Some Things Are Worth Waiting For

Last week I was ready to walk away from Project Runway. It was too much to believe that the hands of the producers weren't guiding every move. And then something so delicious happens this week, that all is forgiven. I know the Little Dutch Boy is still out of range of a Tivo, so I won't divulge. But let's just say that if you fly to Paris, be prepared to leave quickly. It was everything I could ever want.

Speaking of everything I could ever want ... and to the two or three of you who reflexively thought, "James Gandolfini in a bathrobe?" - shame on you ... my former Professional Wife recently became engaged. I couldn't possibly be more happy, because she's a catch if there ever was one. I swear to you, if I wasn't so damn homosexual, I'd make an honest woman out of her myself. But since it can't be me, and since we're no longer professionally married, I have to say that she's landed a good one.

I know many of you will be checking for my endorsement, so I'm coming out with it early. That boy is a keeper. He not only received the first ever Gay Merit badge, he also recently nabbed the much-sought-after and often-coveted Good With The Gays seal of approval. What more could a heterosexual woman hope for? Marry the man, sister. And just a thought to hold onto as you make your plans: I look dynamite as a flower girl.

I Had A Farm In Africa

I loved Meryl Streep in Out of Africa. Almost as much as I love Peet's Coffee's soon-to-be-released Ethiopian Super Natural. It's in stores this Saturday. Buy it, people. Buy it and grind it fresh and drink it while thinking of the birthplace of coffee.

Too Much Tooty

I want it known that I'm dying to talk about "Project Runway," but the Little Dutch Boy might be my only reader, and the pressure is on not to divulge spoilers until he's once again clutching his Tivo remote.

So an open note to Laura will have to satiate me for now:

Laura. Honey. Baby. Listen. Too much boobage. If Bravo is fuzzing out your nipples, it's time to consider foundation garments. Immediately.

I feel much better.

Culture Wars

A poll released by Zogby International (you remember -- the people who said Kerry was going to win) this week says that only 25 percent of Americans can correctly name two Supreme Court justices. Compare this to the 75 percent who can correctly identify two of Snow White's dwarfs ... dwarves. (Dwarves are very upsetting.)

The poll also shows, in news that surely must have warmed Ruth Bader Ginsberg's heart, that 23 percent can name Taylor Hicks as the "American Idol" winner while only 11 percent can name Samuel Alito as the new Chief Justice.

All in all, not a great day for name recognition in the judicial branch. But this kind of culturally elitist crap gets my goatee. Samuel Alito was only on TV long enough to avoid questions about how he's going to help overturn Roe v. Wade. Taylor Hicks was on TV for weeks. In prime time. And it's no wonder we all know the drwarves; you can't swing a dead cat in Disneyland without hitting one of them.

If ol' Loose Lips Sink Nominationships Alito had a ride designed for him in Orlando or a multi-bajillion dollar ad campaign and recording deal to shake his money maker, of course we'd know him. If Antonin Scalia spent half as much time on The View as he did quietly chipping away at our civil liberties, he'd put the fame in famous.

And for those keeping score, I've named three Supreme Court justices so far, and I could keep on going, confirming what I've long suspected: I'm smarter than most of America.

A-ha! There it is. This is the equivalent of Paul Lynde singing "Kids! What the hell is wrong with these kids these days?" (Even fewer Americans can name that original cast album.) It's cultural elitism. It's the age-old suggestion that an abundance of pop culture makes us stupid.

George Bush Senior was once photographed looking in awe at a supermarket scanner. And he nominated David Souter and Clarence Thomas (five down ... four to go). Betcha he remembers their names. But was once amazed that the red light knew the price of a gallon of milk.

And I ask you: Just who's out of touch?

Not me. To show I'm of the people, I'm not even going to mention the other four. Instead, I'll close by saying: Greg, Marsha, Peter, Jan, Bobby and Cindy. The professor, the skipper, Gilligan, Mr. & Mrs. Howell, Ginger and Mary Ann.

