Bob Newhart, who finally won an Emmy after fifty years in television for playing a guest spot on The Big Bang Theory. I think Mr. Newhart is a national treasure but his acting style doesn't provide a whole lotta variety; there aren't many shaded nuances that distinguish befuddled Chicago psychologist Bob Hartley in The Bob Newhart Show (arguably one of the most incompetent medical professionals in the history of healthcare) and befuddled innkeeper Dick Louden in Newhart, or for that matter in his Emmy-winning turn as befuddled TV science show host Arthur Jeffries, who The Big Bang Theory guys rather implausibly try to recapture a nostalgic moment from their childhoods from by hiring him to come to their house and put on a junior science show. Everyone (including myself) was delighted that Mr. Newhart finally won a long overdue Emmy for his familiar turn (although the award should have gone to Justin Timberlake if it was based on talent and not sentiment), even if he was just hauling out the same shtick he's been doing since the late 1950s. What has always made Mr. Newhart truly remarkable throughout his career is that as he gets older and blander, his TV wives get younger and hotter. In The Bob Newhart Show, you had gorgeous Suzanne Pleshette playing his wife, who was 8 years younger than him. In Newhart, beautiful Mary Frann played his wife, who was 14 years younger than him. Arthur Jeffries' wife is only referred to and never shown on The Big Bang Theory, but if history is any indication she's in her early twenties and recently posed for Playboy. It doesn't bother me a bit that Bob Newhart took so long to win an Emmy. He's already got a mantel-full of trophy wives.
Speaking of Emmy, my college chum Wade Sheeler, who failed to take home the Emmy he was one of the nominees for in the Best Reality Program category for Top Chef. I do not watch Top Chef since I am seething with jealousy towards Mr. Sheeler because he makes his living in the glamorous world of television while I earn money by taking part in identity theft scams and selling oral sex to nervous middle-aged men in the alley behind Seven-11. This marks Mr. Sheeler's second nomination without taking home an Emmy. I have no doubt that he'll eventually win one even if he has to go the Bob Newhart route and finally teeter to the stage to accept his first award when he's in his mid-90s. I'll probably have given up on identity theft scams by then but I have no doubt that I'll still be supplying oral sex to nervous middle-aged men in the alley behind Seven-11. In my line of work, some projects you do for money and some you do for love.
And while we're still speaking of the Emmys, Bro Joe, who commented "I am really out of the loop, TV-wise: I just saw a list of the Emmy award winners. I have seen almost none of the shows that won. And I had absolutely no idea they were even giving out the Emmys last night. How far I have fallen from the pop culture tree. Not that I mind, mind you." I feel inclined to point out to Joe that something usually falls far from a tree because it has over-ripened to the point of being a moldy clump of slime, but what really annoyed me about the comment was a response it elicited from one of the Algonquin Roundtable set he associates with on the social network, who wrote "Being out of loop is actually a good thing. That means you have a life to live, while others are living in someone else's imagination world." I am intimately aware of the life Joe lives, and the mere fact that he is one of the three people who live in the continental United States who has never heard of Breaking Bad doesn't mean that the 24 hour periods he inhabits in which he abuses alcohol and breaks into hysterical crying jags are vastly superior to mine. And just because I like to lose myself in three hours of reruns of The Big Bang Theory every night even though I've already seen every episode a dozen times doesn't mean I live in someone else's imagination because after the show is over, I always have graphic sexual fantasies of me and the serie's star Kaley Cuoco which are mine and mine alone. I grant you that most people would consider them pretty disgusting, but that's because I have fallen far from the sexual fantasy tree. It's made polite society regard me as a moldy clump of slime but at least I have TV to keep me company.
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini. I have continued my practice of making Facebook "cover images" comprised of the lovely women of my acquaintance standing in a line and wearing various sexy attire: sexy angels, sexy pirates, sexy schoolgirls, etc., with me plopped in the center as their non-sexy counterpart. The cast is varied from day-to-day with the exception of Ms. Marini, who inevitably comments that she has the costume in question hanging in her closet. The exception was when I depicted the ladies as French maids with me standing in the middle as one very lucky janitor. When Ms. Marini made a cyber-visit to "like" the Photoshop-enabled perversions I had imposed on her, I asked her if this was another ensemble that she possessed. She replied "Haha no maid costume. I don't do manual labour. But I have an angel, cop, dominatrix, Flashdance, Dorothy, RCMP, vampire, witch and Elvira." This made me realize that Ms. Marini doesn't fully understand the mystique of the French maid costume, because wearing it does not imply that you will be called upon to do domestic servitude. No one ever said to his wife "Honey, we're going to be cleaning out the garage this weekend. Put on your French maid costume and get out the wet/dry vac." The point of wearing a French maid costume is to goad some poor schnook into doing manual labor for you in the hopes that he'll be permitted to rip the costume off you as soon as he's finished. The same is true of the other costumes in her wardrobe. I don't imagine that she puts on the police officers uniform complete with mini skirt and fishnet stockings and then goes out issuing parking tickets, unless when you go to traffic school to get it off your record she also works there wearing the dominatrix outfit. But whoever she has worn her various get-ups for, I guarantee you that he was required to perform a list of chores before he got a glimpse of her in them. It's how we men do our part to support women in uniform.
Harmony Sanchez. I recently posted another photo on Facebook depicting two lady friends of mine who used to belong to the same theatre company as Ms. Sanchez and myself. When she saw the photo, the conversation inevitably fixed upon the topic that always comes up whenever a photo of me is shown: my savagely deformed genitalia. This caused Ms. Sanchez to reminisce about a production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream that I starred in as the stern lover Demetrius in which she supported me as one of the fairies. It was set in the Edwardian period and all the men in the cast - myself included - worn form-fitting hosiery that left little to the imagination in showing off our packages. It was a pretty good show as I recall, but most of the reviews focused on the actors' junk. Fortunately, they were all raves at the time although the ensuing decades of self abuse have turned my wang from what was once-beautiful midsummer night's dream into a hideous nightmare, so the critiques my penis receives now are always vicious pans. Ms. Sanchez is largely to blame since my memory of her strutting around the dressing room in a skintight body stocking has caused me to slam my junk between two concrete cinderblocks every night just to get it to stop pining for her so I can get some sleep, resulting in a grotesque lump of rotting meat dangling between my legs. That's just one of the sacrifices we make when we follow a life in art.