| Table again for one, Mr. Burroughs? Right back by the restroom door, as usual. |
| Wednesday, April 1 2009 3:05 PM |
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Dennis doesn't watch TV except now he watches Rachel Maddow. He loves his Rachel. In nine years together, he has never had “a show,” if you know what I mean. Although there have been a few things we've watched regularly over the years, there has never been anything quite like this. Rachel Maddow is his Battlestar Galactica. She makes him laugh. This is why I thank Jesus each morning for Rachel Maddow. I can't even tell you. It's like having a kid, and knowing you can always stick him in front of the television, plug in his Xbox and hand him the controller. He'll be fine now. So four weeks ago, Dennis -who won't even let me use my name when making a restaurant reservation because he thinks it's pretentious and loathsome- made a special trip downstairs to my office and said, “You need to invite Rachel Maddow over for dinner.” He suggested I contact her “people.” I just looked up at him and blinked. And he asks me now each week, “So, how's that letter coming?” Meaning, my letter to Rachel Maddow inviting her to dinner. I tell him, “I'm working on it, I haven't forgotten.” What I have not confessed is that each version of the letter begins like this: “Dear Rachel, I know this is kind of creepy and stalkerish but I think we both live in the same general area of Massachusetts and...” So it's the “I'm your neighbor not your stalker!” approach. I just can't figure out the segue from “We're your neighbors” to “come over for dinner with your girlfriend.” No matter how I phrase it, it comes out sounding odious. Like I want to know her because she's famous or I want to be on her show. In reality, the only place I want to be is in my basement. I can't exactly tell her, “If you don't come to dinner, I will likely end up single and I can't cook and don't know how to write checks. Dennis is an amazing cook, not just some freak with a non-stick skillet. A rock star and a two-time Oscar nominee even said so.” And then, can you even imagine my dinner conversation with this Stanford and Oxford-educated Rhodes scholar (whatever the hell THAT is) with her own radio and primetime television shows? Rachel: “The idea that you can do something constructive with war is becoming this facile, dangerous, intellectually lax political interpretation of military counter-insurgency theory.” Augusten: “Yeah. That's so true. Speaking of 'lax,' why do you think that's what they named the LA airport? L-A-X , lax. And then what's the one in Seattle? Tic-Tac or something? God, I used to love Tic-Tacs.” Often, when I am watching her show, I won't even hear the words she says. I will be focused instead on how pretty she is. “Isn't she beautiful?” I will say. “Shhhhhhhh,” Dennis will scold. “If I were a brand manager at Revlon, I would want her face for my brand. She's the future of beauty -strong, smart, very clean and make-up free, which is a look that I'm sure requires a shitload of makeup. And then imagine if you slutted her up and stuck her in some beaded Armani gown for your Academy Awards commercial. It would be shocking, actually. But empowering in a way that makeup advertising really isn't.” “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Hateful glare. Then at the commercial break: “So what's she talking about tonight?” |
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