As far as I can tell, that's how many minutes there are left between now and the final performance of Rent. Which, if you're counting, has been on broadway for approximately 6,496,800 minutes.  Yes, I just did the math. (And if you don't understand why, you probably won't care about the rest of this post. Sorry!)



The show was supposed to close in May, on my 30th birthday, which would also have been the 11th anniversary of the day I saw it there for the first time, after spending the night of my birthday sleeping outside the theater with some friends, waiting in line to get front row seats. We thought we were rather daring. In retrospect, it realize it probably would have been more daring -- or at least more "cool" -- to stay out all night waiting for Pearl Jam tickets or something. But I don't particularly care.

And not just because it meant the chance to spend a miniscule amount of quality time with Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal.



Trust me when I say that compared to the community of obsessed Rent-heads, I'm barely even a fan. (This morning's NY Times profile talks to a guy who's seen the show 119 times, which as far as I can tell, he and his freinds consider about average.) But I was obsessed in my own way. And with good reason. The show opened just as I was graduating high school -- it was one of the last things I shared with my old friends, and one of the first things I shared with my new ones. At the time, it seemed like a guidebook to where life was going to take us, a manual to handling all the insanity and emotional overload, a safe and reliable refuge from daily torments.  And it was something singular, Broadway but not Broadway, something that seemed to belong to us, as if it had been made with us in mind.

It seemed like in only a few years we'd be graduating and moving to an east village artist's garret for our very own bohemian adventures. (Spoiler alert: it didn't quite turn out that way.)

It's one of the only things that I, cynical as I am (which is not nearly as cynical as most people seem to think) remain unabashedly sentimental about.

And before all the overblown hype, before it got old and cheesy and touristy and disdained by "real" theater people, before years of extremely unfortunate cast changes filled the stage with people who just didn't get it, it was something remarkable.

It was, according to the original review, "an electric current of emotion that is anything but morbid. Sparked by a young, intensely vibrant cast directed by Michael Greif and sustained by a glittering, inventive score, the work finds a transfixing brightness in characters living in the shadow of AIDS. Puccini's ravishingly melancholy work seemed, like many operas of its time, to romance death; Mr. Larson's spirited score and lyrics defy it."

What he said.

The beauty and tragedy of a live performance iis that you can't revisit it. Unlike a favorite novel or album or movie, you can't dip into it whenever you feel like it and bring it to life for yourself all over again.

As it's happening, it's more real than anything you could experience on the page or on screen. But when it's over?



It's over.

I wouldn't say my stress levels are at an all-time high. But given a) the national news, b) a September calendar packed with deadlines, c) a new book coming out in six days, and d) [miscellaneous], I'd say they're pretty close.

Sometimes, you just need a pick-me-up.

And sometimes, the world delivers:


Would you think less of me if I admitted that "Hangin' Tough" was the first album I ever owned?

Right now. Just stop whatever it is, and go read Maureen Johnson's amazing post about teen pregnancy, teen sex, and why abstinence only education is full of shit.

Here's a taste:
There’s this argument that comprehensive sex education is going to make kids want to have a lot of sex. Clearly these people have never sat through a comprehensive sex ed class. There is pretty much nothing in the world that is less sexy than your teacher talking about condoms, which are completely stupid looking to begin with. You have to be a very special person to sit there under the antiseptic, florescent glow of third period, your mid-morning crash setting in, staring at a plastic cross section of a uterus and think, “I have GOT to get me some of this.”

Now seriously, go read the rest.

First things first -- don't forget that today is your last chance to win a copy of Skinned! Just email me -- robin (at) robinwasserman (dot) com -- with the title of your favorite book.  WInners will be announced soon!

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Moving on. 90210, "new and improved." I've awaited this show's debut with eagerness and dread. And now that it's arrived, I'm a little reluctant to comment on the pilot, given how incredibly wrong I was about the Gossip Girl pilot. (Except for Chuck being the second coming of James Spader. That one I called from the outset.)  Stll, quick impressions:

-Not enough Brenda Walsh!

