Paul Rudnick

This is a jacket which deserves a doctoral thesis. It’s made by Carhartt, a company known for manufacturing hardcore work clothes. Carhartt pants and jackets are most often stiff, boxy and durable; construction workers and farmers traditionally wear Carhartt. But now, in collaboration with Neighborhood, a Japanese company, Carhartt has produced a leopardskin-patterned mototorcycle jacket, with all sorts of inexplicable zippers and a nice, big, centrally located logo. This jacket is something Cher might toss on, if she was performing on an oil rig, or inside a cement mixer. If a welder was wearing this jacket, he’d also need capri pants. Here are some other thoughts on this enduring design motif:

Leopardskin even looks garish and sexy on leopards.

If you’re going to wear a sheer blouse, or white pants, you need leopardskin underwear, in order to tell people, “Yes, I know that you can see my underwear. That’s the idea.”

An actual leopardskin coat would seem both gorgeous and truly evil. Satan wears real leopardskin.

Leopardskin goes with the following: black, hot pink and zebra, and if you’re brave, all three. And if you’re extra brave, factor in some camoflauge print in an unlikely neon color.

Nobody ever accidentally wears, or even tries on, leopardskin. By wearing leopardskin you’re announcing, “Yes, you can call me Dagmar or Yolanda or Aunt Yetta. Especially if my shoes, leggings and eyeglass frames are also leopardskin.”

A faux leopardskin throw or faux leopardskin wall-to-wall carpeting are handy ways of informing visitors, “Of course I wish I lived in a nail salon. Don’t you?”

In the jungle, when a leopard slinks by, a lioness will always tell her lion, “Stop staring!”

Like everybody else, I was hopelessly in love with Joan Rivers. I remember watching her on the Tonight Show, and on Letterman and everywhere else: she was always electric and savagely hilarious, and she’d always go just that much further than anyone expected. Her connection to an audience was instant and overwhelming; “Can we talk?” was her mating cry. Because she was so eager and so unpretentious, and because she was a female stand-up, she was often underrated; she could scare heterosexual male comics, and she confused the politically correct. And she managed the impossible: she stayed funny, forever.

I’m not sure when I first met Joan, but it might have been when she came backstage at Jeffrey, and happily posed for photos, while seated on the play’s enormous bed, with the cast. She was always  kind and generous, to me and everyone else. While she travelled with friends, there was never any sense of a snooty entourage: Joan loved talking to everyone. She also loved New York and the theater; she was the ultimate mensch. She was also the only person I ever heard use the word “Jew” while selling her collections of jewelry and clothing on QVC, and she clearly loved shocking her peppy, vanilla co-hosts.

For a woman who loved talking about how much plastic surgery she’d had, Joan was helplessly authentic. She’d talk, and joke,  about everything, including her husband’s suicide. She was ravenous for fresh material, and my partner John and I would go see her trying out new routines at Fez, the basement lounge at the Time Cafe, which used to be on Lafayette Street. She’d be filthy and wild, and she could get away with anything; she was Joan Rivers. When her dog pooped on the floor at a supermarket, Joan would insist to the manager, “I did it!”

Like so many great, brash female comics, in her private life Joan was incredibly cultured; she was extremely well-read, and her homes were always elegant. But Joan never denied anything about herself, which made her irresistible. And while other comics were heralded for being cutting edge or outspoken, Joan was truly subversive. She was a heroine to women and Jews and gay men,which wasn’t always a formula for the more sedate, mainstream forms of recognition.

And while it’s terribly sad that Joan Rivers has died, it’s even sadder that she’s stopped talking.

Some folks have responded to the recent, scandalous availability of private, naked pictures of celebrities by asking, why did these stars have nude photos stored on the Cloud in the first place? Others have declared the entire situation to be a shocking invasion of the celebrities’ privacy, and a form of nude star-shaming. While both of these responses are understandable, here are some proactive solutions:

– In order for a regular person to download a nude photo of a celebrity, the regular person must attach a nude photo of themselves, under fluorescent lighting, right after they’ve removed a piece of clothing with a tight elastic waistband. The nude photos of regular people will also be automatically forwarded to that person’s mother, their coworkers, and a website called “Cellulite – It Doesn’t Just Happen To Women.”

– Whenever a star has private, nude photos taken, they should be careful to place logos for Unicef, the Red Cross and Amnesty International over their genitalia, along with instructions for making donations.

– If a regular person is caught posting unpleasant comments regarding the breakup of Mariah Carey’s marriage, they should be required to email Mariah a 200-word essay on the topic “Why Someday, Mariah Will Love Again.”

– When anyone resists downloading nude photos of a celebrity, as a form of congratulations and positive reinforcement, their name should be embroidered on the back of Angelina Jolie’s wedding dress, beside  her childrens’ artwork.

– Anyone who downloads salacious material regarding any portion of Kim Kardashian’s body should receive a handwritten thank-you note from Kim, along with a coupon good for a 10% discount on her latest fragrance.

– If you have the urge to download a forbidden photo, get drunk, quit your job and obsessively visit hardcore porn sites instead. That way, you’ll feel better about yourself, as a person.

