the back of the wrapper for the nutritional information, where I discovered that this candy had more saturated fat than a pastrami sandwich at Canter’s Deli. 

“Hell, I should at least try it and see if Willy Wonka would approve.” 

I took one bite of this grainy, milk chocolate pseudo Nestle Crunch bar and I knew immediately that Willy himself would drown the producers of this monstrosity in a vat of chocolate (I later found out that the “Willy Wonka” brand is licensed to Nestle). It tossed most of the candy, which is probably the best thing for my cholesterol.

Besides, there was no Golden Ticket inside.

One day, I’ll get that Golden Ticket.  But it won’t be in a candy bar. 

Thanks for the photo, Paris (Mike Teavee)!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Lillies of the Valley

I’ve never done this before, but this post is really for just one person, my childhood friend, Tuck, who I know reads this blog.  I went to the movies today and the studios are already promoting their summer movies.  It seems as if every other movie now is based on some comic book adventure hero.   

Today I was inspired, Tuck.  I finally discovered the reason I moved to Los Angeles.  It is a spiritual reason.  It is my duty to write the screenplay to OUR favorite comic book!  Of course, there will have to be a few changes to make it work as a summer film.

Imagine this trailer at your local movie theater –

EXT. HIGH SCHOOL -DAY

The camera zooms in on a typical American high school.  Everything seems normal, the same as it is every day.

V.O. — “A typical day in suburbia.  A typical day in school.”

INT. CLASSROOM – HIGH SCHOOL -DAY

We find ourselves in a chemistry class as Dr. Dolbell is showing a group of students an experiment in making dry ice.

V.O. — “But today is not a typical day.  Because today, this peaceful bastion of education will change forever….”

One of the students, a practical joker, turns on his bunson burner.

Dr. Dolbell:  “No!!!!”

There is a huge explosion.  The entire school is engulfed in flames.

EXT.  HIGH SCHOOL – DAY

A CNN reporter is standing in front of the fiery chaos.  Stretchers are being rushed out to waiting ambulances and emergency choppers.

CNN Reporter:  “Casualties are high.   The local hospital is filled.  The state has called for a state of emergency.  This is the worst event that has ever happened to this quiet little community.”

 A paramedic is quickly wheeling one of the injured. 

Paramedic:  “We need to get this one out now!  He’s serious.  I don’t know if he can make it.”

Although bloodied, we can see the young man on the stretcher, his red hair still neatly-coiffed.  On his shirt, is written his name, “Archie Andrews.”  In the background is the name of the school, “Riverdale High School.”

This used to be an illustration of the Archies, but now I am using this lame photo instead so I don’t get sued by Archie comics. 

INT.  RIVERDALE HOSPITAL – NIGHT

A large group of surgeons are at work, rushing back from one victim to the next.  Five students are unconscious, side by side, each barely alive.

V.O. — “Archie Andrews, Reggie Mantle, Betty Cooper, Veronica Lodge, Jughead Jones.  We can rebuild them.  We can change them from typical high school students who are only interested in drinking sodas at the malt shop into a TEAM OF HIGHLY TRAINED KILLING MACHINES for a secret department of the United States Government.

EXT.  RED SQUARE — NIGHT

V.O. — “Archie Andrews — is now THE FIREMAN!”

Archie, now as muscular as a boxer, extends his hand in the direction of a group of Russian renegade military officers.  Fire shoots from his hand and incinerates the bad guys.

INT.  TIMES SQUARE — DAY

V.O. — “Reggie Mantle is now DOCTOR PUNISH!”

Reggie stretches his body like rubber completely around the TKTS ticket both, lifts it from cement and tosses it at a meteor about to hit New York, knocking it away and saving the day.

INT.  SAN BERNADO HOTEL – BUENOS AIRES – NIGHT

V.O. –”BETTY COOPER is the BLONDINATOR!”

Betty is making love with an Argentine drug dealer, when she sees him reaching for his knife.  She wraps her thighs around his head and cracks his neck.  He dies with a smile on his face.

