Sorry about the interregnum, but I was working hard and fast on a pitch for a project I would dearly love to get, and which left me without even the minimal surplus brain power required to read Jonah Goldberg or Dr. Professor Mike Adams. However, since submitting the produce of my labor, and going into the indeterminate waiting period for a response, I have remained busy, whipping up a frothy, but non-Santorum mixture of stomach acid and general angst. But I'll have a new post later this evening.
In the meantime, I heard today that Sean Maher of Firefly and The Playboy Club has come out of the closet, and my first thought was, I sort of hope his friends and colleagues are good at faking polite astonishment -- you know, the kind you're called upon to counterfeit when it's your birthday, and your co-workers suddenly call you into the conference room at a strangely late hour of the day to attend a spontaneous but urgent meeting with a suspiciously vague agenda and you're supposed to be surprised by the paper plates and plastic forks and the Carvel "Cookiepuss" ice cream cake emblazoned with your name, melting on the conference table.
In other words, a happy event, but as far as twist endings go, this didn't exactly feel like the climax of The Crying Game (which used a literary device I like to call "The deus ex Pup 'n' Taco"-- in honor of a 1970s Southern California fast food chain -- because the diner, metaphorically speaking, came in expecting Taco, but was flummoxed to find Pup on the menu).
Now, in that same spirit of keepin' it real, here's another found object entry for our caption contest.
Kay: Oh, nothing. But when Arlene told me about the double date, I just assumed it would be, you know...mixed doubles.
Click to embiggen and share your insights into how a quick application of "reparative therapy" could make this the greatest night of their young lives!