"Mmm Bop" by Hanson is one of the most played tracks on my computer, according to my Rhapsody music player, which chooses songs from my online library at random for me throughout the day. I am not ashamed. You bitches couldn't stop singing that song when it first debuted in 1997 either, so shut the fuck up!:



That's right. You, like me, could only decipher about six words in that entire song, but you loved it anyway. You can't get it out of your head now, can you?

And remember when you finally did look up the lyrics online? You realized how fucking profound that song is! For reals! It's an ode to deep friendships and a lament for relationships that have faded. All those "mmm bops" and "ba duba dops"? Those are supposed to be the heartbreaking sounds of people you have loved disappearing from your life.

You need more reasons not to be ashamed of your love of "Mmm Bop"? Here's three more:

First, was it not hyper-intelligent playwright Rickerby Hinds who pointed out the deep cultural significance of Hanson? Hinds, a pioneer of hip-hop theater, has repeatedly said that he remembers the exact moment he realized that hip-hop had completely infiltrated mainstream culture. When he first heard "Mmm Bop," he was floored by the song's use of record-scratching. That was it, he thought. There's no turning back.

Secondly, that music video you just saw is perhaps the finest example of what a mushroom trip is like that's ever been filmed. You see? It's educational.

Finally, have you seen the Hanson brothers lately?! Holy fuck! Four-gy, anyone?!

I love the Dutch for creating Deal or No Deal (I mean, you know how much I love the Dutch), but nobody has game shows quite like the Japanese. Case in point? This video clip. Six contestants, six tongue twisters. Guess what happens if they mess up? Guys, this might be painful to watch—but hilarious nonetheless:



It's amazing how nut pain transcends language barriers.

This amusing blog is not only a compendium of things that are younger than John McCain, but it's also a fascinating exploration of the history of American culture.



[Thanks to Isaac B. at Parabasis for posting this.]

Ready to be further disturbed, but for different reasons? Take a gander at this unbelievably hunky picture of a young John McCain in military garb. I'm horrified that he's kind of sexy. Absolutely horrified.



[Thanks to Jesse W. at Allegories of a Bundle of Sticks for posting this.]

Holy crap! I can't believe this has been sitting in my inbox for two weeks now and I haven't blogged about it yet. Behold...the poster:



There is nothing gay about this. Move along now.

[Thanks to Solia for sending me this.]

Speaking of martial arts movies, I went to see The Forbidden Kingdom on a late-night whim last week. You know, when you're sitting there at home in the dark and contemplating the endless and incomprehensible expanse of existence? You can temporarily blot out the soul-sucking power of your own uncontrollable thoughts with either alcohol or escapist entertainment. I don't drink.

The historic pairing of Jackie Chan and Jet Li in this time-traveling kung fu picture was supposed to jolt me into a happy state of mind, but the film is only moderately entertaining. I won't go into detail because I don't bad-mouth Asians (except for that blogger with an immature and idiotic grudge against me—SUCK IT!).

What did actually comfort me about that whole movie-going experience was the fact that I was the only person in the entire theater. I sat dead center with my bag of popcorn and my smuggled-in Diet Coke With Lime. (Hey, Mann Theatres, start carrying different flavors of Diet Coke, and maybe I'll buy drinks from your concession stand.)

Being the only person in the theater is such a unique thrill that I felt I had to take advantage of the circumstance and do something crazy like talk at the screen or dance up and down the aisles or spank it—loudly. But, alas, I couldn't shake my sense of propriety and sat there quietly—except for the many moments during the movie when I shook my head and mumbled, "WHAT?!"

The Mamet-rigged cons and double crosses in Redbelt may not be as complicated and elegant as the ones in, say, The Spanish Prisoner, Spartan, or, my favorite Mamet film, the criminally underrated (and unavailable-on-DVD), Homicide, but Redbelt towers over those films in terms of emotional resonance and giving the audience a hero that it can not only sympathize with but also root for. That's a big deal. I typically don't go into a Mamet movie (even on repeated viewings) cheering for the protagonists—I'm too busy keeping up with the plot twists, the stylized dialogue, the smoke and mirrors. (One exception is, perhaps, State and Main, his terrific comedy about Hollywood.)

