the slack daily

Say Goodnight, Gracie.

In the late 70s, George Burns starred in Oh God and Oh God, Book II. The movies were in a constant loop on cable a summer later. My brother Jeremy and I watched them over and over (and over and over) until we could recite them from memory. One day, my mom had had enough.

It wasn't that we were spending our summer inside, planted on a scratchy wool cushions of the sofa and slurping back Pepsi Lights, but that George Burns was so much more than what we were seeing.

That evening she took us out for our favorite candy (chocolate covered raisins for me, something gummy-ike for Jer, I think) and then we crowded around the glow of the TV for the "Burns and Allen Show." During commerical breaks Mom told us about  Gracie Allen and George Burns rose through the ranks of vaudeville, then radio, then television.

It was in black and white and it looked old even on our new TV, but I remember being so awed at the fact that something that was written so long ago could still make me laugh and Gracie Allen was probably the first truly funny woman I had ever seen.   

Later that year, our 4th grade teacher at Ben Franklin School (Mrs. Keen?) taught us how to write formal letters. The assignment was to pick people you looked up to, and ask them for an autographed picture. She would take care of sending the letters off.

The year was 1982, and most kids chose to write the cast of Star Wars.

My mom told me that Gracie Allen died before I was born, so I chose to write to George Burns.

Over the next few months, letters would come back in care of Ben Franklin School. Autographed photos of Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher. And then one day, an envelope came for me.

I forgot about the letter until yesterday, when a package arrived on my doorstep from SlackMom. 

 

Dear Nina

Thank you for the nice letter. I'm just sorry I couldn't get around to answering it sooner. I'm very honored that you chose me. I thought a letter would be nicer than a picture.

It's nice to know that today, kids still look up to someone. It's a nice feeling. I had my heroes when I was young. Abe Lincoln. Thomas Jefferson. I knew Jefferson personally. That's a joke.

I'm not really that old. I'm older. Anyway, sweetie, stay happy and healthy.

Love

George Burns

 

He sent it from Hollywood Center Studios Which is not far from where I spend my days writing comedy now.

Thank you, Mr. Burns. And goodnight, Gracie.*

*Lizzie McGuire won a Gracie Allen Award for comedy in 2003. How cool is that?

Things I Learned While Watching Pretty in Pink.

• That first outfit that Andie wears was my dream outfit that I attempted to recreate (poorly.) I don't think there re pictures, although I rocked the vest CONSTANTLY and did a lot of boxy jackets with pins.


• If you didn't want to be Annie Potts character Iona in Pretty in Pink when you grew up, then we wouldn't have been friends in High School.


• Iona talks about her friend missing Prom... "She realized nothing was missing...it was side effects from missing the Prom." WHICH IS WHY I WENT TO PROM STAG.


• I coveted that pink Kharmann Ghia. I now drive a pink Mini Cooper.


• I met director Howard Deutch at a party a couple of weeks ago. I tried not to fan out, so I turned to talk to the person he was with. His wife.


• Watching Andie listen to her messages from Duckie reminded me what a big deal it was to get a phone in my room. The phone jack was there...I just wasn't allowed a phone of my own until I was in 8th grade.

• I modded my gym suit my freshman year. I think there were boxer shorts with a ruffle that I wore under my gym shorts.


• I'm still a Duckie girl. (I married mine.)

What's a Girl Like Me Doin' in a Place Like This? Club 33

It starts with finding the door.

A few weeks ago, Will scored a reservation to Disneyland's uber-exclusive Club 33. At first I thought it was a joke. I wrote for a hit series for the Disney Channel and even though we begged and pleaded, we couldn't get in. Flash forward ten years and my husband and I are weaving through the throngs of tourists to do our "test run."

You see, Club 33 has rules. A dress code. And they expect you to be on time.

We found the door in New Orleans Square, tucked next to the Blue Bayou Restaurant.

Test run.

A few hours later we were back, dressed in our finery. Here's the thing: you don't see a lot of finery in Disneyland. We received more than a few raised eyebrows as we wandered through the park (me in my flip-flops and dress, as I tucked my fancy shoes in my purse. So it wasn't as fine as it could have been.)

When we returned, a couple of tourists were taking a picture in front of the sign. We waited until they were done, then stepped forward. They grabbed each other and gasped

THEY'RE GOING INSIDE!

Except that we weren't going inside, not just yet. Because we were at least ten minutes early. So we took a photo instead.

Goin' to the Show.

By this time, a small crowd had assembled, all whispering they're going to ring the bell! He's going to ring the bell! I wondered if they were going to break into a musical song-and-dance number, and if that was part of the Club 33 experience.

(It wasn't.)

Will rang the bell and the door opened. He gave his name. The door closed.

A hush fell over the crowd.

The door opened again, a tiny bit wider.

Welcome to Club 33, the voice said.

I have been lucky enough in my life (and my career) to attend events and activities that many people do not. But I was never so excited as I was walking into Club 33. The dark wood, the clink of glassware, the servers who don't blink twice as you gawk at everything around you.

Is this your first time? our server asked.

How could you tell? I responded.

We started off with a cocktail (a Manhattan for Will, a Kir Royale for me) and then ordered the tasting menu (with the wine pairing, natch.) The food was good. It wasn't the best meal I've ever had, but you understood it was all about the experience...

I didn't take photos for most of the meal, preferring to just live in the moment rather than document it.

