Paul Rudnick

One page of a recent New York Times contained three stories which warmed my tabloid heart:

1. Because I was raised to believe that there’s no such thing as a Jewish criminal, I relish any tale of Hasidic misbehavior. Irving Rubin, along with his wife Desiree, his sons Joel and Yehuda, and his brothers Abraham, Jacob and Samuel were all indicted for many forms of fraud, including claiming to be homeless in order to receive welfare benefits and millions of dollars in loans. Abraham had been previously indicted for trying to bribe a witness in the case against Nechemya Weberman, “an unlicensed therapist in Brooklyn’s Satmar hasidic community”, who was found guilty of sexually abusing his clients, including children. Oy. Maybe these sorts of Jews were put on earth to make wayward Catholic priests feel better.

2. Vincent Zanfardino, knowing he had epilepsy, told his doctors that he didn’t drive, and then proceeded to have a seizure behind the wheel.  He began going 93 piles per hour, and crashed into “Brynn Rohlf, who was driving a black Acura with her fiancee, Dylan Gardineer in the back seat. They were returning from a trip to buy heroin.” Mr. Zanfardino’s lawyer told the court, “It’s not Mr. Zanfardino’s fault he has epilepsy, and it’s not his fault the state of New York allows people with epilepsy to drive.” As my mother might say, but at least none these people were Jewish. And as I might say, does Costco now sell heroin?

3. In an article on parents who accidentally leave their unattended infants to suffocate in cars, one such caring Mom said, “If you can forget your cellphone, you can absolutely forget your child.” I’m assuming this woman then demanded that Samsung replace her baby.

The voter turnout for last week’s elections was at an all-time low; in some states, less than 20% of the eligible voters bothered to cast a ballot. This is reprehensible, and here are some suggestions:

Anyone who says things like “All politicians are the same” or “Nothing ever changes”, as a justification for not voting should be forced to pay an additional tax and double their jury duty. If they whine about this, just remind them, “Oh, but it was on the ballot.”

If someone who didn’t vote attempts to participate in a political discussion at a cocktail party or in a dorm room, everyone should pretend not to see or hear them. The more juvenile this situation becomes, the better.

When you discover that someone, for no good reason, didn’t vote, you’re allowed to ask, very loudly, in an extremely public place, “Was it because you’re a registered sex offender?”

If a young person didn’t vote, you’re legally allowed to grab their phone and hurl it into the river. Then you’re permitted to taunt that person as “a big smelly crybaby who didn’t vote, and now they can’t text. WAAAH!!!!”

If you didn’t vote, Rick Perry, Sarah Palin and Rick Santorum should show up at your house for Thanksgiving, and share their vision for America with you, while you’re trying to set the table.

If you discover that you’re dating, or married to, a person who didn’t vote, while they’re asleep you should use an indelible laundry marker to write “I DIDN’T VOTE” on their forehead. And you can also scrawl “THIS ASSHOLE DIDN’T VOTE” on their back, with an arrow pointing to their butt (this will be effective at the gym.)

In screwball comedies, rich people sip champagne, banter and fall in love, but in more serious movies, like Reversal of Fortune, The Great Gatsby or the acclaimed new indie Foxcatcher, the rich folks are inbred, evil and perverse, which is something to think about, when you’re hoping that your child marries a Vanderbilt or a Rockefeller. Maybe the best idea is to avoid rich people who keep handguns and private tanks on their estates.

Foxcatcher is based on a true story, and Steve Carell, wearing a beaky prosthetic nose, plays John DuPont, the heir to a huge fortune, who decides to sponsor Channing Tatum as an Olympic wrestler, along with the rest of Channing’s team. There’s plenty of homoerotic subtext, so sometimes it’s like watching Behind the Candelabra, if it had been set on a few thousand acres of isolated Pennsylvania farmland during an especially bleak January, with everyone wearing warmup suits. Mark Ruffalo plays Channing’s warmhearted, well-adjusted brother, while Vanessa Redgrave is Steve’s icy patrician Mom, who’s way more attached to her thoroughbred horses than to her only son. Steve works out all of his psychological trauma through his obsession with Channing and athletics. I asked my husband Josh why so many guys are addicted to watching other guys pummel each other, and he thought about it and said, “The spirit of team play and sportsmanlike competition are critical to the integrated development of masculine identity. Because wrestling is something we can watch on ESPN while we’re eating.”