Many of Mamet's regulars who I've come to know and love are here: Joe Mantenga, Ricky Jay, Rebecca Pidgeon, etc. But its Chiwetel Ejiofor, that mind-bogglingly great British actor from Dirty Pretty Things and Melinda and Melinda, that brings gravitas not only to his role as a stoic Jiu-Jitsu instructor with a strict code of honor (and with nagging money problems) but also to the entire film, which culminates in a rousing fight scene.

Moviegoers may find some of the plot points a bit contrived, but I get the feeling that Mamet has never minded the artifice. In his films, he generally seems to be more concerned with the mechanics of conning the audience, rather placating them with the illusion of reality. But in Redbelt, he also seems to want you to feel something. Diverting your intellect by aiming for your heart.

There are several possible reasons why Drake Bell did not meet and greet all his fans after his rockin' good concert at the National Train Day event at Union Station in Los Angeles: 1.) he was seriously distraught that some teen girl swiped his sunglasses from right off the stage and ran off with them after the show; 2.) he wanted to stand close to his brand new black BMW because it gave him comfort in his time of loss; or 3.) he knew that if he met me that I would ask him these two questions in all seriousness: a.) "Is the song 'Up Periscope' really a metaphorical ode to anal sex?," and b.) "Will you father my children?" Little does he know, that I am always looking out for his career and advocating for him whenever I have the opportunity. Don't you owe me a fan photograph, Drake? Don't you?! The readers of Bamboo Nation are inspired every time they see my dreams come true! And it's that kind of inspiration that gives kids with cancer hope for another day! Don't you want to help out kids with cancer?!

There were several surprising things about Saturday's event. First of all, I was expecting the Amtrak station to be overrun primarily by screaming tween and teen girls, the very ones who watched Drake & Josh on Nickelodeon religiously and awarded him not one, not two, but three Kids' Choice Awards three years in a row. Sure, those screaming girls were there (and security guards brought along earplugs in appropriate anticipation), but the place was also packed with very young boys and girls, ranging from preschool age and up.

I didn't know Drake & Josh had such generational crossover appeal, enough that kindergartners wanted to get their picture taken with a roaming Jonathan Goldstein, who plays Drake's stepfather on the show. And one elementary school-age boy wandered around the station's courtyard before the concert with a hundred dollars in his hand to see if anyone would be willing to give up their wristband, which was required for admission. (They ran out earlier in the day.) Suffer, child, suffer! (The boy and his entire family eventually did get in at no cost, as the wristbands were just an overly complicated measure that had to do with room capacity and that I am too exhausted to explain.)

There was something slightly subversive about the whole thing, I must say. These little kids and their parents were watching this grown man sing adult love songs:

When you're creeping out of bed I sneak a peek to see
Just what you were wearing last night
Or what was leftover from ripping off our clothes
I checked to see the door was closed
As you were turning out the lights

Secondly, I didn't realize how big the concert was going to be. Drake was backed by a lively five-piece band that played electric guitars, a keyboard, a piano, and a saxophone, with Drake alternating between an acoustic and electric guitar and a microphone that didn't always work properly. (Um, HELLO, when there's no sound coming out of the main act's mike, somebody should do something about it immediately!) They performed on a grand stage, in front of tall, majestic windows that gave the whole room a dreamy afternoon glow.

Lastly, Drake played many of the songs off his refreshing sophomore album, It's Only Time, but he and his band seemed to be channeling musicians from the 50s and 60s. (What, with his ascot and all. Yes, I said ascot!) Indeed, he opened his hour-long set with the oldie but goodie, "See See Ryder," and even dipped into Donovan's back catalog with "Mellow Yellow." To which I could only scream with delight, "WHAT?!" I mean, Drake is 21! So: "WHAT?!"