It's The Little Things

I was just talking ... well, emailing ... with one of my favorite Gappertons of all time. (We're talking one of the original Gappy McGappertons, who secured entry into the Gapperton Hall of Fame by exclaiming, "Jesus, Kenneth. Gay much?" in front of our new boss.) Yes, you know who you are.

And I realized that tomorrow is my one-month anniversary with the gold standard coffee purveyor. (Brown aprons are the new black. Trust me on this.) This makes me very happy, as I like the new place. And the peoples are quite excellent.

But even better? I haven't touched Power Point for over a month. Seriously. I get a little misty with joy at the thought of it.

Those who know me well will recognize this as a major accomplishment. Take a moment and dab your eyes.

Those who don't know me well will wonder when I'm going back to harping about Mel Gibson. In good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Loathes And Fishes

Okay. One more thing about Mel. And I'm loathe to be political here. But someone has to say it. And a warning to the kiddies: I'm going to include a quote from Mel later on that uses very graphic language and profanity. Read this at your discretion.

I'm a touch amused at the punditry around whether Mel's career can come back after he came out as Mr. Kill A Jew. Well not so much amused at that. More amused (and when I say "amused," read that "annoyed") over how many people are suddenly outraged now that they've seen his true colors.

If you're ever-so-shocked, you just haven't been listening. Mostly because it's been about gays up to this point.

In 1992, Mel told the Spanish newspaper El Pais:

They take it up the ass. This is only for taking a shit [pointing to his butt]… But with this look, who’s going to think I’m gay? It would be hard to take me for someone like that. Do I sound like a homosexual? Do I talk like them? Do I move like them? What happens is when you’re an actor, they stick that label on you.

When asked in a 1995 Playboy interview if he'd apologize for these remarks, he said:

I'll apologize when hell freezes over. They can fuck off.

I really am loathe to rant politically here, so I'll keep the break down uncomplicated:

Mel: Anti-semite = apology. Homophobe = fuck off.

America: Anti-semite = career suicide. Homophobe = box office bonanza.

Now that we've got that straight ... people show us their true colors way before we want them to. It's up to us to pay attention.

Oh, yeah. And to care. Pay attention and care.

Give Me Aerosol, or Give Me Death!

Mike Douglas died today. At 81. On his birthday. Bummer.

Rumor has it he heard there'd be no more hairspray allowed in his carry on ... and that's just not a world he wanted any part of.

Godspeed, Mike. Heaven may be warmer because of the ozone your grooming regimen destroyed over the years. But Godspeed.

Heidi, Can You Hear Me?

What's with your fashion choices on Project Runway, Heidi? Last night you were wearing a top made from my Aunt Reba's guest bath shower curtain. And apparently there wasn't enough fabric to go around. What else could have possessed you to have a foot-wide gap down the front that showcased your commitment to breast feeding? It's nice that you have an environmental side, though. Trimming it all in cardboard indicated you care about post-consumer waste.

I'm not even going to talk about the boots, people. But after the runway show, I half expected Michael Kors to turn to her and say, "Before we start, let's talk about the catastrophe you've got on ..."

Is it possible to vote the host off for her lack of fashion sense? She's auf in neverland.

She's Super Freaky, Yeah. Temptations, Sing

Has Angelina really moved out of the house with the kids? And has Brad really freaked? Oh, who cares?

What'd really freak me out is figuring out how she got her lips to look like that without slamming them in a car door. That and the fact that she was into Billy Bob Thornton way after we were all over him.

Rule #1 when you're leaving your pouty-lipped girlfriend for another pouty-lipped chanteuse: Consider her past actions. And not the I wore my lover's blood in a vial, I went to the Oscars and acted like I was boinking my brother past. That's practically brunch conversation. Kid stuff.

It's the kid stuff I'm thinking Brad should have been worried about. We all do things to make us feel better. I, for example, buy shoes. Lots of shoes. Save for the structural engineering issues it creates in my closet, it's fairly harmless and reasonably affordable. But at multi-millions per picture, our girl went right past collecting shoes and dove head first into collecting Third World children.