Then Josh showed me his framed poster of NFL quarterback Tom Brady, where the glass seemed to be smudged with lip-prints, right around Tom’s handsome face. “When I watch football,” Josh said, “I can picture myself running naked during the very first Olympic games, and enjoying a deep comradeship with my fellow athletes. Afterwards we might shower together and  open a keg at the Parthenon.”

Foxcatcher is beautifully made, and deeply tragic. A lot of the scenes are just two people staring silently at each other, with either no music or a few lonely piano chords, which is a very high-toned soundtrack for a story about burly dudes tossing each other around. The actors are all terrific, and no one does innocent-jock suffering like Tatum. There aren’t many light moments, because everyone onscreen is pretty much doomed, but I kept hoping that  Will Ferrell would skate by in powder blue spandex and toss his hair. Foxcatcher is a very classy movie about a tabloid crime; as Josh remarked, “It’s tasteful and austere, but you still get to admire Channing’s butt in his singlet.” Which is all the cinematic artistry anyone really needs, if you ask me.

By which I mean, what happens when you’re performing some simple yet essential task, while thinking about something else entirely.

1. You can start to apply toothpaste as if it was deoderant.

2. You can stop in the middle of the sidewalk and try to remember not just where you’re going, but what’s the name of the actress who plays what’s-her-name’s younger sister on what’s-that-show?

3. You can drink something which you didn’t order and which you hate.

4. You can be looking right into someone’s eyes and call them Joyce, when of course their name is Ben, and they’re not transgendered in any direction.

5. Instead of saying “I love you”, you can hold up a photo on your phone and ask, “Do you like this end table?”

6. You can start cursing at inanimate objects because you can’t find the pair of scissors you’re holding.

7. You can walk all the way to the gym and then remember that you’ve forgotten to bring your gym bag.

When any of these things happen, it is perfectly acceptable to blame global warming, secret government experiments conducted on you when you were a child, or French anti-semites.

If your average writer wore one of those little  GoPro cameras on his or her forehead, here’s what would be recorded:

– Unwavering, extended shots of the ceiling, as the writer stares at it, hoping for either inspiration or a very special Snickers bar which would be able to take off its own wrapper, climb up onto the writer’s face, and jump into the writer’s mouth.

– A dramatic swoop, away from the ceiling and onto the wall, as the writer dozes off.

– An extended look out the writer’s window, as he or she contemplates the street outside and wonders exactly what, say, Dave Eggers or Zadie Smith is doing right now, most likely accepting an award.

– A cunning, suspenseful search through the shelves of the writer’s refrigerator, as he or she tries to locate something tasty which they know very well was devoured an hour ago.

– A close-up of the new Taylor Swift video, viewed on the writer’s iPad.

– A brief glimpse of a yellow legal pad, as the writer scribbles a few words, crosses them out, and then doodles flowers with faces and fangs dripping blood.

– A leisurely glance at several pages of any magazine in which Khloe Kardashian either defends her sister Kim’s inability to lose the baby weight or attacks Kim for stealing her man.

– A prolonged, evocative study of the writer’s iPhone, and its few, sad, texts, tweets and emails.

– A meta-moment, as the writer studies his or her reflection in the mirror, looking profoundly silly wearing a GoPro, and then the writer realizes: maybe my next book, play, poem, indie film, web series or blog post can revolve around the wacky antics of a character wearing a GoPro!

Today I was reading about how compression socks, which are among the world’s least attractive garments, have become fashionable. This is in keeping with normcore, the trend where models have been snapped wearing Mom jeans and polartec hoodies from Sears. All of this put me in mind of the Dr. Leonard’s catalogue. As my Mother got older, she was both fascinated and horrified by this catalogue, which features all sorts of genuinely helpful products involving incontinence, limited mobility and hearing loss. Dr. Leonard’s also includes loungewear and some serious sandals. Here’s a sampling of what you’ll find, including, in the final image, something called Dr. Laura Berman’s Charlotte Massager. Which has made me wonder: who, or what, is Charlotte?

Cozy Fleece Robe | DrLeonards.com

– We can remind ourselves that all of those midwestern Republicans still have big doughy heads with beady little eyes, so they look like waterlogged scones.

