Paul Rudnick

This has already received millions of hits on Youtube. It’s wonderful and joyous and I especially like watching the expressions on the faces of the many students involved – some of them are having a blast and others aren’t quite sure. The teacher is handsome and inspirational and not what anyone would call camera-shy. This video can appear in Wikipedia beside the terms “spirit”, “celebration” and “homosexuality.”

Too needy.

Morbid snowbesity.

Snow rage, because he knows that he will never be allowed inside the house.

Disfiguring snow snot. They’re called ice boogers. Why can’t he wipe his nose with his scarf?

Look what the steroids have done to his genitals, or maybe he’s just really cold.

Sno-dependant. And why are the snowman’s buttons on his crotch?

Where to begin?

Career angst. Olaf played a scene-stealing supporting role in the mega-hit Frozen, but where’s his nomination, or his follow-up? Will he be forced to take a series, or return to the stage? And why does he only get to play best friends?

Taraji P. Henson on the new hit Fox series Empire – she’s funny, sexy, audacious and an altogether spectacular actress. And she knows how to wear hats, gowns and furs. The show is sensational, too.

Watching all of the Republican presidential hopefuls battle it out – they’re starting to resemble especially befuddled farm animals, bleating and snuffling.

Helpful online salespeople, who answer questions quickly, process refunds and somehow exhibit a sense of humor.

The HBO show Getting On, especially when Laurie Metcalf is discussing fecal incontinence.

Heated mattress pads. Which do not cause fecal incontinence.

Wondering why I always picture bitcoins as an imported sugary treat from, say, Luxembourg.

And you can never have too much Taraji P. Henson, especially in coordinated leopardskin:

Which are there more of online: naked selfies taken in bathroom mirrors or photos of tourists hoisting multiple shopping bags while giving the peace sign?

Which are there more of on both cable and network TV: swarthy Middle Eastern terrorists wearing mirrored sunglasses and suits with openecked shirts, or serial killers wearing hooded parkas who live in vast industrial spaces ?

Which are there more of in YA books: awkward, bullied female outcasts, or handsome guys with crooked smiles who discover a secret passion for awkward, bullied female outcasts?

Which are there more of in Congress: Republicans who look like they might’ve just had a stroke but it’s hard to tell, or Democrats who are trying to perfect their inclusive, welcoming smiles?

Which are there more of in Oscar-worthy English films: quirky heroes who triumph over physical afflictions, or stiff-backed, sneering administrative types who oppose the quirky, afflicted heroes?

Which are there more of in current American sitcoms: wisecracking heterosexual couples who are terrified of adult responsibilities, or groups of scruffy heterosexual male buddies who’ve never heard of adult responsibilities?

– There are multiple videos on Youtube of high school productions of Follies, where teenagers in gowns, tuxes and helmetlike silver wigs sing of their midlife agony. Some of these productions look costly, and when a 15-year-old Sally makes very deliberate movements during the torchy “Losing My Mind”, you can sense the presence of a passionate Corky St. Clair drama coach lurking nearby and miming those movements in the wings.

– There’s nothing better than a WASPy prep school production of Death of a Salesman, where the 14-year-old son of a hedge fund manager wearily sets down his suitcases and bemoans the fate of the working man in America.

– I’ve always had a fondness for the one-acts in the back of the Samuel French catalogue, for use by kids in elementary schools. The titles of these plays will often involve the words bunny, springtime, Betsy, Mr. Brown, lunch and hello.

– Ambitious drama teachers in progressive schools enjoy presenting slightly expurgated versions of Rent, Spring Awakening, Hair and Cabaret. Somehow a handsome jock is always recruited for the cast.

– There’s often a girl, maybe a cheerleader, who’s never been a drama club geek until she’s cast as say, Sandy in Grease or Kim in Bye Bye Birdie. She’s got a decent singing voice and all of a sudden she’s tempted – but she still usually ends up as a Marketing major at a state school.

– All-girls schools perform an adaptation entitled Twelve Angry Women.

– There is nothing more wonderfully passionate than just about any drama club production.

Chris Christie is not only a vicious bigot and a hopelessly corrupt bully, he’s a creepy fanboy, with his me-too pursuits of pro-football teams and Bruce Springsteen. I don’t think he wants to be President – I think he wants a Golden Globe.

Would David Oyelowo have been nominated for an Oscar if Martin Luther King had also had Alzheimers?

Wouldn’t it be fun to see all of the Best Picture nominees remade with Legos? Especially American Sniper?

After Angelina Jolie wasn’t nominated, did the Pope call her to express his sympathy? And did Angelina tell His Holiness, “Yeah, thanks a pantload but maybe you could’ve prayed a little harder, Fran”?

