The Emmy nominations are out! The Emmy nominations are out! I can’t wait to see my favorite shows on here. But, wait. . . I see some, yet there seem to be some rather gaping holes - dare I say, abysses (abyssi?).

Let’s recount the television shows I have hailed this year:

30 Rock: Okay, the Emmy people love this show as much as I do. Included among their 17 (!!!) Emmy nominations: Outstanding Comedy Series, Lead Actor (Alec Baldwin) and Lead Actress (Tina Fey), and Outstanding Writing for a Comedy Series (for TWO episodes).

Pushing Daisies: Despite its shortened season due to the writers’ strike, this show scored pretty well in the Emmy nominations, mostly scoring nods for acting and its arty look. But wait - what’s this I see? A writing nomination for the pilot episode. Hooray!!

In Treatment: BOO!! Bad Emmy people! Only four nominations, with a deserved three for acting (Gabriel Byrne, Dianne Wiest, and Glenn Turman) - where’s the love for Sophie (Mia Wasikowska), people??? And no writing nominations. For shame.

The Wire: I can barely write this. One. Lousy. Nomination. A show that virtually ALL television critics hailed as maybe the best, most intelligent series on television, EVER - and it scores one nomination. Granted, it’s for the writing in the series finale. But please. That’s an insult.

LOST: I’m still bitter about The Wire, frankly. Yeah, whatever. Outstanding Drama nomination. Big whoop. Where’s the writing nomination for “The Constant,” the brilliant and emotional time loop episode featuring Desmond? I’ll tell you where. In the crazy time warp that the island apparently went to, because it’s sure not here.

So. Some hits. Some misses. Some egregious errors. There’s always next year.

Carl Hiaasen is funnier than watching a herd of cows trying to sing “Feelings” a cappella.

I’ve been a huge fan of his novels for years, which manage to combine vivid description of the wilder parts of Florida (and by wild, I mean “natural,” as opposed to college girls on spring break) with world-weary heroes and absolutely loony, not-too-bright villains. For people who haven’t yet discovered Hiaasen, start with my personal favorites, Tourist Season (introducing one of my all-time favorite characters, Skink) and Skin Tight, which will have you looking at weed whackers in an entirely new light.

Still, Hiaasen’s most recent book is a memoir about his bipolar relationship with golf, entitled A Downhill Lie: A Hacker’s Return to a Ruinous Sport. Anyone who has ever taken up the game or been widowed by a significant other who has taken up the game is going to love this book because it’s all about golf and why we continue to play it even when we’re just not that good at it. But you don’t have to be all that conversant in the sport to enjoy the book. A Downhill Lie actually resonates with a lot of emotion, stemming around the relationship Hiaasen had with his father, the memories of his dad, and the relationship Hiaasen is now forging with his young son - and how golf acts as the fulcrum that supports these relationships.

Now, lest you think I’m going all Field of Dreams on you, let me remind you that Hiaasen is a funny funny man. He can out-simile the best of them, and does in this book:

My first major mistake was prematurely asking to join my father for nine holes, a brisk Sunday outing during which I unraveled like a crackhead at a Billy Graham crusade.

Hooking a new Pro VI [golf ball] into the drink is like totaling a Testarossa while pulling out of the sales lot. It makes you want to puke.

After finishing this read, no matter whether you’re a weekend golfer, gave up the sport, or have never wanted to hold a golf club in your life, you’ll come away with the same conclusion: you made the right decision.

I had for a couple years now been hearing about a Canadian series about a Shakespeare Festival that had been shown on the Sundance Channel and had a mad cult following. The series was called Slings and Arrows, and people talked about it as if it were the best thing to come out of Canada since Anne Murray. So, obviously, I had to check it out.

All three seasons are available as a boxed DVD set, which I obtained under guise of an anniversary present, and my better half and I have been having a fine old time watching all the episodes. It has been such a joy to watch that it’s one of those times when you’re sad when you’ve reached the end.

In a nutshell, Slings and Arrows follows the misadventures of the New Burbage Theatre troupe of actors and administrators during three seasons of plays. Its main characters are Geoffrey Tennant (Paul Gross, one of the handsomest men ever, second only to Ewan McGregor - and my better half. . . - dodged THAT bullet!), the new artistic director of the New Burbage who sees ghosts and may or may not be completely crazy; Richard Smith-Jones (Mark McKinney, formerly of Kids in the Hall), hapless manager who loves musicals more than the Bard; and Ellen Fanshaw (Martha Burns), the reigning diva actress whose diva-ness masks deep insecurities. In each season, the subplots of the cast resonate with some of the same themes of the Shakespearean play being produced. The series, created and penned by Susan Coyne, Tecca Crosby, Bob Martin, and Mark McKinney, expertly weaves the stories in and around Shakespeare’s plays, and manages in the interim, to bring the Shakespeare itself to life as well. The final season’s performance of King Lear is about the most gut-wrenchingly good acting I’ve ever seen.