-Definitely enough "Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez" (though I did appreciate the inside joke)

-What the hell did they do to the Peach Pit?

-Who's the father of Kelly Taylor's baby? (I mean, obviously they're keeping this a mystery in hopes they can woo Jason Priestley or Luke Perry back on screen, but If it's Dylan, I swear, I'll punch a whole in my tv.)

-Laurie Laughlin and Rob Estes are no James Eckhouse and What's Her Name (speaking of unnecessary adults, Nat is looking...botoxed)

-It's embarrassing how much of a chill I got when the theme song kicked in.

-I foresee the biggest problem going forward is that the female lead CANNOT ACT.  She's insufferable, and seems to have only two acting modes. "Frowny face" and "inappropriate laughing face." It gives me a whole new respect for how much Shannen Doherty really made this show, back in the day. Which leads me back to,

-Not enough Brenda Walsh!

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In other news, anyone flip over from the CW to the RNC at 10? (This was like going straight from a Justin Timberlake concert to the Bing Crosby Christmas Special.) Slate's take: "Boaters, facelifts, bowties, creepy pallor. It's like a Lynchian version of The Music Man."

And you can see why:



(The Texas delegation, via the New York Times)

Yes, yes, I know, we're supposed to be all hopped up on feel-good unity style emotion after Obama's speech last night, and I'm all about embracing my fellow man and such -- but let's be honest, now that the party's over and the campaign's officially in full swing, we can get back to the fun stuff. And, in this case, the petty stuff.

Like pointing out the educational values sure to be embraced by a McCain White House. On sale now at the McCain Online Store:



(via Talking Points Memo)

Speaking of speeches, I think we can all agree that Obama's was great, that Hillary's -- as Obama put it -- "rocked the house" (and can we discuss how odd it would be to have a president who can actually use the phrase "rock the house" without sounding like a total tool?). But for my money, the best speech of the convention was John Kerry's.

No, I'm serious.

If you haven't seen it, you should watch -- and if you don't have 13 minutes to spare, at least fast forward to minute 4, when Kerry pats McCain on the back and then slips the knife through his ribs. Then onto 8 min 30, when Kerry eloquently lets loose his Swift Boat rage.

The fabulous folks at Simon & Schuster have put together a free sampler of the fall's hottest books. If you click the cover and download the sampler, you'll get excerpts from new books by Ellen Hopkins, Amanda Marrone, Margaret Peterson Haddix, Sonya Sones, and -- oh yeah -- yours truly. 

That's right, the first sneak preview of Skinned, here and now!



In other news, I'm feeling very cranky and incompetent today, so if anyone wants to take a stab at cheering me up, go for it.

Okay, so the VP choice wasn't some thrilling, dramatic surprise, but then -- despite the endless media hype -- it rarely is.  I'm sure some people will think Biden is too establishment for Obama. (And then there are those -- I guess there are still those? -- who wanted Hillary on the ticket. But speaking as someone who has enormous respect for HRC, vp's not good enough for her.) I don't have a problem with the establishment, when it's established that it agrees with me.  And I certainly don't have a problem with pairing "change" with some good old fashioned "experience." (It works for fresh cheese and aged wine. Mmm, cheese...)

Here's the thing about Biden -- he knows what he's talking about on foreign policy, and he's brilliant when he goes on the attack. (His recap of Giuliani's speeches, back in the primary: "Noun, verb, 9/11." How can you not love this man?) Yes, occasionally he says something dumb -- for which those of us prone to foot-in-mouth disease love him even more -- but I think that'll balance out Obama's (admirable) need to weigh and re-weigh every word before it pops out of his mouth.

In short, I vote yes. And now I'm rooting even harder for McCain to pick Romney as his running mate, because that's a vp debate I want to watch.