– We can tell ourselves that Chris Christie is still a nasty, bigoted bully and everyone knows it, and that Hillary is an angel whom America is going to love.

– We can picture the sadness of Republican victory parties, as all of the participants get drunk on budget Scotch and listen to patriotic country-western songs and then look on Craig’s List for underage prostitutes.

– We can think about the masochism which is required for a woman to vote Republican, and consider setting up shelters where these women can find understanding  and a way of relaxing their tight little smiles.

– We can reach out to the sad, hopeful children of Republican congresspeople, and tweet compassionate messages like, “Your Dad isn’t your fault” and “We know that the navy blazer and the cheap rep tie weren’t your idea.”

– We can imagine that even amid triumph, all of the Republican victors will still keep having those recurrent nightmares, where faceless immigrants and gay people move in next door and try to hug everyone.

– We can relish that moment when, once they’ve repealed Obamacare, all of the Republicans suddenly realize that their insurance plans no longer cover gout.

After seeing the wonderfully silly sci-fi blockbuster Interstellar, I have decided not to go into space for the following reasons:

1. Space travel is like riding the subway for 300 years and getting off in Greenland.

2. How many times can you look out the window and say, “Earth looks so small”?

3. Your average space station is basically a dorm room at a really nerdy college, so imagine the smell.

Still, I enjoyed Interstellar, because it’s like a science fair project by the third-brightest kid in the 11th grade: it’s very earnest about the future of humanity, and it dares to inspire the following questions:

1. What would happen if we shot Matthew McConaughey through a wormhole in the time/space continuum? Would he remain tan? Would he still seem like an affable stoner trying to solve Rubik’s Cube?

2. Who maintains Anne Hathaway’s early-Liza bangs while she’s travelling to Saturn? Does the onboard robot have a styling function? Anne is totally adorable as a spunky scientist, but do we ever really believe that a movie star has a doctorate?

3. Is Anne deliberately dressed as Taylor Swift in the Shake It Off video, in a black top and black leggings? Doesn’t this outfit demand a beret? Even in zero gravity?

4. Is it an essential law of quantum physics that minority actors get eliminated first?

5. When Jessica Chastain stands at a blackboard scribbling an endless scientific formula, just like Eddie Redmayne in The Theory of Everything and Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind, did she want to add, “And have a great spring break everyone, and come back ready to learn!”?

6. Did director Christopher Nolan feel that only recent Oscar winners could save the human race? On the set, did Matthew and Anne refuse to eat lunch with Jessica, because she’s only been a nominee?

Sci-fi movies most often come in two categories: with aliens and without. The non-alien movies are usually inspired by 2001: A Space Odyssey, and ask important questions about time travel and faith, while the with-alien movies, which are inspired by Star Wars and Star Trek, require Tom Cruise to ingeniously defeat something much taller than he is, aside from the female lead. Interstellar is one of the more serious movies which still feature spacecrafts with tons of blinking lights and digital readouts, all of which are clearly powered by two D batteries. Interstellar follows a batch of intrepid space travellers, as they seek a new planet which can sustain life, and I kept waiting for Anne to say, “Let’s find a really fun planet, with outlet stores! Does Jupiter have a  hipster-y downtown, with lots of funky shops and cafes?”

Because space travel takes such a long time, every sci-fi movie includes a set of sleeping pods, which always look like tanning beds, or that hyperbaric chamber which Michael Jackson used for naps. The astronauts in Interstellar are first zippered into large plastic bags and then lowered into water, as if they were DelMonte products being shipped across country. After many years of intergalactic slumber, they wake up looking exactly the same, and when the crew finds additional pods on another planet, I was sure they’d defrost them and Susan Lucci or Jaclyn Smith would pop up.

Because Christopher Nolan is a masterful director, Interstellar looks amazing, but I started to hope that maybe Jabba the Hutt or Leonard Nimoy might drop by. Because, while I know that searching for real estate in other solar systems is a life-or-death matter, I wish that Interstellar had taken an HGTV Househunters approach, where the earthlings could’ve been shown three possible new planets, and then picked one, even if it needed a new kitchen and an updated powder room. I wanted Matthew and Anne to decide, “Pluto is really us” and have a housewarming, if you ask me.