And lest you think that a show about Shakespearean actors would be serious and dull, consider some of these random dialogue moments:

Guard: Are you a suicide risk? Geoffrey Tennant: Isn’t everybody?

Richard Smith-Jones: What the hell are we going to do? I mean, I know what I’m going to have to do. I’m going to have to go to the Minister of Culture and beg for money like some kind of blind hurdler.

Richard Smith-Jones: Darren, everybody cries when they get stabbed. There’s no shame in that.

Mull that over for a few, then run, don’t walk, to rent or buy this wonderful series. It will be time well spent.

Hallelujah! My prayers have been answered and I can begin to set my DVR again. For WEEKS now, we have had nothing scheduled on it but RENO 911!, and a half hour of silliness is not enough to satisfy my inner couch-potato.

But a new, non-reality show(!) has emerged on, of all places, ABC Family, and it is cool and refreshing as watermelon. The Middleman, which airs Mondays on ABC Family at 10 pm, is a spoofy, self-referential superhero show based on the series of graphic novels by Javier Grillo-Marxuach. The Middleman himself (played by Matt Keeslar) is a milk-loving, crime-fighting, clean-mouthed, alien-busting hero who doesn’t know where his assignments or super-cool gadgets come from - he’s just the middleman. In the pilot, he recruits Wendy Watson (Natalie Morales), a painter who doesn’t bat an eye when confronted with an alien, to join him in his justicey ways.

The pilot of The Middleman, “The Pilot Episode Sanction,” written by Grillo-Marxuach, contained references to no fewer than 15 classic television shows or movies, including The Jetsons, The Incredibles, Planet of the Apes, The Godfather, and The Avengers. It also had wicked clever dialogue like the following:

Wendy (describing her mom): She’s on me 24-7 to to quit painting, move back to Orlando, meet a good man, eat fried foods, swell up like a tick and start squeezing out calves like Elsie mainlining fertility drugs.

Wendy: Well who do you work for?
The Middleman: I got recruited, the exact same way you did. When the last Middleman hired me, he never said and I never asked. Ida was already there, so were all the weapons and gadgets and things. Sometimes a box comes in with more weapons and gadgets and things. I don’t know where they come from; they just do. Maybe Ida runs the show, maybe it’s the conspiracy. Maybe it’s God. I’m just The Middleman.

This show has much the same vibe as my beloved cartoon series The Tick, with the Middleman throwing off random bits of wisdom disguised in mangled metaphors, such as “Self-knowledge is the gateway to freedom” or “It’s bad apples like you that put Mr. Hoover in a dress.” It’s a hoot. Check it out.

In honor of Independence Day, I was looking back at the Declaration of Independence, adopted on this date in 1776. I considered writing about that fine piece of work, the words that should be imprinted upon every American’s brain: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” It truly is gorgeous writing, meant to be uttered aloud, the words savored in the mouth like fine wine.

But then I thought about how, despite the primary authorship of Thomas Jefferson, the Declaration of Independence is one of the first pieces of American political writing to emerge successfully from editing by committee (Jefferson might disagree as to its success). And that led me to thinking about an amazing book I just finished reading by Robert Schlesinger, White House Ghosts: Presidents and Their Speechwriters. This book covers the history of political speechwriters from FDR’s administration up through the end of George W. Bush’s first term. It’s WordHappy-worthy on two levels: first, Schlesinger himself does a beautiful job of laying out history in relation to a president’s relationship with his advisers and speechwriters. Secondly, the excerpts of the speeches themselves and some of the thoughts of the speechwriters quoted in the book make great reading as well.

As you read each chapter, it is fascinating to see how each president reacted differently to the challenge of communicating with the American people, whether it be on a campaign train, or via radio or television. Even more fascinating is how we learn that occasionally, being a good writer could be a detriment for a president. Jimmy Carter, for example, preferred to write his own speeches and did not use his speechwriters to their potential. But this proved to be his undoing - he did not have enough time to do his own speeches justice, and they were very badly received. [Note to Obama, who is alleged to write much of his own material: If you make it to the White House, sir, learn to delegate the writing.]