It's a little precious to follow in the foot steps of Mia Farrow, but you gotta know it's less about saving them and more about filling a Jon-Voight-sized hole in Angelina's heart. And those pound puppies make the best pets. After doing hard time, you're less likely to pee on the rug.

I'm just sayin'. That's all. Nothing to freak out about.

No One Puts Baby In A Corner

When I've run afowl of the law and wind up with my face splashed all over the tabloids because I've exposed my true self, please remind me to make sure that Patrick Swayze is one of the first people to come to my personal defense.

He'll probably be pretty busy ... he is, afterall, breaking a cha-cha heel rushing to Mel Gibson's defense. But it's worth the investment. Just consider what he said about Mel's antics:

He is not anti-Semitic. People say stupid things when they happen to have a few (drinks), and especially if you don't drink anymore, or have limited your drinking for a long time. Everybody else gets to be allowed to have a stupid moment and nobody knows about it or cares the next day. So it makes it difficult when your life is under the microscope.

Okay. Patrick. Honey. If you get plastered and slobber all over your friends about how much you love them, *that* is a stupid moment. And your friends really do care the next day, but American society being what it is, they just repress their feelings like the rest of us. No harm-o, no foul-o.

But. If your friend has gone on record to support his holocaust-denying father when he's sober and spouted a mind-numbing level of vitriol after having several bottles of vino ... well ... that makes you, Patrick, the kind of person I want in my corner when it really hits the fan. Because who needs reason when blind loyalty will get your name mentioned in "Variety" again?

You, sir, should be ashamed of yourself. Just like the rest of us are.

For The Love Of Peet's

As I am leaving behind my work at the country's largest specialty fashion retailer for a position with the standard-bearer for fine coffee and tea (If you thought "Starbucks," leave this blog immediately. Friends don't let friends drink bad coffee. Especially at those prices.), I feel compelled to leave behind a few observations as well:

1. At the end of the day, it's still just a pair of jeans, kids. You can call it denim. You can weave it from the left, weave it from the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. But it's jeans. Really. And we're all still the fourth grader whose parents made us buy the ugly ones from Sears. That's what we're trying to work through when we're adults with the critical choices of acid wash, sand blasting and distressed cuffs on our hands.
2. Clothing that comes from the lingerie department is underwear/sleepwear. Only your bathroom mirror, your mother and the person to whom you're currently attached need to see these items. I don't care if you bought it with your discount. I don't care if you're "wearing the brand." If you're wearing pajamas in my office, you're coming to work in your underwear. It's just that simple.
3. Some men like pleats on the front of their khaki pants. It's a sickness, but it's what they've chosen for themselves. And while I'll give you that it's an unspeakable horror, can we all agree that it's not an infraction that's greater than or equal to committing genocide in the Third World? Let's just love the sinner but hate the sin on this one, alright? The war crimes tribunal in The Hague thanks you.

If any of my Gappy McGappertons are reading this, you know that leaving my peoples is like wearing pleats. Unthinkable. Even on the craziest day ... and heaven knows there were more than we'd imagine ... I worked with the smartest, most talented, most committed and just plain funny as hell people. It's been a pleasure beyond measure.

But I have to admit: I'm craving me some coffee.

Thirteen Minutes

That's all it took before I spit Diet Dr. Pepper out of my nose. Thirteen minutes into "National Treasure," the bastard love child of "Amazing Race" and "DaVinci Code," and I'm snorting soda through my mucus membranes.

Where to start?

Perhaps the Wild Hanlons' patriarch's mullet? The way the camera glanced across the fat boy jumping into the water only to lavish its attention on the busty blondes? The fact that the African American brothers are from the Brown family?

Oh, yes. There it is. We have a starting place, my lovelies.

The Browns. Is it me, or are the casting directors of these shows getting a little feisty in their tacit racism? First there was the Black Family on last season's "Amazing Race," who happened to be ... uh ... black. And now the Browns who are ... uh ... not Asian. Or white. Or ... well, you get the point. You have to wonder where you find families with names that describe their race.