In defense of tween and teen girls, they do manage to document events such as these (albeit poorly) and post them on YouTube, allowing me to remember them for the rest of my natural life. One girl captured him doing an acoustic version of the Drake & Josh theme song, with his band members providing five-part harmony.... WHAT...?! Oh, glorious day:

Joanne was in Glendale last night, and Loren kept trying to drag her over to The Americana at Brand. She resisted because, in casual conversation, many people she knew kept describing The Americana in Biblical terms—you know, "the promised land" or "god's green earth" or (according to this blog) "paradise." But all those descriptions were expressed in a mocking fashion. And when something is mocked enough, it loses its cool factor.

As an appropriate countermeasure, Loren began equating criticisms of The Americana with acts of anti-patriotism. "If you don't go to The Americana," he warned her, "they win."

She ignored him.

"So, Joanne," Loren continued, " do you love The Americana...or do you love Al-Qaeda?!"

We didn't go to The Americana last night. Watch the skies, California. You have been warned.

New Yorkers, how lucky were you to see Elaine Stritch at Liberty when it ran on Broadway a few years ago? How great was it to witness a living legend, at the age of 77, belt out showtunes and wax nostalgic about the history of American theater? How thrilling must it have been to hear Stritch's funny, fascinating, and amazing anecdotes about Marlon Brando, Noel Coward, and Ethel Merman? At the time did you know what a national treasure she was and how adeptly she could spin events in her life into breathtaking stories?

I didn't know. Until now. Last night I watched the DVD of Stritch's performance, which was filmed for HBO, and discovered she is a one-woman Jukebox Stories. She tells tales and sings songs, and her stage presence is undeniably irresistible.

She won a Tony Award in 2002, of course, and her Emmy Award for the HBO special yielded one of the most delightful and unprecedented acceptance speeches in the history of award shows:



How could you not love her?! And if you're a New Yorker and you missed her show, ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!

I just realized that I never posted this trailer that advertises Scott Heim's new novel, We Disappear. It doubles as a moody music video for a Cindytalk (who?!) song. The video was shot and edited by Scott himself because, I presume, he's as much of a control freak as I am:



Theater folk have increasingly started using video to peddle their wares. Why don't more publishing houses follow suit? The future is now, people! If you don't embrace technology and make it your friend, eventually the robots are going to kill you!

As you know, Google rules just about every part of my online experience—I use Gmail, Google Reader, Google Maps, Google Groups, Google Talk, Google News, Google Alerts, Google's Blogger, Google Analytics, and, of course, Google Search. If an application called Google Masturbator existed, I would have it.

So when I recently read that Google launched a totally free 411 service, which can be accessed by dialing 1-800-GOOG-411, I was thrilled. Now Google could be a part of my life even when I'm away from the computer! Plus, no more $1.25 charges from Sprint 411 to get the number of my nearest Indian casino! Check it out:



Now does the free-ness of the service cancel out that fact that the only two times I've tried to use it it didn't work? The first time I was connected to the wrong business (Outback Steakhouse in Burbank instead of Glendale [don't ask]) , and the second time the computer on the other end of my phone line couldn't figure out what the hell I was saying ("Raffi's Restaurant, bitch!"). In the angry words of Stanley from The Office, "Did I stutter?!"

The producers of a Japanese TV show decided to surprise a studio full of teenage girls by showing them a clip from the horror movie, The Ring. The girls freak out and scream, as teenage girls are wont to do, but what happens next is surprising and delightful:



Oh, there is so much joy in the world!

As you know, The Americana at Brand, that bastion of America's consumer hopes and dreams, just opened in my backyard this past weekend. I am happy (or sad?) to report that I have already visited there five times—count 'em, FIVE TIMES!