Whenever I come across a big Broadway fan, I always like to pin them down with the following question:
Which show do you most wish would return to Broadway?

For me, for many years, that was Assassins, which I first saw (and fell in love with) in a dinky local Princeton production when I was 16. But then I got my wish:



(You can't see his face, but fyi, that's object-of-my-affection Neil Patrick Harris sitting at center stage of the Assassins Broadway revival. This performance was what initially sparked the Love That Speaketh Its Name Way Too Often on This Blog.  And yes, this does mean I got there before the bandwagon.)

So I needed a new show to desperately wish for. (Aside from Oliver, that is, which I've been wanting to see on Broadway ever since I had an absurdly, soul-crushingly small part in a sort-of-if-you-squint-semi-professional production at age12. But it seems that show is never coming back.)

So I wished for Godspell.  I wished, and I wished, and finally, the universe delivered -- or so I thought.

Now it seems that the Broadway production of Godspell has been indefinitely postponed. Thanks to the flailing, failing economy.

Apparently, there's been a whole spate of postponements and cancellations this season (including "Nice Work if You Can Get It," which, as far as I can tell, is a bizarrely unnecessary remake of "Crazy for You" that's already been marred by some serious Broadway geek scandal -- feuding between star Harry Connick Jr's manager and agent, the latter of whom happened to be dating the now-former choreographer, and then there's former Amedeus star / current Broadway impresario, producer Tom Hulce, who -- no, no, don't go anywhere, I'll stop now, I promise!)

Anyway, my point: Godspell is no more. And I am sad.  Because it is awesome. (Except in movie form. Don't watch that. It's brain-scarring.)

Now I inevitably must ask: What do you (anyone out there who cares) wish would come back to Broadway? I need something new on which to pin my hopes.

A great article in The New Republic speculates about the possibility of an "aviation apocalpyse," asking what happens when cheap oil runs out.  Most airlines were struggling to stay solvent even when oil was affordable -- some experts speculate that if things keep going the way they're going, we could see the death of commercial air travel. (Apparently it's much harder to make alternative fuel cars than alternative fuel planes.)

The doomsday scenario:

"No longer would air travel be like the Internet or television--a cheap technology available to virtually anyone, shaping our world in countless little ways. If that happened, the result would mean more than just the end of easy weekend jaunts to Bermuda or annual Christmas visits home. It could mean major shifts in the economy, changes in immigration patterns across the world, and perhaps even a remapping of the planet as we know it."

I'm an absurd optimist when it comes to human ingenuity, so I personally think we'll come up with a solution before things come to this. (And I suppose when I say "we" I mean "people who chose to major in engineering and science rather than liberal arts and thus can make a concrete contribution to such things rather than just talk about them.")

But it's good to keep in mind the alternative.

Since I've been doing so much obsessing (and I mean obsessing) about the book I have coming out next month (btw, have you heard about SKINNED? September 9? Win yourself a copy!), I figured this might be a good time to mention some other September books that I'm excited about.

Other, as in, written by people who aren't me. (Yes, there are occasional moments when I'm not completely self-obsessed. Shocking, I know.)

Off the top of my head, the ones that have me biting my nails in anticipation:




A collection of short stories from the master of short stories. (Plus, according to amazon, my second favorite author and my second favorite member of REM are both fans. Beat that.)
















I've already read this in galley form. and it is so thoroughly wondrously, fabulously, astrally pulchritudinous that I plan to buy it and read it all over again as soon as it hits the shelf.














Murders! Hippies! The Manson Family! Creepiness factor turned up to 11! The one and only Lauren Myracle! What's not to love?













Full disclosure: I've only read one Neil Gaiman YA (Coraline) and didn't love it.  But I did, however, adore American Gods and Fragile Things, and I have a feeling that this new one's going to blow me away.  Also, I dare you to resist the premise. (Basically: 'It takes a graveyard to raise a child.')







What am I missing? I'm open to suggestions!