Coming next season on "Survivor": the Rices face off against the Crackers.

Anyhoo. There's racing around. There's ignorant yocals. There's clues where "Stillwater Washington" equals "Lake George." It's stupid. And I have to stop now so I can watch the rest of it. Pity me.

The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg

Bedeviled by dark rings around your hard boiled eggs? Do you fear judgement from your epicurian cohorts? Fear no more, friends. Fear no more.

Put a dozen eggs in a regular sauce pan and cover them with cold water with about an inch of water above the eggs. Put the uncovered pan on your stove over high heat until the water starts to boil. Starts to boil ... not boils like a big pot of pasta boil and not boil like there's only a couple of air bubbles on the bottom of the pan. Think of something in between those two things. Like Al Gore.

Now here's the trick: Water started boiling? Good. Take the pan off the heat completely, cover it and let it sit for exactly 13 minutes. No more heat. No lifting the lid to peek. (They're eggs in hot water. What are you expecting to see?) At the end of the 13 minutes, drain the hot water and *immediately* run cold water over the eggs. Add some ice if you're feeling gourmet. Anything to get the heat out of the eggs pronto.

And you'll have a hard boiled egg Martha Stewart would pat you on the back for. Of course she should ... it's her recipe in the first place. Well, okay. Probably some poor, harried staff member's recipe. But she's got all the muscle in that operation, so don't challenge her when she's patting you on the back. Just smile and say, "I couldn't have done it without you, Martha." She likes that kind of thing.

Attend the Tale of Jersey Boys

Listen, people. I'm the first person to say that Broadway is where art and commerce collide. Well, okay. Probably the second person. Cameron McIntosh, the bazillionaire behind "Cats" and "Phantom," probably mumbles it in his sleep now and then.

And this collision on the Great White Way often happens head-first with results that look like those scary films they showed you in drivers ed to convince you not to drink on prom night.

But "Jersey Boys" just won the Tony award for best musical. "Jersey Boys." Seriously. Let's take a page from the Pulitzers and not give something out for a year if this is what it's coming to.

Because call me crazy, but it's enough to ask us to fork over $125 for orchestra seats because 18 years ago Cameron thought a few flash bulbs and a "falling" chandelier sounded like a grand night out. Now we have to pay that kind of money to see a Four Seasons sing along. And the industry salutes it with the best marketing plaudit it can provide.

Instead of "Winner! Best Musical!" during their inevitable national tour, they should be required to say, "Winner! Best Musical. We're really, really sorry!"

And this coming from the man who once paid over $400 to see Harvey Fierstein in a housecoat in "Hairspray." So you know I'm serious about this.

And don't get me started on Patti LuPone being robbed of best actress ... and "Sweeney Todd" being jilted by the "Pajama Game."

Commerce killed art. Yet again. And I'll be back for the fall season, full of hope and promise ... and a $125 burning a hole in my pocket.

Dying Is Easy. Comedy Is Hard.

Okay. I know what you're thinking: "What's up with the blog name, Kenneth?" And I shall tell you.

Everything's temporary, kids. Take it from a dyed-in-the-wool drama queen ... there's always another act waiting in the wings.

Just between us, we're alone. So suck it up and be a mensch. No matter how bad it seems, it'll be over at some point. Because all bleeding stops eventually.

Speaking of eventuallies ... we always knew it was just a matter of time before I cracked and had to blog. I promise no themes but this: I'm bitter, jaded, cynical, romantic, funny and crass with an opinion on practically everything if you want to hear it or not.

If you're more in the "or not" column, don't be book-markin' this little way station. If you're remotely inclined, kick your feet up.

At the very least, I promise no mind-numbing chronicle of my daily activities. Just a lot of crankiness in the form of urbane observations on pop culture, food, theater, dogs, and men. Let's not forget the men.

Rock on, playas.