But I did take a picture of the toilet on request. Because I'm classy like that.

Two hours later we finished up with some espresso and looked out the window, realizing we were going ot have to return to earth with the mere mortals.

It's going to suck to be a regular person again, Will said.

But it was sure fun while it lasted.

The Wonder Rears.

The year was 2001, and I was Master of my Universe: I had just begun writing on season two of Lizzie McGuire (instead of writing three 22-episode seasons, we did two seasons of 30 and 35.  Yes, insanity.)  I had whittled my 200+ pounds way-out-of-shape frame down to a shade under 20% bodyfat, but by some happy accident of genetics managed to keep my impressive rack and my butt.  Ah, my butt.  I spent hours in the gym squatting and deadlifting so that my posterior could look like the illegitimate asschild of J-Lo and Kim Kardashian.

That week, my idol and friend Savage Steve Holland was shooting an episode that Older SlackBrother J. and I had written called "Lizzie in the Middle," where Frankie Muniz magically appears at Lizzie's school and in an implausible Notting Hill-twist-of-fate, wants to desperately date her. 

The script had originally been written for Aaron Carter (yes, Disney Channel writers were penning scripts for the guy who's now best known some quality shots of him smoking weed.  But his 13th birthday party had Absolut Vodka as a Corporate Sponsor.  My 13th birthday party we ate pizza and watched Under the Rainbow on the VCR in my parents' basement.  But I digress...)  Aaron had been in a previous Lizzie episode also written by us (which also helped spark the Lohan-Duff feud!) and he wanted to be in an episode with actual lines.  A two weeks later Older SlackBrother J. and I turned in our script, Welcome Back, Carter, which went down as our greatest title in the history of titles on the show.

Alas, young Aaron was busy with Seussical the Musical, so the script was put on ice until someone in the Duff camp mentioned that Hilary and Frankie Muniz were friends.  They used to date, I had been told, leading me question my universe in which a 13-year-old got way more play that I did at 28.  Of course, little did I know later she'd be fishing in my dating pool. Age-wise, anyway.

Rewrite it for Frankie! was the command from on high, so rewrite it for Frankie we did.  D'you know how you watch TV and some Big Guest Star shows up playing yourself and you think those hacks, that would never happen!  Well, I'll let you in on a little secret: the people writing it think that, too.  Having a page to introduce Big Guest Star and make him fall immediately in love with your main character (and she can't disrobe) is a pretty big task, so sometimes you gotta reach into the Hack Bag of Tricks.

 

So that fateful day back in 2001 (or 2002?  I'm pretty sure it's 2001) I head down to set to check it out.  They're about to shoot the scene when Frankie's introduced and sweeps Lizzie off of her feet.  I gingerly creep through the mass of cables with my cup of coffee towards the monitors.  Savage waves at me and confers with an AD.  Someone taps me on the shoulder.

Hi, I just wanted to introduce myself.  I'm Fred.  You're the writer, right?

I turn around to see Kevin Arnold himself.  Fred-mothereffing-Savage.

Kevin Arnold!  (But he looked more like this.)

It was dueling Savages on the set that day, as Savage, Fred was shadowing Savage Steve as Fred was planning on transitioning into TV directing. 

I apologized for our lame dialogue, giving Fred the backstory and he assured me that it wasn't "that bad."  I think I kicked him, and within minutes we were trading barbs, prompting the AD to threaten to kick us off the set and me to think about the time warp quality of being on a junior high set making with the snark avec Fred Savage.

He was made of awesome, and we spent the week (platonically!  There was no hanky-panky!) discussing our love of Chicago food, why I should buy his hot gay car, and finally, the current lack of ass on the American Woman's Derrière.

I like a woman with some ass, he told me.  Where have all the asses gone?

Maybe it's just the jeans contributing to the flatassedness of America?

I don't buy it, he told me. Look at you.

Me?

You wear those kinda jeans.  And you have an amazing ass!

My ass: Fred Savage-approved!

Close Encounters of the NON-Celebrity Kind: Diablo Cody, Part Three.

Further to my run-in with Diablo Cody's #1 Fan, I present to you video of the event to show you that I do not make this shit up:

I didn't realize my friend Patty was taping us until about halfway through the video.  At the end when you hear Tomàs answer that phone call?  He totally faked that to get me outta there.

Could I sound more nasally?

Close Encounters of the Celebrity Kind: Scott Baio

A conversation about what TV character you'd want to get it on with over at The CDP a few days ago led Mrs. CDP to admit that she always had wished that Charles had been put in charge of her. 

The suspenders get her hot.

Which led me to share what is probably my favorite Celebrity Encounter in Los Angeles.  It was a Friday night in 1995, maybe 1996, and I stopped at the Chevron on Sunset to fill up my battered silver Jetta before heading out to Santa Monica to meet my friends.  The second I got out of the car I spotted Scott Baio at the gas pump ahead of me.

Celebrity Encounters are par for the course in Los Angeles, and my M.O. is to usually smile and nod and leave it at that.  Scott Baio doesn't even make my smile-and-nod backup list, but he clearly looked as if he wanted to be recognized.  So I smiled.  And gave him a short nod.

He looked me up and down.

NICE TITS!

I shot back:

Thanks, Chachi!

He grimaced, swore under his breath and drove off, clearly pissed.

Next time on Close Encounters of the Celebrity Kind:

Fred Savage tells me I have a nice ass, but I was asking for it.