So what happens when the man I hold responsible for the death of (or at least grievous injury to) American comedy*




makes a movie starring the actor I love so much I've often said I would watch him reading a phone book or staring at a blank wall for six hours straight in some kind of German expressionist meditation on the meaninglessness of life?




Oh, who am I kidding, like I can choose just one example of his awesomeness:

                  

Seriously though, do I go see Tropic Thunder? Am I crazy to think it might actually be good?

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*The Ben Stiller Theory of Comedy Apocalypse has various components, including:

1. the You Coulda Been a Contender corollary
Ben Stiller's not just any obnoxious, annoying, slapsticky, pandering-to-the-lowest-common-denominator boil on the face of American comedy -- he's an obnoxious, annoying, slapsticky, pandering-to-the-lowest-common-denominator boil who had the talent and track record to become something truly great. (cf The Ben Stiller Show, and maybe Flirting With Disaster.) Instead, he became...




2. the Domino Theory of Suck
Exhibit A: Owen Wilson.

Step one, contact with the dreaded Stiller distracts him from greatness (pre-Stiller: Bottle Rocket; post-Stiller: Starsky & Hutch, Shanghai Nights, You, Me & Dupree). 

Step two, the Stiller model (stupidity = easy payday) draws Owen away from long-time writing partner Wes Anderson (collaborations include Rushmore and the Royal Tennenbaums). Anderson's forced to go it alone (The Life Aquatic with Steve Zisou).

A chain reaction of suck. I rest my case.

...how embarrassed do you think I should be about my love for Mandy Patinkin?

In my defense, I would argue there was a time when we all loved him:

            


Then came Chicago Hope.  Now, some of you -- the ones that didn't boycott it altogether because it was on CBS and going head to head with ER -- might suggest that this show was over-written, over-acted, and (thanks to a pre-Ally McBeal David E. Kelly) over-quirkified.



Yeah, you're wrong.

As for the rest of his storied career, we've got (among other highlights):

The Good....                                       The Bad....          
                    

and The Ugly


I love it all. (Even the Ugly, Mandy. I swear. I'm no fair-weather fan. Though, seriously? Please shave.)

Which is why I'm doing my official dance of joy over the tickets I just purchased to see MP in The Tempest next month.

And not just any tickets, front row seats.

That's close enough to see the spit and sweat flying. (I suspect there will be plenty of both.)

Mandy's playing lunatic control freak Prospero, which means the scenery-chewing should be magnificent. 

You shall be getting my full report.

Whether you want it or not.



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Don't forget to enter the contest to win your signed copy of SKINNED! (A book you will not be embarrassed to love, I promise.)

What is it about my recent emails that has led gmail (which usually posts annoying ads and useless news stories in this space) to believe I'm in need of the following wisdom?

"Only the mediocre are always at their best." -- Jean Giraudoux

I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm in any way affected by a bit of hallmark-worthy cheese dropped on me by my email server, but...

I think this is a sentiment I should have tattooed on my forehead. (Or at least on my mirror, at forehead height, so I could actually read it.) Because it would go a long way toward satisfying the "I suspect this may be a total piece of crap" inner voice that's on a constant rinse/repeat cycle whenever I sit down in front of a blank page.

Or I could just listen to this song again. (Oh, who am I kidding, I listen to it every day.)

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Don't forget to enter the contest and win yourself a free copy of SKINNED -- which I assure you is not crap!

(If all you care about is the contest, scroll down to the bottom...)

It just occurred to me that my new book is coming out in almost a month. (September 9! September 9! Did you get that? September 9!)

You may wonder how that "just" occurred to me -- it's possible that I'm spending so much time googling myself and searching for mentions of the new book that I've run out of time to look at my calendar...or, you know, eat.)

I also occurs to me that I've been a little cagey about this book in the past.  This is perhaps because I'm more excited about this book than I've been about anything else I've written, and am afraid to jinx it. But here I go, jinxing away...