EXT.   FISH MARKET — SHANGHAI – DAY

V.O. –”Veronica Lodge is GOLDBITCH!”

Veronica is surrounded by three martial artists swinging nunchucks. 

Veronica:  “Well, hello boys.  I always wanted a threesome.”

She whips out two golden revolvers.

“Daddy always told me that everything is better in gold.”
 
She blows them all away.

EXT.  DESERT AREA – PAKISTAN – NIGHT

V.O. –”Jughead Jones is DJ Crown!”

Jughead is leading a team of Marines in to find Bin Laden while doing some impromptu rapping for the entertainment of the others.  Jughead, looking through a nighttime telescope, catches a glimpse of Bin Laden trying to escape.

“Not this time, sucker!”

Jughead takes off his metallic crown and flings it like a frisbee, pinning Bin Ladin to the rock.

EXT.  HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD – NIGHT

The five ex-high school students, now superheros, swagger down the street, towards the camera, each carrying their weaponry.

V.O.  — “For these five high school students, school is definitely out for summer.  It is out… forever.  Riverdale, Riverdale, rah, rah…

A bus blows up behind our heroes.  Flames and metal fly into the sky.  They keep on walking to Jughead’s new rap hit “Sugar, Sugar, Sweet Bitch, Sugar.”

Note:  This post is a parody and this blog is not affiliated or associated with Archie Comic Publications, Inc.

Did you all see Dancing with the Stars on Monday night? What did you think? The show just gets better and better.  (note:  read with sarcasm)

Here’s my weekly recap:

Tonight on Dancing with the Stars, Marlee Matlin’s Samba was only so-so. The music was too fast, and Matlin, who is deaf and counts the steps in her head, was falling behind.

Last year, the gimmick contestant was Heather Mills, who has an artificial leg. This year, it is a deaf actress.

“Who will it be next year?” I asked Sophia during the commercial. “How can they outdo themselves after a contestant with an artificial leg and then someone deaf?”

“Maybe someone who is blind.” she answered.

“I think it is probably harder to dance being deaf than blind.” I said.

“You’re probably right. Being blind doesn’t really “up the stakes” for the show next year.”

“Maybe someone deaf AND blind.”

“Someone in a wheelchair.”

“That would be cool.”

“Someone not very bright.”

“They’ve had plenty of those before.”

“Someone with even more plastic surgery than Priscilla Presley.”

A promo came on for this ABC comedy, “Samantha Who” about a woman with amnesia.

“Someone with amnesia!”

“That’s good. Someone with recurring amnesia who forgets the dance routine minutes before the performance…!”

“…and also has a wooden leg!”

“But really… is it that much better than someone who is deaf?”

“Maybe not. A midget?”

“Eh… it’s been done.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“I got it. A transvestite!”

“That’s stupid. A transvestite can still dance.”

“What if the transvestite is also deaf… and not very attractive.”

“Ok, I buy that. Let’s see if ABC does.”

Tomorrow: The “elimination” show.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Married Couples

I watched this show on Sunday:  Oprah’s Big Give.   The very concept of the show made me uncomfortable:  An Amazing Race reality show where contestants compete by seeing who can give away the most stuff to poor, miserable, and disabled individuals in need.  It is a bizarre meshing of Oprah’s “My Favorite Things,” “Extreme Makeover Home Edition,” and “The Grapes of Wrath.”

Good Samaritan:   ”Mr. CEO, I want to thank you so much for your generous donation.  This money will go a long way for opening a school for homeless children who lisp, and for hiring the finest in speech pathologists.”

CEO:  “Hold on, hold on.  Let’s wait until the cameraman shows up.”

Good Samaritan:  “What cameraman?”

CEO:  “Isn’t this donation for Oprah’s Big Give?  Aren’t you a contestant on the show?”

Good Samaritan:  “No, I told you on the phone I wanted to ask you for a donation for a school for homeless children who lisp.”