Wouldn’t it be great if all the Best Acting nominees, as part of their final score, had to answer a Personality Question? Especially during the years Russell Crowe was nominated?

Why can’t there be an Oscar category for people who just tried really hard, called Good Job!

There are plenty of Youtube videos where young people come out to their parents, either in person or on the phone. Most of these videos are very moving and everyone involved cries and the parents always reassure their kids that they will always love them. There’s currently a video where twins come out to their Dad. On a few of these videos the parents don’t respond well, which can be devestating. So just to be of service, here’s a list of possible responses, when your child tells you that he or she is gay.

“Of course you’re gay. You’re a 23-year-old man with BLONDE HIGHLIGHTS.”

“DO YOU THINK I’M BLIND?”

“Well I guess this means that you’ll be burning in hell for all eternity. I’M KIDDING!”

“I love it! If we go on Ellen together will she give us a car?”

“Thank God. At least now you have a tiny sliver of a chance at a decent life, unlike your disgustingly straight brother.”

“So my plan worked…”

“Let me tell your father. Right as he’s falling asleep in his recliner.”

“Hold on. Are you saying that you teach spinning, you have a tattoo of Spongebob and Patrick having sex, you live in West Hollywood and…you’re GAY? ARE YOU SURE?”

“Me too!”

Gay stars have often refused to come out, from fear of having the word “gay” permanently attached to their names. Now these stars will have the words “famously closeted” permanently attached to their names.

Media mavens have wondered if audiences would ever accept an openly gay leading man. Gifted stars like Matt Bomer and Neil Patrick Harris have proved that such acceptance can be far easier than anyone presumed. Talent, magnetism and dazzling good looks remain a handy formula for stardom.

Stars shouldn’t worry so much: the vast worldwide audience assumes that all actors are gay.

Certain gay politicos are rarely satisfied, claiming that openly gay supporting actors “don’t count.” This remains insulting nonsense.

Nick Jonas has proved that courting the gay audience is a savvy career move. Male stardom now demands a swimsuit competition.

I refuse to think of Cary Grant and Randolph Scott as closeted, especially in the pool:

Everyone keeps talking about binge-watching, but I’ve formed so many other new habits:

Fragment-watching:I keep catching bits and pieces of the Baz Luhrmann Great Gatsby on HBO. The movie is gorgeous and garish, so dipping into it feels like breezing through a wonderfully overstuffed catalogue.

Rerun Addiction: I’ve seen certain episodes of 30 Rock and Mary Tyler Moore countless times. I should be bored but instead I feel blissful, as if I’ve developed a pleasureable sort of dementia.

Kindling: This is very dangerous, but my Kindle allows me to flit from book to book, as the various novels and memoirs compete for my attention.

Distracted Surfing: this basically defines the Internet. Sometimes I stop reading in the middle of a word.

Theatergoing Bell Curves: Often when I read about an upcoming show I become passionate about seeing it. Then if I wait long enough my interest will wane, and by the time my curiosity returns the show will have closed. Oddly, this pattern can feel like a completed experience.

Very few of these habits are healthy. That’s why when I actually see a movie in a theater or read a hardcover book, the experience can be shocking and exhilirating: it’s the difference between a snack and a meal. And snacking, of course, is the only truly modern form of consumption.

This has been around for awhile now, but it’s still completely fun. As with most Taylor Swift or Katy Perry videos, you just have to surrender.

S’mores – there’s something turdlike about them.

Subway musicians – do I really want to stand right next to the guy playing Hey Jude on his amplified steel drums?

Respecting other people’s beliefs. It’s exhausting.

Trying not to to instantly and passionately loathe a total stranger based solely on his or her shrill speaking voice on the street or in the subway.

Any theatrical production involving no scenery except for continually rearranged chairs. Our Town doesn’t count.

Binge-watching. I’m sorry, but it’s not the same as getting hooked on a great book.

Young people – they’re just not interesting enough, yet.

Old people – sadly, age rarely makes anyone wiser or deeper. And yes, you did tell me that story before.

Improv. Most often, it’s the equivalent of mimes talking. Which is interesting for about three seconds.

Here’s a S’mores pillow. I rest my case, regarding the turdlike thing:

As always, humor is the enemy of fundamentalism. It’s the key to the inhumanity and the cowardice of the mindlessly religious, of any faith: they can’t afford criticism, curiosity, contradiction, absurdity or pleasure. Sometimes I wonder if art, in whatever form, ever really makes a difference, but these horrendous murders prove that art can expose evil. Such tragedy is of course, too high a price to pay, but there it is – those brave writers, cartoonists and editors have exposed the truly wicked. And the truly wicked so often claim piety.