Heeeeeere's Skinned!

Scott Westerfeld says it's "A spell-binding story about loss, rebirth, and finding out who we really are inside. This intense and moving novel will wind up under your skin."


Kirkus Reviews says "Futuristically blurring the boundaries of life and death, this text intimately tackles tough ethical topics, including faith, identity, suicide and genetic engineering, through blunt dialogue and realistic characters."


And the jacket flap says (tiny, tiny spoiler alert!):

Lia Kahn was perfect: rich, beautiful, and popular. Until the accident that nearly killed her. Now she has been downloaded into a new body that only looks human. Lia will never feel pain again, she will never age, and she can't ever truly die. She's a celebrity, a curiosity, a freak of nature -- a freak beyond nature -- she's everything but human. And according to some, this is the ultimate crime...for which she must pay the ultimate price.


You already know how you can get some Skinned wallpaper and screensavers for your computer. Now, thanks to the awesome folks at S&S, you can also get some avatars (or icons or whatever you want to call them) for your favorite blog or message board. They look like this:

                     

AND NOW FOR THE CONTEST!
Your prize: One hot off the presses, first edition signed copy of SKINNED

To win: Email me -- that's robin (at) robinwasserman (dot) com -- with the name of your favorite book. (And no, you won't help your chances by naming one of mine.)

Deadline: September 2

I'll pick two winners at random.  If you don't win, don't worry, there will be another contest when the book actually comes out. Good luck!

There are a lot of things I could post about this morning: lauren_myracle's photo-riffic description of this weekend's tropical hijinx (including a rather embarrassing picture of yours truly), or the fact that Obama is finally, and awesomely, hitting back against McCain (money quote: "It's like these guys take pride in being ignorant.")

I could discuss American Teen, the Breakfast Club-style documentary I saw last night which was okay but (and I know you won't believe me on this) not nearly as interesting or incisive a commentary on high school life as MTV's The Paper.

I could point you to this very cool test to see if you have synethsia (which it turns out is a much less rare condition than everyone assumed, and you might not even know you have it), or we could discuss the fact that Joss Whedon's newest show is starting to sound as doomed as Firefly. (And while we're at it, why isn't there any buzz about JJ Abrams' Fringe, starring the ever delightful Joshua Jackson?)

We could, of course, always discuss Neil Patrick Harris.

But today, I choose to relay to you this sad news: PBS is cancelling Mr. Rogers. (Yes, arguably the universe cancelled Mr. Rogers back in 2003, but even after his death, the show has been airing in reruns.) What do you think? Is this an outdated show that holds no appeal to today's children and -- unlike Sesame Street -- can no longer adjust to fit wtih the times? Is it a piece of our own childhood that, out of misguided nostalgia, we're all determined to cram down the next generation's throats? Or is Mr. Rogers the only sane man in an insane world, giving our children the fundamental building blocks they need on issues like personal responsibility, lying, and cardigan sweaters?

Personally, Mr. Rogers himself always bored me, but ahhh...how I loved the Land of Make Believe.

Because I automatically assume that all culture from my childhood is superior to anything created after 1990 (and yes, I understand the irony here, given that I myself have become a post-90s culture-creator), it's hard for me to be objective on this one. I'm willing to accept that maybe Mr. Rogers and Mr. McFeely's time has passed. (Seriously, McFeely? Who's his boss down at the post office, Mo Lester?)  Still, it seems like a sad moment of passing.

Moment of silence . . .

. . .

Now, two questions:
1. Which show of your childhood do you wish could run forever in syndication?

2. Does anyone remember the opera episode of Mr. Rogers, which featured characters like Fork and Spoon, singing about how evil Mr. Knife was? Because this one's printed indelibly on my brain, yet I've never found anyone else who actually remembers it, and am beginning to think I'm insane.