I’ve just read an article regarding what top tennis players say to each other, when they’re paired in doubles matches. It seems that these conversations, which are conducted in whispers and cannot be overheard, can go on for quite some time, and can delay the match. Since I know less than nothing about tennis, here’s what I feel is said, between, say, the legendary Venus and Serena Williams:

Venus: Even on our worst day, we are so much better than everyone else.

Serena: I know. Sometimes I get bored, so while I’m playing, I mentally sketch new tennis outfits.

Venus: Me too! I wish they would let us wear capes.

Serena: Okay, during the next volley, let’s pick someone in the stands who’s talking on their cell, and see if we can hit the phone out of their hand.

Venus: Or I can hide the ball under my skirt, and we can both look around, like “Where’d it go?”

Serena: You know what’s really silly? Golf.

Venus: Oh please!

Serena: I wish we had little carts to ride around in. Every time I see someone playing golf, I want to ask, “And the point is?”

Venus: Oh, I know – for the next volley, what if I serve a golf ball?

Serena: Or a meatball?

Venus: Or a Hostess Snowball?

Serena: Or what if, the next time the ball comes over the net, we both scream, drop our racquets and run away?

There are certain songs called earworms, because they remain inside your brain, whether you like it or not. I actually like Bang Bang, and it’s fun to watch the video, because you can sense the amount of negotiations involved, to enlist and please the three stars – each lady clearly has her own turf, in everything from choreography to camera angles to wardrobe.

I was raised in a home filled with wonderful items which sat on coffee tables and bookshelves, and required only appreciation and dusting. This was my introduction to tchtochkes. The word “tchotchke” derives from a Slavic term for “trinket.” Many gay Jewish men have named their dogs Tchotchke, and Tchotchke would also be the perfect name for a great Russian actress or ballerina from the 1930s, as in The Divine Tchotchke.

A tchotchke is something which you don’t need, and which has no function, but which you can’t live without

Classic tchotchkes include the following:

decorative wooden nutcrackers

carved teak salad tongs which are meant to be used as a wall ornament

any wooden or wire bowl which has so many open spaces that it can’t possibly hold anything

marble eggs and spheres; 12″ high marble obelisks; spheres woven from bark or reeds

any religious item, divorced from suffering: a Wedgewood crucifix, or a porcelain Orthodox Rabbi

paperweights given as gifts in a paperless era

faux tortoiseshell anything

Murano glass, especially the swirling clown figurines

Non-working Sixties table lighters

Anything purchased at a street fair or open-air market in another country

fancy tchotchkes: fragments of ancient statuary (especially hands, feet or noses), Venetian papier-mache masks, anything displayed on a lucite cube or a tiny metal stand

Collections of anything: salt-and-pepper shakers, shot glasses, cocktail shakers, swizzle sticks, Russian nesting dolls, commemorative thimbles, etc.

All awards, once the winner takes them home, become tchotchkes, especially Daytime Emmys

A tchotchke is often something which is designed to look like something else, for example, a ceramic pitcher shaped like a cabbage, or a coaster shaped like a tiny sled

The Kardashians are human tchotchkes, as are all celebrity babies

Artist Jeff Koons is the grand tchotchkemeister of our time, reaping millions from his outsize balloon animals and Michael Jackson figurines. The only way that Koons’ work could be an even greater celebration of rampant tchotchke-ism, would be if each piece included the shreds of a gooey pricetag which someone had tried to scrape off with their fingernail.

During rehearsals for Jeffrey, at the greatly missed WPA theater on 23rd Street, I went through many drafts of the script, and our insanely gifted cast did whatever the director, the wonderful Chris Ashley, and I would ask them to do. The sublime Harriet Harris was playing all the show’s female roles, including that of Mother Teresa. I had included Mother Teresa in the play for the following reason: in real life, I had once bought an antique chair in a shop on Bleecker Street, a chair which I didn’t need and could ill afford. As I was carrying the chair home, Mother Teresa walked right in front of me. At first I assumed I was hallucinating, but then I found out that Mother Teresa had not only founded a nearby convent, in the West Village, but that she was having her cataracts removed at the even more nearby St. Vincent’s Hospital (which has recently been torn down.) I still assumed that God had placed Mother Teresa in my path, to admonish me for buying that unnecessary chair.

So Harriet was playing Mother Teresa in Jeffrey. She was also playing Debra Moorhouse, a New Age evangelist and motivational speaker. I’d once attended a session at Town Hall led by just such a woman, because I’d been told that her congregation included many male and female models. This had turned out to be true, and I recall watching one gorgeous young woman writing down everything the evangelist said in a tiny notebook, and then depositing the notebook in her tiny Prada backpack.

In one of Jeffrey’s final scenes, a leading character named Sterling has just lost his handsome young boyfriend to AIDS. Sterling is sitting in the waiting room at St. Vincent’s, shell-shocked. I had Debra Moorhouse enter and try to comfort Sterling, in her own demented way. When Sterling told her that his boyfriend had just died, Debra took his hand and said, “Oh no. Oh no. Was he – attractive?” Debra became more outrageous, until finally, another actor, now also dressed as Mother Teresa, entered and spritzed Debra in the face with a bottle of seltzer, vaudeville-style. I hasten to add that, while Harriet’s performance was impeccable, I eventually realized that Sterling needed to grieve, without Debra’s lunacy.