It is also fascinating to see how the process has evolved. In FDR’s tenure, he used a small stable of trusted advisers to write his speeches, that he then edited. The editing and clearance by committee apparently can be attributed to Gerald Ford’s administration, specifically chief of staff Donald Rumsfeld. [Please appreciate the strength of character it takes that I am not making any partisan comments about this dubious honor, nor about the writing of "shadow speeches" -- speeches not written by the speechwriting department -- by Ford's second chief of staff Dick Cheney. Must. Bite. Tongue.] Schlesinger uses the words of Peggy Noonan, speechwriter for Ronald Reagan, to describe the process:

By Noonan’s estimate an insignificant speech would go to twenty people for approval, a major one to fifty. . . This process was “like sending a beautiful newborn fawn out into the jagged wilderness where the grosser animals would pierce its tender flesh and render mortal wounds,” Noonan wrote in her memoir, What I Saw at the Revolution. “But perhaps I understate.”

This book is an absolute must-read in today’s political climate, for anyone who is interested in the leaders running our country and the extremely dedicated men and women trying to craft those leaders’ messages to the public.

Happy July 4th, everyone!

I’ve looked over Entertainment Weekly’s New Classics: Movies list now several times, and something strikes me: I’ve seen probably 90% of the films listed, but there were only a handful when I read the title that I had a visceral reaction of a hand-pumping “Yes! I LOVE that movie!” I recall enjoying the vast majority of them, but very few of them were memorable enough that I consider them “repeater-worthy”, i.e. would want to watch them again on several (or even one) repeat viewings.

My showcase film today is a notable exception. It’s one where when I saw the title, I heaved a gigantic contented sigh, and said, “Oh, yes. They got that one right.” (And before you ask, I do talk to myself - all the time, in fact). It is No. 10 on the New Classics movie list: Moulin Rouge! (2001). This film, directed by Baz Luhrmann and written by Luhrmann and Craig Pearce, is pure melodrama injected with absinthe. It’s definitely a love-it-or-hate-it kind of movie, and I can respectfully acknowledge those people who hated it with a deep and abiding passion. But you can’t be indifferent about it, and how many movies can you say that about?

The plot follows a classic romance formula: a naive writer, Christian (Ewan McGregor), gets drawn into the world of the Moulin Rouge and falls in love with its star, Satine (Nicole Kidman). There’s a villain and, of course, a secret deadly illness, and lots of singing and dancing. Despite the fine acting by Kidman and McGregor [random digression: Ewan McGregor singing "Come What May" is perhaps the single most romantic scene in filmdom EVER. Is it warm in here? Pardon me while I fan myself a moment.], where the movie truly excels, and what lifts it into the realm of the “repeater-worthy” movie, is its use of style and tone. From the opening frames until the closing credits, Luhrmann maintains the frenetic, kinetic energy through the saturated colors, the camera angles and fast cuts, even the actors’ pacing of the dialogue. It takes what could have been a bland, formulaic disaster of a musical and makes it utterly brilliant and new.

What movies from the EW Movies list do you consider to be “repeater-worthy?”

For those of you who have gazed upon Entertainment Weekly’s New Classics list - i.e. their version of the best things to hit us in the last twenty-five years - have you, like me, felt nostalgia to the point of embarrassment at gazing upon some of the movie and television picks now available only by DVD or box set?

Particularly the TV list. I don’t know about you, but I can get invested in a television series to the point of clinical pathology. I know far more details, for example, about the life of Lorelei Gilmore from Gilmore Girls (no. 32 on the EW list) than I do about my closest female friends. Sad, but true. So when a series that I have given of my time - and my heart (sob) - ends its run, I grieve. To see so many of my departed friends on the EW “New Classics: TV” list makes me happy to see my friends again, while at the same time miss them all over again.

One of the series I miss most acutely is number 36 on the list, thirtysomething. This series, created by Marshall Herskovitz and Edward Zwick, ran from 1987 to 1991, and listed a small band of terrific writers including Paul Haggis and Jerry Stahl. What made the series so unique for the time, and therefore utterly addictive to me, was that this was a show not about doctors or police or private detectives - things I was never likely to see in my own personal adulthood - but about couples and families and kids and friendship. Their issues of work stress, faithfulness, illness, and disappointment in the daily minutiae were challenges I could either already relate to or envision myself addressing at some point in the near future.