At least it is if you've ever tried to create anything and been foiled by self-doubt, writer's block, underminers, paying the rent, sheer laziness, or the need to watch a General Hospital marathon just to dull the what-the-hell-do-I-write-next pain.

And now, courtesy of someone who I'm beginning to suspect may be the source of all things fabulous* (but who I will not name here because my current self-doubt goes by the name of "repeating private conversations on the internet or anywhere else without permission, even when they're innocuous, is a quick way to get yourself a nice fat black eye or at least a one-way ticket to social siberia"), I present to you the GREATEST SONG OF ALL TIME:


This show, [Title of Show], is on Broadway now and I plan to go see it ASAP. See you there?

While we're on the subject of musical theater (and really, when are we not), I feel it's necessary to once again raise the issue of my love for Neil Patrick Harris. Because, while I promise this blog is not turning into a 24/7 NPH love-athon (tempting as that may be), this picture requires comment:



And the comment is: NPH, I love you.

Also, I want that troll doll.

Have you guys done your duty and watched the shoe fairy video yet?

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*I don't think Fabulous Anonymous Lady actually reads this blog, but if she does, she should feel free to claim her latest fabulous find for herself. Because it is a good one.

I'm not sure about you, but lesson number one in my house growing up (I mean, after all that stuff about not lying, not kicking people, not leaving lights on in empty rooms, etc) was: Never turn down a good deal. And there's no better deal than free!

What am I offering? Extremely cool SKINNED wallpaper to make your computer desktop look like this:



Or, if you have a PC, a SKINNED screensaver! (Apologies to the Mac users among you, but you can still download the wallpaper!) And all you need to do is click on the image. (Or, if you're too lazy to do that, just click here.)

I've been waiting for my jetpack a long time. (We won't even discuss my disappointment over the much hyped Segway which, before its debut, was hyped as the biggest revolution in transportation since the wheel -- you have no idea how certain I was that baby would fly.)

It seems that soon, I'll get my wish.  For the low, low price of $100,000. (Mom & dad, take note: only 304 days until my next birthday...)



True, it's not the sleekest device ever made, but neither was the Model T.

Hopefully this means there's also someone out there hard at work on that hoverboard technology I've been waiting for ever since Michael J. Fox successfully avoided the giant truck of manure. 

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if your interest lies in the slightly more affordable aspects of the future, make sure you catch this Times article about whether or not reading online counts as reading. (Specifically, for teenagers.). I've long believed that the dawn of email, IM, facebook, etc has created a whole generation of compulsive writers, but it's only recently (when I read this article about the internet giving us all ADD) that I'v really started wondering about the reading end.

Apparently some fear "that the hours spent prowling the Internet are the enemy of reading — diminishing literacy, wrecking attention spans and destroying a precious common culture that exists only through the reading of books."  Others have countered that the internet creates a new kind of reading,

That's the intriguing part.  The novel just isn't that old, and while I know people have been speculating about its death almost since the day it was born, it makes you wonder...combine the inevitability of successful e-book technology with a generation reared on internet reading and writing, and what do you get?* (In more than ten years, but less than 100?) Some kind of hyperlinked, communally generated, frequently updated literary hybrid?

Weirdly (since I hate change), I can't wait to find out.

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*Yes, yes, I know we're in the middle of a YA reading boom, so it may seem kind of strange to speculate about the death of teen reading inclination and skill.  On one hand, the novel-readers are a distinct minority...on the other hand, you could point out that readers are always a minority, so what's the difference? (I guess I would suggest that the difference is that, for the first time, the majority of non-readers are reading compulsively as well, just in a different medium.)

I don't quite understand how it got to be Friday, since last time I poked my head up to check, it was Monday, but here we are.  A few end of week remainders:

1. Screech (aka Dustin Diamond, although it's best not to think of him like that, because then you have to confront the skeeziness factor) is writing a Saved By the Bell tell-all! I want it now.