CEO:  “You’re doing this on your own?”

Good Samaritan:  “When I was younger, I lisped, and well, kids laughed…”

CEO:   ”You mean you just called up and I let you in — and you have nothing to do with Oprah?”

Good Samaritan:  “Well, I saw how generous you were on her show last night and –” 

CEO:  “Get the f**k out of here!  I don’t just let anyone walk into my office.  I thought this was another donation for Oprah’s show.  I thought this was going to be on TV.”

Good Samaritan:  “Oh, I’m sorry.  But what about the donation?”

CEO:  “Give me that check back.  You’re an idiot.  Why are you collecting money for charity for NOTHING when you can be doing it on Oprah’s show and winning a million dollars!”

Good Samaritan:  “A million dollars!?”

CEO:  “My father always said, “Charity begins at home.”"

Good Samaritan:  “Hell, yeah.  Can I borrow your computer for a second.  Let me sign on at Oprah.com.  I’ll come back here next time with Oprah’s camera crew.”

CEO:  “Now we’re talking charity!”

I’m waiting… for that apology…

Does this joust go with my shoes?

You know I don’t like green peppers in my kung pao chicken!

Why must you always flirt with Fury in my presence?

I thought your mother was staying at a hotel this time?!

I don’t care what you got from Netflix.  Tonight we’re watching Grey’s Anatomy.

Stop fooling yourself, Neilochka.  It’s not even close to Titan’s.   That one time we… it was… it was… like this…

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   How Jack Bauer Has Ruined My Life

I woke up this morning and saw a large manila package outside our door.  I opened the door, still in my underwear, and took it.  It was for Sophia.  Since she was still sleeping,  I took the initiative to open the package myself.  Out came a huge brochure, a press kit, and a free movie pass for a Paul Thomas Anderson-directed movie for Miramax.  I laughed to myself. It was for the SAG awards.  It was that time a year again, despite the Writers’ Strike. The Weinsteins must really want to win and Oscar this year.   Did they really send this to each and every SAG member?

I heard Sophia rustling in bed upstairs.

“You got a package!”

“A package? From whom?” she asked, half asleep.

“Someone really wants you to vote for them! — “There Will Be Blood“.”

“Oh my God.” she replied, her voice cracking nervously. “What did you say?!”

“Someone really wants you to vote for them! — “There Will Be Blood”.”

“Who would do such a thing? Is this a threat?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sophia stepped out of the bedroom, looking like she spent a little bit too much time on Facebook last night, particularly the US politics application. She heard me say: ” Someone really wants you to vote for them or there will be blood!”

I assured her that Hilary Clinton would never send her a manila package with a threatening message.   She would put a horse’s head in the bed.

“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.” — dancer and choreographer Martha Graham

“The television, that insidious beast, that Medusa which freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little.”  — writer Ray Bradbury

Sophia and I showed up at CBS Television City, where, ironically, they shoot ABC’s “Dancing with the Stars.”   It was the final dance-off of the season, and we were excited to see the show live.   The two of us were decked out in our finest clothes, as if we were going to a reception for Queen Elizabeth.   An email explicitly told us to “dress up” as if it were an elegant affair.  There were others waiting to get in, dressed in the same manner — glamorous and beautiful. 

Then reality struck us in the face like a bead flung off Mel B’s sequined dress.  This was not a fancy event.  We were not a paying audience.  We were going to see the taping of a TV show, which means being treated like sheep. 

First up — figuring out which line you are on. 

There was the line for the “celebrities” like the Spice Girls and Ryan from All My Children (yes, Danny, we saw him!).   They went in first.

There was another line for VIPs, mostly agent-looking dudes. 

There was the pseudo-VIP line.  These were the assistants to the agent-looking dudes. 

There was the I-know-someone-but-someone-not-very-important line.  This is where you would stand if your former roommate’s sister is now the makeup person on the show. 