My second trip was Friday night with Loren, Gabriel, and Donovan, and we could barely walk through the complex because EVERYBODY IN THE ENTIRE SAN FERNANDO AND SAN GABRIEL VALLEY WAS THERE! It was insane. But we did get to watch the awe-inspiring fountain show, choreographed to Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea."

"You know," Donovan remarked, "that's someone's job. Fountain Choreographer."

I had never really thought about that before, but whoever it is deserves to make ONE MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR!

On Saturday, I took my mom. She looked through the windows of all the fancy shops and declared, "Everything's so expensive! I'm scared just looking! Is there a Ross here?!" THERE IS NO ROSS THERE, MOM!

We went to the multiplex to see Young @ Heart, a funny and moving documentary about seniors singing rock songs, but the best part of it all was that popcorn only cost a dollar. It was a special week-long promotion. Did you hear me?! POPCORN WAS ONE DOLLAR! I said to the concessions guy, "THAT'S AMAZING!"

On Sunday afternoon, I took Brent, and he was fascinated by the idea of the trolley running though The Americana. But I don't really think anything like this could really impress him—after all, the man works at Disneyland and gets to shoot hippos on the Jungle Cruise. A little train that takes you to The Cheesecake Factory must seem ghetto by comparison.

You know what did have an impact though? A slight breeze during the fountain show blew several gallons of water directly above our heads. We got so completely soaking wet that it was pointless to even move out of the way—we couldn't have gotten any wetter. So we just stood there to let the show run its course and to allow the world to witness our idiocy.

Sunday evening, it was Loren, Gabriel, and Brent again, this time for Iron Man and MORE ONE DOLLAR POPCORN!

Anybody who's been around me during the past few days knows that The Americana is ALL I WANT TO TALK ABOUT! Be warned.

Despite some serious lapses in sanity, there is still much to admire about the Philippines and its people. And in a surprising Deal or No Deal twist, my respect for the Filipinos has skyrocketed to a whole new level.

You see, Howie Mandel is taking American contestants to several of the 120 countries where versions of Deal or No Deal appear and playing the game in those foreign countries. Tonight he hosted the show in the Philippines, on the Filipino Deal or No Deal set in front of a Filipino audience, featuring the Filipino models and the Filipino host, Kris Aquino—the daughter of former President Corazon Aquino.

The Philippines version of Deal or No Deal is FUCKING CRAZY! And that's why I love it!

First of all, the models not only open suitcases and look pretty, but they also kick off the show with a well-choreographed sexy-dance! WHAT?! Look:



And they have names like Darling and Kitten.

The Filipino banker doesn't just sit around like the American banker. He paces intensely and, when moved to do so, dances an evil-dance.

Then there's the wild audience. They all participate in the show rather vocally, swinging their arms, throwing their hands in the air, jumping up and down. And, yes, they have a dance too. I call it the joy-joy-dance, a happy bounce that they engage in when the house DJ—yes, I said house DJ—turns up the music. The audience looks like they're having more fun than the contestants.

Howie described it all as having a party atmosphere and that assessment is totally accurate. The American show is filled with the kind of cheap suspense that I have come to know and love. But the Filipino version boasts an undeniable joie de vivre that would put most of us to shame.

If there's such a thing as a metal fetish, I don't have it. But you have to admit that that Iron Man suit is pretty goddamn sexy. Perhaps that's why Iron Man is one of the comic books I read as a kid and kept underneath my bed alongside my beach volleyball magazines.

Aside from having a uniformly terrific cast, the film version of Iron Man also boasts cool effects (who knew suiting up would be so entertaining to watch?), a nifty script (the stripper plane!), and a sharp, wry performance by a suddenly hunky Robert Downey Jr. (yeah, I'd tap that).

Thank you, Hollywood, for not fucking this one up and getting Summer 2008 off to a good start.

If you're like me, you've always dreamed about building a park full of phallic sculptures in different shapes, sizes, and circumstances—you know, line some of them up like Stonehenge or make one that looks like a penis cannon. Well, guess what? Those crazy Koreans have beaten me to the punch!

