DEAR PRESIDENT OBAMA:
If you get a cute innocent Yorkie, (like my Molly) you can carry him/her in your pocket when you addrss congress or the press. They will be so focused on the doggie, and realise any President that has a little angel that loves him unconditionally will only be doing good for us all!
Has anyone ever seen Putin or the Taliban or the Martians in charge of Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan hold a Yorkie in their hands as they order countless people to be tortured and shot? Hello? Never.
Walking my darling Molly used to be a genuine pleasure. She's a cute defective Yorkie--defective as far as qualifying for show-dog status, they were going to put her down at two months because her tongue sticks out and her ears do not perk up vertically ergo. Walking her was a time to flee from the chores of daily living and bill paying.
Other dog owners would stop and admire my Molly, and make it clear that they were jealous because she is so cute and adorable. I counter that their doggies are just as adorable. They continue: "But not as adorable as yours!" But all doggies are adorable and cute, even the mean-faced Pit Bulls foaming at the mouth as they see cute delicious snacks like Molly.
I'm used to this fawning, as she is my third Yorkie pooch.
What gets tiresome is the feeling that these encounters are bona fide opportunities to rave and rant about the world: Iran, Iraq, Palestine, Sarah Palin, the price of Belgian endives, and the variety of meds these people are on. And cutting them short with a "whatever" doesn't curb their enthusiastic kvetching.
Since I live in the Times Square theater district, most of these encounters take place with actors, writers, musicians, directors, and other fading stars of Broadway and film.
Now, an added dimension has made its way to the forefront of commentaire: Everyone knows about my winning the lottery (my book TAKING WOODSTOCK is now an ANG LEE Hollywood movie). This brings out the best and the worst. Many people are genuinely happy at my phenomenal good luck and extend sincere good wishes. Then there are those who were not cast in leading roles. I explain I was not the casting director but that I did submit their names and agents. Still, they are angry as evidenced by their nasty looks, red faces, and calling me mean and selfish.
And then there are countless writers who hand me their unsold scripts. No use to explain that I do not have that kind of power to get them a movie deal or theater production, so I smile and say I will be happy to see that the right person gets their material. Soon, they begin to hound me saying that nobody called them about their project. Then they bitch about my producer and director as being illiterate and unknowledgeable--missing the next Oscar- or Tony-winning script.
If only it would end there I'd be relieved. Some of them warn me that they will write about me on Twitter or Facebook--about how inhuman I am and how they never liked my films or plays or books. A few threaten to write to my 145-year-old grandma in Hell.
Walking my darling Molly used to be a genuine pleasure.
Whatever.
