Mary Louise Parker was my pretend girlfriend for quite a few years. We were happy together. She forgave me when I had a brief flirtation with Marisa Tomei and I forgave her when she let that ass-clown Billy Crudup impregnate her. [What kind of name is Billy for a grown man, anyway? Billy is fine if you’re a 8-year old boy. Or a hamster.] Nothing heals a pretend rift like some pretend make-up sex. Then Katie Holmes came into my life. She of the tussled hair and bright twinkling eyes, making a connection with a certain someone in the 16th row of the orchestra section. I was hers. Forever.
She spent nearly the entire first act in a silk slip. I was weak. You’d be, too. I’m talking to BOTH genders. I don’t care where you think your proclivities lie, you’d have considered it. Once again, I was in back of the house. This time, the second last row of the orchestra, which is an embarrassment, but it’s all I can afford. The spidery, silver threads of imaginary love leapt across 26 rows of seats and wrapped my heart in a cocoon of want. Do you know what’s great about binoculars? You don’t have to be a gentleman and mind your manners.
She ain’t no Liz Taylor, but she’s not some Hollywood hack, either. She killed last year in Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge, so there was reason to believe she could handle this. Maggie the Cat is a woman who exudes longing, unfulfilled desire and, above all else, lust, lust, lust. She sure as hell looked the part, but she played it kind of shrill and desperate. And desperate is not hot. It’s no wonder Brick was trying to drink himself to death and could only muster an indifferent erection. It wasn’t a bad production but I expected better. The reviews come out tomorrow morning so I’ll know better what I’m supposed to think then.
No matter what the critics say, I’m dedicating myself to Scarlett. I’m sorry Katie. I know you’ve had a tough year. Hounded by the paparazzi. Your Broadway show closed early due to lack of interest. The father of your child believes in a religion based on events that occurred 75 million years ago in a Galactic Confederacy ruled by the tyrannical overlord Xenu. But you’re strong. You’ll rise above it. By any chance, would you be up for a threesome? You don’t have to answer right away. You can think it over. You know where to find me. I’ll be in the dressing room filled with orchids and lilies over at the Richard Rogers Theater.
There are some decorative art nouveau posters hanging where I work. They’re authentic pieces, not the poorly framed examples you see in the mall poster shop with washed out colors and inferior paper. Someone went to a poster auction with a serious corporate decorating budget and splurged. This is one of my favorites, but not because of the aesthetics of the artwork. I actually think it’s kind of ugly. But you can’t beat the content. Look at that poor baby! Is this for real?!
Did they really strap babies to the handlebars like a loaf of bread, restrain their right arms and go out for a ride? Can you imagine if you saw someone do this today? I’ll bet she wouldn’t have a big smile on her face, as is depicted here. And imagine if the nursemaid hit a big stone took a tumble! I love it.