Paul Rudnick

Rudnick’s Theory of Relativity: it can take just as much time, discipline and passion to write something god-awful as it does to write something halfway decent. And for quite some time, you will not know the difference. Until the world tells you.

Which is why I’ve disabled the comments section on this blog.

Like most concerned citizens, I was devestated when Hostess went out of business. But now the individual products are returning, and I have sampled both the Twinkies and the Hostess Cupcakes. At first I was nervous, because I didn’t know if the specific polymers and preservatives involved were still available, and I prayed that no one had tried to “improve” on the originals. I’m happy, no, I’m delerious to report that both items remain perfect. Of course, I’m still waiting for the marshmallow-covered Snowballs. I cherish the Snowballs because the marshmallow is dyed different colors to reflect various holidays; it’s orange for Halloween and green for St. Patrick’s Day. Why not a blue-and-white Snowball for Passover?

I know that many people are wondering exactly who purchased that Francis Bacon portrait of Lucian Freud at a recent Christie’s auction, for a record $142,405,000. I’ll confess: it was me. But since the painting is actually a triptych, it’s a three-paintings-for-the-price-of-one bargain. I’m no fool. I still haven’t decided where I’m going to hang the paintings, so at the moment there’s one leaning against the wall in my foyer, another balanced atop a pile of books in my bedroom, and the third one’s still in the trunk of my car. All of the paintings have a sunny yellow backdrop, so I’m also thinking, wouldn’t they be cheerful summer place throw pillows. I also purchased the Jeff Koons’ Balloon Dog (Orange) for $58,405,000, but only because I needed a hostess gift.

Today I was in an elevator, with a nanny and a small child. The nanny was explaining the meaning of the words “half-brother” and “boarding school.” I was hoping she’d also define “hedge fund”, “therapy” and “alcoholism.”
I was once in an elevator with a young mother and her three-year-old, who kept grabbing my coat and calling me “Daddy.” The mother told me, “Oh, don’t worry – he calls every man Daddy.” I replied, “So do I.”

This is my very first post on my brand new website. I’ll begin by thanking Randy Blair, who designed the site, for doing such a wonderful job. Because I’m monumentally tech-challenged, when I first met Randy I told him just what I tell all of the supremely helpful salespeople at the Apple store: “I will be, by far, the stupidest person you have ever had to deal with.” Randy, just like those salespeople, laughed graciously and said, “Oh, no no”, and then, after speaking with me for an hour or so, he got that look on his face which meant, “Good Lord, this guy wasn’t kidding.” But Randy triumphed over my ignorance, and I hope everyone enjoys the site.
I’ll be posting all sorts of things, including updates about my work, radically unsupported opinions and the oddest possible thoughts; as far as I can tell, that’s what blogs are for. At the moment, I’m obsesssing over a segment on one of the home shopping networks, which was offering enormous metal canisters of popcorn, for holiday gift giving. The popcorn was first coated with caramel, and then drizzled with both white and dark chocolate. Then, as a final gourmet touch, bits of Twixt and Snickers bars were added. The host assured the viewer, in a very solemn tone of voice, that the candy bars involved were “hand-broken.” Like any decent American, I’d hate to have my candy bars broken by machines. The final result looked like a form of truly delicious asphalt, and I wanted the host to add that this popcorn was a great Yuletide artery-clogging treat.
From now on, I’m going to think of everything, from my prose to my dreams to my life itself, as hand-broken.