Throughout its four seasons, though their hair stayed totally 80s, the characters all developed in engaging and surprising ways, except for Gary (Peter Horton), who basically stayed a likable pig, and Michael’s boss Miles Drentell (David Clennon), who also remained unrepentently amoral. [Random cross-reference: When Peter Horton showed up as Sophie's wayward dad in In Treatment (not on EW's list, much to my horror), I praised the casting and resurrection of a character who was, essentially, Gary; the episode was, not to my surprise, directed by. . . Gary's old girlfriend, Melissa (i.e. Melanie Mayron)] And they all got to say the best lines. A few that I was able to find on the Internet:

“Sorry we can’t answer the phone, ’cause Nancy has cancer.” Elliot (Timothy Busfield) on the answering machine

“I always try to get complimentary cookies. In fact, these cookies are downright obsequious.” Ellyn (Polly Draper) to a caterer

“Michael and I had just come out of this awful movie and were walking, we couldn’t find the car. It as just starting to get dark and we were laughing about it, but we were getting tired. All of a sudden I - leaned on this car and looked at at him and I didn’t see him, I just - heard him, like a pressure and a sound inside of me, in a a place so deep I didn’t think anyone could ever reach..And I knew I could listen to that sound for the rest of my life… Hope (Mel Harris)

Michael, Hope, and the gang, I (for one) still miss you. Congrats on making EW’s list.

Oh, Entertainment Weekly. Have you no shame? Must you toy with me so, publishing your “Best of” lists for movies, television, books, and music over the last twenty-five years? Do you not realize that I must now spend this week doing donuts down Memory Lane, writing about all the books, shows, and movies you’ve made me realize I must - MUST - write about on WordHappy or feel I have forever failed you all?

For today’s post, I will comment on their No. 1 picks. This does not, in my opinion, constitute a “spoiler,” since the lists are readily available for anyone to see on the EW website. But I did think about whether it was, so if anyone feels strongly about not seeing the number one picks, stop reading now.

No. 1 Movie: Pulp Fiction: Seen it. I’m sure there are other movies that I feel equally worthy of the number one title, but I can’t quibble too much. Particularly since the film, written by Quentin Tarantino and Roger Avary, has such a bonanza of quoteworthy dialogue (although strictly in an R-rated sense; trying to find a non-F-bomb quote for you all was rather a challenge):

Fabienne (Maria de Medeiros): I was looking at myself in the mirror.
Butch (Bruce Willis): Uh-huh?
Fabienne: I wish I had a pot.
Butch: You were lookin’ in the mirror and you wish you had some pot?
Fabienne: A pot. A pot belly. Pot bellies are sexy.
Butch: Well you should be happy, ’cause you do.
Fabienne: Shut up, Fatso! I don’t have a pot! I have a bit of a tummy, like Madonna when she did “Lucky Star,” it’s not the same thing.
Butch: I didn’t realize there was a difference between a tummy and a pot belly.
Fabienne: The difference is huge.
Butch: You want me to have a pot?
Fabienne: No. Pot bellies make a man look either oafish, or like a gorilla. But on a woman, a pot belly is very sexy. The rest of you is normal. Normal face, normal legs, normal hips, normal ass, but with a big, perfectly round pot belly. If I had one, I’d wear a tee-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate it.
Butch: You think guys would find that attractive?
Fabienne: I don’t give a damn what men find attractive. It’s unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same.

No. 1 Television Show: The Simpsons. Seen it. Now again, I could quibble. My choice would have been The Wire, which EW has down ALL the way at number 11. But, having been a fan of Marge and Homer and the gang for most of the three million years the series has been on, I can’t be too upset at the pick. There is a list of writing credits for the show as long as my arm, but since IMdb reports that James L. Brooks, Matt Groening, and Sam Simon each have 420 episodes to their name, I’ll give them the lion’s share of the credit. From phrases that have entered the American iconography - “Mmmm, donuts” and “D’oh!” to name just two, to longer pieces of dialogue that have left me weeping with laughter, the writing on this show has never been mediocre, and has often been great. It’s not often you can say that about a show.

Bart: [after they watch a foreign film] I was so bored I cut the pony tail off the guy in front of us. [holds pony tail to his head] Look at me, I’m a grad student. I’m 30 years old and I made $600 last year.
Marge: Bart, don’t make fun of grad students. They’ve just made a terrible life choice.

Or. . .

Marge: Careful of that apple pie on the back seat…
Grampa: Uh-oh.
Marge: Grampa, are you sitting on the pie?
Grampa: I sure hope so.