Yesterday at Town Hall, there was a memorial for the wonderful Mary Rodgers Guettel, the composer, author, and philanthropist. Stephen Sondheim played a new melody in Mary’s honor, and Hal Prince spoke movingly of their decades-long friendship. Andre Bishop told a hilarious and revealing story about how he’d once worked with Mary on a troubled out-of-town production. His tale involved the replacement of practically all the key figures on the show, suffocating summer heat, and the presence of a German documentary film crew, but through it all, Mary had remained disciplined and inspiring. Julie Andrews and Carol Burnett appeared together, and there was a black-and-white video clip of Carol’s career-making performance as the raucous Princess Winnifred in Mary’s hit Broadway musical Once Upon A Mattress. Carol also recalled how, in order to get the show a Broadway theater, the cast, in full costume, had picketed their own producers.

Mary’s son Alec introduced a highlight of the occasion, explaining that what we were about to see illustrated the exact opposite of his mother’s parenting style: it was a TV commercial from either the 60’s or the early 70’s. in which a smiling, twinkling Mary served her wholesome family a trayful of desserts topped with Cool Whip. Mary was an elegant, wry, take-no-prisoners sort of person, so watching her emerge from a kitchen in hostess-y splendor was an unnerving treat. There were many other photos and film clips of Mary, documenting the emergence of her chic, fine-boned, confident personal style. Once Mary had established her sleek and witty persona, she never seemed to age, and she and her beloved husband, Hank Guettel, were the Nick and Nora Charles of Central Park West.

Another of Mary’s children, the superb composer Adam Guettel, assembled a chorus of major Broadway talent to sing Something Known, a gorgeous number from Mary’s musical version of the Carson McCullers novel, The Member of the Wedding.The memorial’s printed program included a trove of remembrances, and a flip book of Mary laughing what was referred to as her trademark, beguiling and dirty cackle. Mary was much beloved, as Broadway royalty, and as a woman who encouraged countless young artists.

No matter what your personal feelings or academic credentials might be, all discussions of religious belief come down to the same foolish thought: I know something you don’t know.

All discussions of the upcoming elections arrive at the same foolish conclusion: my polls are more accurate than yours.

All critical discussions of any artwork end with the same, usually unspoken, and foolish declaration: if you don’t agree with me, you’re stupid.

All discussions of the salient characteristics of any generation will result in the following, foolish snort: all generations except for mine are dangerously spoiled, ignorant, entitled and lazy.

All discussions of any scientific basis for the beginnings of the universe end with the same plea: if I agree with you, will you please stop trying to make me understand your theory?

All discussions of proper child-rearing should end with the following, astute decree: any child’s personality and intelligence have been determined about three seconds after they’re born, so if you’re a parent, stop worrying about it. But you should still teach that child to stop shrieking in public places.

All discussions of who’s to blame for making that last wrong turn on the Jersey turnpike will end in either homicide or divorce. Both will be equally satisfying.

On Halloween, I kept seeing people whose costumes consisted of everyday clothing drenched in blood. Then I saw a man on crutches with his leg in a massive cast, and I assumed this was his costume. It wasn’t. Then I saw a guy wearing surgical scrubs, so I assumed he was working at a nearby hospital. Until I noticed that, walking beside him, was another guy wearing a nurse’s uniform, with his face painted like Heath Ledger as The Joker. From now on, whenever I see someone in terrible physical distress, I’m just going to give them candy and hope that covers it.

There’s another Paul Rudnick, who is some sort of brilliant scientist, and light years smarter than me. But I did see one of his recent tweets, which included what was most likely an abbreviation: “Anal Chem.” Anal Chem also sounds like the name of a hapless character in Middle European folklore. “There goes poor, hopeless Anal Chem, leaving our little shtetl with has hat on backwards, as usual.”

The Home Shopping channels have been selling Christmas items for months, by instilling viewer paranoia: “Sure, it’s only July, but my sister already has all of her Christmas gifts wrapped and waiting in her bedroom closet.” Today two female hosts were promoting a set of illuminated letters, a foot high, which spelled out such thoughts as LOVE, HOPE and KIND. One of the co-hosts  thoughtfully suggested that the letters could also be used to spell CAVE and POOL. Or, come to think of it, EVIL or POKE.

I’m not sure why, but I find the costume called “Sexy Ronald McDonald” by far the most disturbing.