Haeshindang Park in Samcheok, South Korea, is exactly what I'm describing. Why didn't they just call it "Paradise"?

[Thanks to Peter V. at Plastic Bubble World for sending me this.]

The moment I stepped onto the premises of The Americana at Brand this afternoon, a $400 million upscale outdoor shopping center and residential development, I started to cry. I immediately called up Loren and declared, "It's like heaven exists, and they decided to put it my backyard!" You see, The Americana is a scant four blocks away from my apartment, and, although I am by no means a spend-happy consumer (I rarely shop), I have a deep appreciation for what this decadent display of mass consumerism and excess represents—it's like America's hopes and dreams in physical form. Seriously. So that's why I cried. Seriously.

"I have to get off the phone now," I told Loren, "so I can wipe away my tears." And I also wanted to give The Americana, which had its grand opening on Thursday night, the full attention that it deserved. As I took it all in, I thought to myself, "I now know how all those immigrants felt when they passed through Ellis Island."

Aside from the 70+ shops and restaurants, 100 luxury condos, and 238 apartments, The Americana boasts an 18-screen movie theater (I just blew a load in my pants), a lavish fountain and waterfall (complete with a ridiculous fountain show every half hour), tacky bronze sculptures (public art—gotta love it), and trolleys (just in case you don't want walk around the 15.5 acre development). (And why would you want to? This is L.A.! For all you SoCal residents, the Los Angeles Times described it as "The Grove on steroids.")

What's even more ridiculous (and lovable) about it all is that The Americana opened up right next to the Glendale Galleria, one of the biggest indoor malls in the Southland. Out of all the people I've talked to so far, only Loren has truly displayed the excitement necessary to match the cheesy awesomeness of The Americana. So tomorrow I'm bringing my mother. And when her jaw drops at the sight of it all, I will ask her, "Is this how you felt when you first came to America?"

More detailed information about the seven plays and playwrights that I mentored and that I previously wrote about has just been captured in an article in the Palo Alto High School newspaper.

Do you remember your high school paper days? I was one of the editors of mine (Monrovia High, can I get a "hell yeah?!"), and back then we didn't have such newfangled tools as Photoshop or the Internet. We we would be stuck at school late, spitting that damn paper out through a motherf-ing printing press! WTF?!

TheatreWorks' Playwrights' Initiative receives such unbridled praise from school staff, administration, parents, and students that I'm surprised that it always seems to be a struggle to secure funding for the project from school to school.

My suggestion? Why don't they get James Franco (Spider-Man, Freaks and Geeks) to fund the program at least at Paly for the next few decades? He used to go there and apparently revisits the campus to lift stories from students to use in the novel he's writing. Tit for tat, Harry Osborn! (James Franco could very well already be funnelling money into that school—I don't know.)

...Crap. I originally ended this blog post with that last paragraph and then I remembered that I didn't really complete it. So:

Yeah, I'd tap that.

Okay. Move along now.

Jonny, who blogs at Hatesexy, has just posted the single greatest entry of his blogging career. It's all about his adventures at Jollibee, a Filipino chain restaurant that serves such suspect items as "Crispy Chickenjoy" and "Juicy Yumburger."

I am accused by my friends of having no culinary savvy, dulled taste buds, and zero standards when it comes to food, but even I won't set foot into Jollibee. I love my Filipino friends and neighbors...but that shit ain't right.

I'll let Jonny explain.

As you know, there's enough gay allegory and queer artistic sensibility in the two High School Musical movies to keep me blogging for my entire life and to keep tweens outraged into the next century. So I really have no need to purposely seek out other kids' programming to bait more faux controversy. But when something like the Nickelodeon sitcom, Drake & Josh, just falls into my lap, how can I possibly shut up about it?