No. 1 Book: The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. As I just reviewed this book a couple months ago, I’m at peace with this choice as well. It’s brilliant and heartbreaking and accessible, and the upcoming movie will star Viggo Mortensen. Mmm, Viggo Mortensen.

Keep watching for further enlightening comments on the EW New Classics List. As I fall even further behind in real work that may pay me real money. Comme si, comme sa.

Ah, summer is here and the armchair traveler’s thoughts turn to fantasies of “anywhere but here.” Alas, the timing of summer just happens to coincide perfectly with the advent of the second mortgage tank of gas, the added charges for that second piece of checked baggage (you really didn’t want to go anywhere where the weather is variable, anyway), and the resultant birth of the “staycation” (I did not make that up, folks).

Which is why I was so tickled to see the latest Southwest Airlines commercial on tv. My better half and I had been joking about the baggage surcharge, wondering what could be next. He came up with the “oxygen surcharge” that would be collected once you were on the plane, as well as the fee imposed to get off the plane once you’ve reached your destination. He’s a funny guy when he’s disgusted, what can I say? When this commercial came on the air, it actually penetrated my husband’s “cone of silence” filter that allows him to ignore all advertising. So you know the ad had an impact.

See it for yourself:

The reason this ad works so well is that it takes a business decision that I would venture to guess most people feel is an egregious abuse of the airlines’ system of charging, and applies one of the primary principles of comedy to it - exaggeration.

As I have only flown Southwest once, many years ago, I can’t speak as to the airline itself. It may be a life-affirming experience. It may make you wish you were dead. I just don’t know. But the ad is terrific, and is perfectly in keeping with Southwest’s “average Joe” stylistic tone it uses on its website. My guess is Southwest will be gaining some travelers this summer.

Father’s Day snuck up on me this year like a cat in the dark. My cards got off late, the children did not draw a “too cute to live” picture in time, gifts only just got ordered. I do hope this is not proof that Father’s Day is the second-class citizen to Mother’s Day, as I’ve heard bandied about in some quarters. I would rather point to its date falling in the same week that school lets out as a possible defense for additional scatter-brained-ness.

Thus, as penance for my Father’s Day shortcomings, let me offer some bodaciously good Father’s Day offerings in multiple media.

My pick for all-time best movie for Father’s Day, guaran-darn-teed to make men of all ages and macho levels reach surreptitiously for the tissues, is Field of Dreams. Frankly, the Kevin Costner/Sports/Western movie genres (note: no Waterworld or Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) could make up a Father’s Day movie bonanza all on their own. But Field of Dreams, based on the book by W.P. Kinsella and adapted for the screen by Phil Alden Robinson (who was nominated for a screenwriting Oscar for his efforts, by the way), is one of the very best. It involves baseball, the grown-up tensions between being “responsible” and following a dream, and the bond between fathers and sons. The final scene, where Ray (Costner) has realized the player John is his dad, and that he is about to walk away, is perfect in its simplicity:

John: Well, good night, Ray.
Ray: Good night, John.
[They shake hands and John begins to walk away.]
Ray: Hey. . . Dad?
[John turns.]
Ray [choked up]: You wanna have a catch?
John: I’d like that.

I’m getting verklempt just typing it.

My second Father’s Day pick showcases the paragon of all good dads, Atticus Finch, in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. While the movie is one of the best adaptations of a novel that I can think of, and while I can’t read the book without picturing Gregory Peck in those glasses as Atticus, I still contend that if you haven’t ever read the book, you should; and if you have read it, then you should re-read it, for the simple beauty of Lee’s prose. How perfect a character description is it to paint the pint-sized Dill as “a pocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaint fancies.” Now, I can see as how Atticus might be an intimidating choice for a dad, because he’s so darn perfect. But most fathers I know have the same depth of love for their children that Lee’s writing depicts Atticus having for his children, so I would say he’s less of a role model than a tribute to fatherhood at its best.

Finally, for a song that is a gorgeous tribute to a father, take a listen to Ricky Skaggs‘ song, “My Father’s Son“, taken off his CD of the same name (1991). Skaggs has been playing bluegrass for more than 36 years, both as a singer and mandolin player, and his songwriting skills are prodigious. In “My Father’s Son,” Skaggs writes in the chorus:

Well a rich man writes the book of laws
a poor man must defend
But the highest laws are written on the
hearts of honest men
When that cup is passed to me to do what
must be done
Or a chunk of coal just carve these words
I was just my father’s son

So happy Father’s Day, guys! Enjoy the day, and know that you’re second to none.