But while the scene was still in the play, we rehearsed spritzing the noble Harriet in the face. To test this moment, Harriet wore what was either a rain poncho or a garbage bag. I hadn’t realized that bottled seltzer, with a spigot, is painfully powerful. But Harriet bravely stood against a wall, while we drenched her with seltzer and just about peeled her skin off.

I salute you, Harriet Harris, for your genius and your unstinting courage, in the face of seltzer.

Contemplate Googling the Wikipedia entry on Labor Day, to learn the holiday’s history. Don’t do this.

Inspect an attractive young couple, in expensive, coordinated workout clothing, going for a run together, and checking their many devices which measure things like their heart rates and the length of their strides. Judge them.

Watch HGTV Househunters: Off The Grid, where a man moves his wife and two small children to an especially barren region of Australia, where the man intends to mine opals. Because the temperatures in this area regularly soar to over 100 degrees, most of the population lives in dugouts, which are lightless, underground homes. Calculate how long it will take before the pretty, timid young wife either leaves her husband or kills everyone involved. Do not judge her.

Think about doing the following: renewing your passport. Figuring out how to decrease your utility bills. Throwing out old, unread TV Guides. Do none of these things.

Welcome your houseful of guests, and keep them fed and entertained for the entire weekend. Then realize that these guests are imaginary. Then wonder, bitterly, why none of these imaginary guests brought a suitable gift or offered to help clear the table after dinner.

Express inner gratitude for the fact that the Panera Bread franchise offers so many items which combine dough, cinnamon, pecans and a nice sugary glaze.

– After a hurricane, I once watched as a gay man surveyed the beach at Fire Island, which was strewn with debris from many houses, including the carcass of a swimming pool, turned on its side, which was slowly floating out to sea. The gay man announced, “Don’t mess with Miss Ocean.”

– A friend was sitting in the balcony of a Broadway musical. In Act II, a young male character stepped to the front of the stage and unleashed his perhaps too powerful baritone, singing an eardrum-shattering ballad. After the song was over, in the pause just before the audience started clapping, my friend commented, in a voice that could be heard throughout the theater, “Get her.”

– A wonderful producer once told me that he liked the name of my play Jeffrey because “I knew it was gay but I have no idea why.”

– I was once being interviewed by a great guy named Chad Jones. He told me that he was starting a blog, and he asked if I had any ideas for a name. I suggested calling the blog Jonestown. He said that this could be misleading, since it would be a theater blog. I suggested calling it Cherry Jonestown. Then I said that this was a joke which only theater dogs could hear. Chad ultimately decided to call his blog Theater Dogs.

– On Hollywood Squares, the legendary Center Square, Paul Lynde, was asked the following question: “If you and a friend were lost in the woods, and your friend was bitten by a snake, what would you do?” Lynde replied, “I would get a new friend.”

– A beloved director was studying the set for someone else’s extremely turgid drama. This set was made entirely of industrial pipes painted black, against a gray backdrop. I asked the director what he would do, to fix this set. He said, “I would tie big pink bows all over it.”

In so many videos, the best dancers are most often the back-up people, while the star can barely move. So we don’t get that particular high, of watching a great performer who can do everything. In other words, we aren’t allowed the giddy triumph of Singin’ in the Rain, which is pretty much the best movie ever:

It’s always interesting when the bride is taking the groom’s name. This usually seems politically backwards, except for the cases in which the bride is losing a questionable surname, as when Amy Bungwelder becomes Amy Barstow

Any announcement where one or both of the people are over 90 seems especially joyful and inspiring

When both people have completely round heads, they look grinning helium balloons

Both members of so many lesbian couples are often incredibly impressive: Sara is always a thoracic surgeon for Doctors Without Borders, while Catherine is always the CEO of a foundation which promotes literacy worldwide

Whenever both members of a gay male couple are under 23, I’m impressed yet wary

If, even in a 1″ square black-and-white photo, I can tell that someone has dental veneers, there’s a problem

I only read the sentences about what the couples’ parents do for a living to see if their children are doing better or worse

Bowties only work on scientists

There should be a separate section called Obvious First Marriages

Writers could kick-box their computers into producing critically praised, commercial fiction

Donna Tartt could be thrown into a cage with Jonathan Franzen, and only one of them would survive, in order to write a think piece about white-collar violence for the Times op-ed page

It would be completely legal for poets to slam out a stanza using only their bleeding foreheads

Joyce Carol Oates would write her next book wearing only satin trunks and a tattoo, which would cover her entire back, reading Fuck Grammar

JK Rowling would go one-on-one with Stephen King, in a ring filled with mud, with their hands roped behind their backs, and they would both win, because of their movie deals alone

Twenty starving authors would arm-wrestle, for the prize of becoming the next ghostwriter for Tom Clancy’s corpse

If any of these ideas were broadcast on cable, all of the other writers would refuse to watch, but then they’d call their agents and ask, “Can you get me a match with Jonathan Lethem?”