As you also know, because of my Drake Bell obsession I've been catching up with the TV show that solidified his star status among the teen and tween set. Because I've been watching episodes of Drake & Josh out of order, I just finished the pilot episode tonight, which first aired in 2004 and which is quite hilarious. But my jaw dropped when I realized that gay metaphors, obvious and otherwise, lurked around every freaking corner of this thing! WTF?!

The premise of the show is simple and full of comic possibility. Drake, the handsome and popular high school ladies' man who's addicted to soda pop, and Josh, the chubby and nerdy outcast who's just this side of flamboyant, suddenly become live-in stepbrothers who now share a bedroom when their parents marry.

In the pilot, Drake discovers that Josh harbors a deep and shameful secret—Josh occasionally wears a tacky dress and blond wig that makes him look like a mini-Divine. Manly Drake is shocked and disturbed, of course, and demands an explanation. Well, it's simple, really. Josh says the outfit helps him write the anonymous advice column for the school newspaper. The name of the column? Miss Nancy. DID YOU HEAR THAT, PEOPLE?! His alter ego is someone named Miss Nancy!

Josh is a classic queer kid archetype. A bit flamboyant, as I noted above. Bullied at school. Excels at things like cooking. And frequently tries to give hugs. Oh, and did I mention he's Miss Freaking Nancy?!

In the end, Drake gets rid of the dress, much to Josh's dismay. "Give me my dress!" Josh pleads. But Drake convinces Josh that he doesn't need to put on women's clothing to be Miss Nancy. Miss Nancy is in Josh's heart and soul, not in the clothes he wears, not in outside appearances.

If you want to revisit the gay metaphor thing, well, it seems that Drake is saying that you don't have to look gay to be gay. You can just be gay without the fanfare. It's kind of like he's okay with Josh being a homo—as long as it doesn't involve flaunting it in people's faces. I'm not sure that's a very empowering message, but, hey, whaddaya gonna do? However, Drake does accept a big man-hug at the end of the pilot.

A bunch of mixed messages seem to be flying back and forth in this episode, so I'm not sure where the show lands on the whole gay issue. But it is sort of like adolescence, right? It's a confusing time, and it may take a while to sort things out.

As of this writing, Bamboo Nation has no street cred! Is it really possible that no African Americans read this blog?! That's what my latest poll currently reveals!



My black brothers and sisters, I know you're out there—so take my poll to prove to the world how diverse my readership is. I mean, how can this blog not be required reading for you, especially since I keep posting videos like this?!:

After tonight's performance of seven one-act plays written by high school students and presented at the Mountain View Center for the Performing Arts by professional actors and directors, I shook the hand of a young playwright. His piece was so disturbing that a parent got up immediately afterward, expressed her disdain to a staff member, and left the building in the middle of the program. "Congratulations," I said to the student. "You've done in just a few months of writing what I've spent my entire career trying to do."

I mean, don't we artists all want to create work that will shake audiences to their very core? Whether it's by making people laugh out loud, feel deeply, really think, or, yes, walk out, we want people to have a genuine reaction. And, collectively, all the students achieved all those things tonight.

The line-up? A girl is literally trapped inside her own mind until she can solve her romantic dilemma.... The characters in a role-playing game come to life and berate thirtysomething nerds.... Two prostitutes from two different eras reach across time to talk to each other about their circumstances.... Stoner friends fend off zombie hookers.... A first date goes awry due to an overly aggressive GPS system.... A town committee decides the gruesome fate of one of its citizens.... And a schoolgirl's crush on her teacher transports her to the Old West to live out her fantasies.

This evening was the culmination of a program at TheatreWorks, in which I was sent into a drama class at Palo Alto High School (my third high school over the last few years), helped 15 students develop new plays, and subsequently mentored seven selected playwrights to take their work to the next level. Yes, I was handed the opportunity to corrupt young minds (or, at the very least, get the kids to tell me where they buy their drugs), but I taught them playwriting instead. (I'm just kidding, Palo Alto Unified School District, I'm just kidding, keep those checks coming!)

