There's a new man in the neighborhood. Oh, sure, he looks like just another novelist working the crime beat, but in truth children, he's The Man. His name's James O. Born and the "O" standards for Officer.
He's started a new blog and we'd like to welcome him to the sphere.
But first we need to see a warrant.
Those of you who have had the pleasure of meeting Jim or reading his books, know he's a man with a wicked sense of the absurd. So what better place for him to be than here.
But I have issues. Yesterday Jim posted a piece on the problems of meeting a personal hero. In Jim's case it was Joseph Wamaugh, the LAPD author who wrote The Onion Field and The Choir Boys, among others. Jim had to interview Mr. Wamaugh, and I understand his trepidation.
However, that's not my beef.
I wanted to commiserate with Jim's struggle, so I wrote about the night I met Mary Tyler Moore, but Jim's blog wouldn't let me upload. I don't know why.
Unless James O. Born blocked me.
After Friday's Planetary post, I understand why Jim, and a few other squeamish panty-wearing readers would want to distance themselves from ADP. One friend said it cured him of reading The Planet ever again. Hell, he said, it cured him of ever reading the Internet again.
But it's Monday, and it's a funny story and true. So, seeing as how I have nothing better to talk about, here is what I tried to post over at Jim's new blog, but could not:
THE NIGHT I WAS UPSTAGED BY MARY TYLER MOORE.
Long ago my wife and I were invited to a party. We were told we would meet Mary Tyler Moore. So I had time. I schooled myself in cool, copping the nonchalant pose in the mirror, one eyebrow raised in disdain for TV fame. I rehearsed things I could say that would display my admiration for her work, an appreciation for her career, maybe a flash of my famously subtle wit if we were to hit it off, but everything was cool. Slightly distant. Unimpressed.
The moment came. She was ushered about the room, introduced to people, and suddenly there she was shaking my hand and I went into gush overdrive, babbling about Laura Petrie and Mary Richards and dance (I know nothing about dance) and Robert Redford as a director and her legs on that PI series and what a shame about her variety show and on and on, digging myself deeper and deeper into a stinking mound of humiliation until finally the host rescued her and took her to safety as my wife, already imagining herself a divorcee, or even better, a widow, moved away so none of that humiliation got on her because, as we all know, that shit stains.
But something happened, something that rescued the evening, at least for me: Mary Tyler Moore broke wind. Yes, she let go a skirt fluffer that everyone pretended not to notice, as if it's possible to ignore Mary Tyler Moore letting a barking spider fly in public. So, instead of the evening being remembered as The Night Terrenoire Made an Ass of Himself in Front of Mary Tyler Moore, it became The Night Mary Tyler Moore Farted.*
Yes, we count our blessings.
In this confessional spirit, I open the floor to you, Planeteers. Have you ever met someone and either carried it off, or dissolved into a pathetic puddle of gush? Now's the time to come clean.
Come on, if you tell us now it'll go easier on you later.
And Jim, welcome. Just let me see your hands.
*If you're curious, it sounded like an angel's sigh, and afterward, there was a slight hint of lilac.