There was a “priority” line for those who didn’t get in last time, and were given a special pass this time, putting them on a line one step before the total nobodies with tickets.  You see, the networks, like Southwest Airlines, overbook — even if you have a ticket — and then leave those unlucky enough standing on the street with a “priority ticket,” and walking back to the bus stop in their dresses and suits with dashed dreams of sitting next to Donny Osmond. 

Everyone, except the Spice Girls, waited… and waited.   A college-age production assistant with a clipboard, humorlessly checked our tickets.  A homeless guy wandered along the line, looking for cans of soda left behind by ticket-holders. 

Hey, ABC — why not send a warm-up guy OUTSIDE and entertain us why we wait forever?   It took almost three hours from arrival to getting inside the studio.  Think about how they do things at Disneyland!  Sure you moved us from spot to spot like you do at the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, but where’s the music?  The fun?  The audience was half asleep by the time we took our seats (crammed in so you can hardly move. I’ve never seen such tiny chairs.)

Most of the public guests were women, and Sophia thought since I was a man, this would help us get a better seat, especially since I was looking good in my blue suit.  She pushed me to be at the outside of the line, so the show ushers would notice me and put us in a visible spot.  On TV, it looks as if the audience is filled with distinguished-looking men.  In reality, the audience was 3/4 women, mostly drooling over Maxim.  Some of these fans are fanatics.  These are women who remember every single judge’s score since season one.

Sophia and I actually got decent seats in the second-tier VIP section, but later we realized that it is probably better to be in the balcony with the average Joes.    The camera was constantly blocking our view.  We were also on the wrong side of the stage.  Later, when we came home, we searched for ourselves on the screen, and all we can find was a one second shot of the back of my head.  We didn’t even bother to call my mother to tell her. 

The real star of the show is — the editing.   Everything is low-key on the set.   The excitement only begins when the warm-up guy jumps up and down, giving us the Pavlovian sign to stand and cheer as if Jesus had just walked in.   The minute it was commercial time, all became silent.  Then, boom — screams of ecstasy!  No wonder so many women in Los Angeles fake their orgasms. They must all work on TV shows, and get in the habit of showing false enthusiasm. 

We cheered, we stood, we booed — everything on cue.   Why did we give everyone a standing ovation, even the bad routines?  Because we were told to!  Why did we boo the judges when they made some intelligent, but constructive comment?  I didn’t boo once.  How impolite!  And why does the audience have to be the toadies for the dancers?  

Tom Bergeron looked pretty sullen and unfriendly during the commercial breaks, and only smiled and became witty when the camera turned on.

Finally, I had enough.  I stood up and spoke my mind.

“Hey, Tom!  What is this with all the fake frivolity?  It’s so much more fun on TV.  Here you all look bored!”

“Yes.  That’s TV.   Boring to make.  At least this a better gig than that dumb “America’s Favorite Videos.”  And  since we’re shooting at CBS, we’re closer to the Farmer’s Market.   I love those donuts at Bob’s.”

“And wait a minute.  Who’s writing this show anyway?  Don’t tell me that Bruno is coming up with those witty comments by himself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.  We are “ad-libbing” everything during the Writer’s Strike.  Why?  Are you a writer?”

“Well, actually I am.” I said.

“Hmmm… because I really could use someone to help me ad-libbing tonight’s lame jokes.”

“Well, I would, but I don’t want to be a scab.”

“Well, I couldn’t pay you union scale, but I could introduce you to Cheryl Burke.”

“Cheryl Burke, the hottest dancer on the show?  Call me scab.  You got a deal!”

Well, of course that never happened, but thinking about it kept me amused while waiting in line.

On the way home, Sophia and I stopped at the 99 cent only store to pick up some batteries.  I wish we had taken pictures.  It must have looked funny as we walked down the aisles of cheap detergent in our best clothing.   When we went to pay, the checkout girl gave us the once over, and asked us if we are coming back from “our prom.”  That was the best part of the night.