The plays are surprisingly high-quality, and the diversity of writing styles, topics, and voices is truly impressive. People who don't come to these showcases have trouble believing that this is true. But it is. I mean, the work is honestly on par with, if not better than, the many one-act play showcases and festivals I've been to.

And you should've seen these kids' faces. They take me back to a place where everything is new again. And it's great to be reminded what that feels like from time to time.

After a speedy drive from Los Angeles with four albums I just bought rotating in my CD player (Badly Drawn Boy's One Plus One Is One, The Presidents of the United States of America's These Are Good Times People, They Might Be Giants' No!, and The Thrills' So Much for the City) and Diet Coke With Lime coursing through my veins, I rolled into Menlo Park at exactly 3:00PM this afternoon to rehearse Oskar and the Bully. The play, which will tour elementary schools (K-5) in the San Francisco Bay Area pretty much forever (I'm actually not kidding), was commissioned by TheatreWorks and Palo Alto Unified School District.

In researching bullies, victims, bystanders, and definitions of bully behavior, I was surprised to learn that, as much as I was bullied at school, I did a fair amount of bullying myself as a youngster. Remember that time in middle school when I went up to Frank Johnson (not his real name) and asked, "Hi, Frank, I just started the I Hate Frank Johnson Fan Club. Do you want to join?" Or how about that time I drew a movie poster based on the life of my classmate, Elizabeth Hovel (not her real name), which I titled "Hovels of Hell"? Man, I was a mean bastard. I hope that I have grown and changed over the years (and that I am now meaner and more clever). (I'm just kidding, Palo Alto Unified School District, I'm just kidding, keep those checks coming!)

The actors, director, and stage manager were terrific, and I was writing new pages for them just minutes before our very first invited reading in front of TheatreWorks and PAUSD staff. I was thrilled at how enthusiastic and positive everybody was, especially for such an early draft. Since my M.O. is presenting issues in a subtle and funny way without clobbering people over the head, it was a relief to hear that folks were on the same page. With these educational theater programs, you never can tell if you're going to run into people who think kids are idiots and you have to club them with obvious messages and lessons, as I have been instructed to do before on other projects, much to my dismay. (That's a whole other story I'll have to relate to you some day.)

If grown men and women are this slaphappy about Oskar, then five-, six-, seven-, eight-, nine-, and ten-year-olds—who, if you remember, are my biggest fans—are going to love this new play, the second in a trilogy. The first piece was about literacy; this second one is about, of course, bullying; and the third topic is still up in the air. What do you think should be next? Race? Sex? Gay? Or how about racial gay sex? When do kids learn about racial gay sex nowadays?



[Attention Read and all the guys at Maybeck High: "Don't ever get involved with a French girl.... She'll make your life miserable." Word.]

As East West Players' 42nd Anniversary Visionary Awards Dinner was wrapping up tonight, I called Loren and informed him, "Hey, that black guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation is here."

Loren, ever the Trekkie, screamed, "Geordi?! You have to go talk to him!"

"Why? I've never seen the show."

"But...but...but...!" Loren pleaded.

And I've never seen Roots or Reading Rainbow either, so the only genuine thing that could come out of my mouth would've been something distasteful like, "Hey, you're that black guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation!" And then I would've walked away shamefully, as he shook his head in disdain.

EWP staples like the always reliable Amy Hill, Alec Mapa, and George Takei were there, but it was fun seeing people like that black guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation and American Idol's Randy Jackson. (FYI: Roots is now in my Netflix queue, people! Jeez!)

Honored with fabulous awards tonight were Dancing With the Stars' Carrie Ann Inaba, playwright Velina Hasu Houston (with the same award I won a couple years ago), and the winners of MTV's America's Best Dance Crew, JabbaWockeeZ. Those boys wowed me. Do you know them? Do:



...With special thanks to Edward G., whose magical powers transported me to the event in the first place.