2. I've been posting a million youtube videos this week, so I'll spare you another one, but if you know what's good for you,  you'll follow this link to Neil Patrick Harris playing the Shoe Fairy on Sesame Street. He SINGS!

3. My life can be characterized as a determined search for the perfect mentor. And whenever I find someone who temporarily fits the bill, I'm not shy about pouring on the gratitude. (Suffice it to say that in much the same way television can be considered just a delivery system for ads, my books may just be delivery systems for dedications.) Which is why I so enjoyed this post about what happens when you're confronted with the reality that your mentor looms rather larger in your imagination than you do in his.

4. Speaking of blogs, I'm not going to link to this random kid I came across (thanks, google alerts!) who's reading Cat's Cradle for the first time, but I will quote him: "I read about Kurt Vonnegut in a book called Hacking Harvard, and I think I'll like this book." Forget what I said above. This is why I write.

5. Apparently Joss Whedon's getting a lot of flack for Act III of Dr. Horrible's Sing-A-Long Blog. I can't defend it in detail without giving away crucial plot points. But I will just say that I think it's brilliant, and that people who think he's repeating himself are ignoring the meaning of the ending. Yes, the plot twists are reminiscent of old shows, but their context and import are completely different. (Sorry to be so vague. But it's your own fault for not watching it yet -- what are you waiting for?)

Updated to add:

6. I almost forgot -- have you guys seen the new JC Penney's commercial that pays (let me pause to throw up before writing this word) "homage" to the Breakfast Club? Could there be anything more repulsive -- at least to those of us lucky enough to grow up in the John Hughes era -- than recreating the pivotal scenes of this movie with a bunch of moronically grinning teenagers moronically delighted to start their school day? (With a disgustingly jaunty cover of "Don't You Forget About Me" playing in the background.) I'm not even going to link to it, because I don't want to contribute to any kind of buzz campaign. But know this, JC Penney: you have incurred my WRATH.

When I was a kid, my parents never hired a babysitter. Instead, whenever they needed to go out, they sent me off to my grandmother. This worked out rather well, since Saturday nights at her apartment meant two things: chocolate milk and Golden Girls. (And, if I was doubly lucky, butterscotch krimpets.)

Of course, I didn't understand three quarters of of what was happening on the show (and not just the senior citizen sex stuff -- I was in my 20s before I discovered that St Olaf was in Minnesota, not Sweden).  Watching reruns now, I have to assume that at the time a lot of the dialogue must have sounded like, "Blah blah blah inexplicable laugh line about handcuffs, blah blah blah something about blanche and a fireman's hose blah blah blah cheescake." (To give you a sense of how clueless I was, I believe this was also the first time I'd ever heard of cheesecake.)

I loved every minute of it. And of all the things I loved when I was eight years old, this seems to be the only one that was actually good.

(With the exception of buttersctoch krimpets -- and I'm willing to accept that that one's debatable.)

Not just good television, but a good thing to exist in the universe. A show about women in their sixties (and we won't even discuss how much more ancient that seemed to me when I was eight years old) with no husbands, absentee children, and -- nonetheless -- active social lives and sex lives. 

I'm inclined to say that no such show would ever be made today, but as I mentioned, I'm experimenting with optimism. So maybe it would, but it would be on HBO, and the women would probably be the heads of a brothel or something.

The point is, the show was brilliant, even if no one seems to realize it but (an admittedly large chunk of) fans and the programming execs at the Lifetime network. And that brilliance was in large part due to Estelle Getty (Sophia), who died this week.

One of the obituaries said something that really struck me:

Getty, a natural comedian famous for her one-liners even in private life, played Sophia for laughs, but she also brought depth to the character. It was her idea that Sophia would always carry a purse because, she said, older women are forced to shed so many possessions in their later years that everything they own ends up in their purses. "Nobody puts down their life very easily," she explained.

Nobody puts down their life very easily. One final piece of wisdom from Sophia Petrillo.

Well...okay, here's one more: