Jersey.Girl.Genius

Year of the Mackerel

For all three of my loyal blog readers who were sent here looking for my SNL Weekend Update jokes, you'll have to wait until next week.  On the off chance that any of them are found to be "air" worthy, I can't actually publish them or risk having them disqualified for prime time.  You know the drill.

I feel a little fuzzy today.  I think it's the cronyism hangover I'm experiencing from Tuesday's debate.  If I hear the phrase "my friends" uttered from the stepford white haired puppet mouth one more time, I might have to send some beefy Italian cronies to Hofstra in order to give him a good talking to.  I read the debate transcripts and he addressed the town hall crowd with "my friends" 19 times.  Nineteen!  Crony or cronyism were also hurled out there so often that the words lost all meaning.  I started to hallucinate a little, thinking he was talking about Crones Disease.  WTF? Is he sick?  Can you rewind that please?  Did he just say he had Crones?  Wait ... did he actually move his shoulders when gesturing?  Nope, they're still broken.   But he did talk about hairplugs and golden cadillacs, so I didn't think I was that far off.

Still have five more jokes to crank out and am in desperate need of creative inspiration.  Thought about baking brownies or doing some macaroni art.  No dice.   When in doubt, it's time to whip out the old flashcards. 

The precious Weight Watchers Recipe Cards from 1974 are truly not to be believed.  Did people actually eat this stuff?  Apparently 1974 was the year of the mackerel.  And shit on a shingle.  Who knew?  The first time I breezed through these, I peed my pants a little.  Consider yourself forewarned.  All this talk of Polynesian snacks has made me a bit peckish.  Time to get crafty in the kitchen.  WWPDD?  What Would Paula Deen Do?

Confession:  I do wish I were related to Paula Deen.  We'd have such a great time in the kitchen.  I'd make sure she didn't forget to remove all of her big bling before she plunged those man hands into a pecan pie crust.  We'd joke about things like fluff and lard and how no one appreciates a good BBQ anymore.  Well, with all the cous cous eating and tofu grilling going on these days and all.  She'd pat me gently on the bum and scold me for using words like douche bag when talking about Emeril or questioning Rachel Ray's personal hygiene.  Oh Paula.  You've inspired me.  Time to get my lard on.

Smells Like Elephant Spirit

I played Palin Bingo last night with my own lucky catch phrases. I was one bloody square away from victory when Marta scored the Smoking Donkey with "Special Needs." Damn you, special needs!

I was sure that I'd bring home the bacon with gosh darnit, but that didn't come until later on - when the winking and the shout outs had reached an all-time high. Had I only written the word Maverick in every square, it would have been a crushing defeat. All this talk of Maverick has left me achy for the Kelly McGillis of old, some vintage Ray Bans and a perfectly weathered bomber jacket.

In other news - Lakota Industries, a sporting goods company out of Xenia, Ohio, has named a hunting bow after Sarah Palin. The pink camo bow is highlighted on the website alongside a touching tribute:

This is a tribute to women like Sarah Palin, who bear the responsibility of family and work while strengthening the moral fiber of society.

Nothing strengthens the ol' moral fiber like a cheek full of Skol and taking camo shots at chipmunks in the driveway.

In a similar move, fashion icon Calvin Klein has named a new fragrance after John McCain. In stores next week, CK Senility will be available in limited quantities or not at all or we've forgotten what quantity means. I'm told it also smells a bit like mothballs and gun powder with a hint of Efferdent.

Klein's EVP of Global Marketing & Licensing, Ellen Rodriguez, stated that "the fragrance will be marketed towards the Civil War reenactment crowd" and would launch a joint venture with Dr Scholl's Bunion Cushions.

Palindrones

A Palindrome is a word, phrase, number or sequence that can be read the same way in either direction.

A Palindrone is slightly different and refers to Sarah Palin's ability to talk out of both sides of her mouth and out of her ass simultaneously. While Gregorian monks have perfected the ability to chant in different octaves, Governor Palin has demonstrated incredible control over the sphincter, as evidenced here in her interview with a skeptical Katie Couric. Special thanks to Hays for bringing this gem to my attention.

That's right. She's just ill about the state of the economy. It's just too darn' tootin' that we've wound up in such a moose dressing of a mess now, oh deary deary me.

This has left me to ponder what exactly Alaska's finest is qualified to do? Here's my top three list. I aimed for a top ten, but was stumped after only a few plausible outcomes.

1. Serve up a Hot Breakfast at Denny's with a Side of Reindeer Sausage

She can memorize the daily specials and rattle them off like political talking points. I'd say thank you but no thank you to that Moons Over My-Hammy.

2. Become the new spokesperson for Lens Crafters.

Their slogan is "Glasses in About An Hour," which is about as long as it will take to cross the bridge to nowhere in order to binge drink, huff airplane glue and then eat paste with the 50 people who live there.

3. Get Stuffed into a Wood Chipper in a Cohen Brothers Movie

She's got the accent for it and isn't afraid to get her hands dirty. I hear it's really cheap to film in Russia, too, which (as we all know) is just a few miles from her own backyard. The future is bright, indeed.

Lohan Confirms: She Digs Skeletor

The Belfast Telegraph went out on a limb today and announced that Lindsay Lohan confirmed she was a lesbian. On the heels of Gaiken's announcement yesterday, it would appear as if everything's coming up rainbows.

Not so fast,Telegraph.

Here we see a feeble Samantha Ronson trying to catch up with Lohan on set. She looks like she's got the scurvy, lads.

Last time I checked, an innocent Ronson romp does not a lesbo make. I once swore off eating meat for an entire week - that doesn't make me a vegetarian. It's not that I don't want to make room for her in the parade, it's just that I don't really buy the whole lesbo-transformation is all. I should consult with Betty Ford to see if Skeletor Woship is part of Step Eleven. Whatever keeps her off the smack is fine in my book.

You can listen to Lohan's non-confession and decide for yourself, by playing the Loveline clip below.

According to Lohan, she's been with Ronson a really long time. Maybe celebrity hook-ups are calculated in dog years now? That would mean that her 6 months with Skeletor on Snake Mountain is really the equivalent of 6 years and 3 months. Now that's a long time.

I think Lohan might be a Celesbian. She might even be a more frightening subset of the Celesbian: The Hechebian. One day she's with Bozo Skinny Jeans, the next, she's on a bender in the desert, looking for her spaceship Andromeda. Not long after that, she's hooking up with the Dolly Grip and naming her baby Cricket Banjo Lohan. I smell a new E True Hollywood Story. Oh happy day.

Gaiken Like Me

BREAKING NEWS from the crew here at Jersey.Girl.Genius.

In a stunning turn of events, singer and American Idol fan favorite Clay Aiken has just come out of the closet. Quoted in my favorite crack mag People, Gaiken stated that he expects the news may overwhelm some of his fans.

Overwhelm? Perhaps. If you were raised by wolves and like to tay in da win. Or, if you live in Elmore City, Oklahoma, your daddy's a preacher man and the town has just banned dancing and rock music.

I was shocked to learn that he's a Born Again Christian, however. Isn't he breaking a thousand evangelical laws like thou shalt not use hair extensions and thou shalt not perform musical theater? Not to mention the dreaded thou shalt not aspire to look like chastity bono and/or Entertainment Tonight's Cojo. I think it's time to play a little game that I call: Spot The Real Gaiken

Is it exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Exhibit D:

Exhibit E:

I'll select one winner at random, who will receive a $50 gift certificate to International Male. Be sure to include your pick in the comments section.

Joe and The Working Girl

After a long, long day, I finally shut off the computer and took in tonight's episode of Project Runway. The season 5 designers were asked to create a new look for women just entering the work force. Some of the designers were just a tad confused as to which work force they were getting these ladies all dolled up for.

Banker, Lawyer, Graphic Designer - a job's a job.

Oh really? The last time I was in an office with graphic designers, I didn't spy any Marshall's looking pinstripes. I did spy a lot of Stan Smiths, I'm a creative person eyewear and nicely weathered cardigans with just the slightest bit of pill. Bankers, at least the ones that I see when I stroll up to US Bank, would look very out of place with a MacBook and the latest issue of Metropolis.

Suede the Skittle Dipped Leprechaun referred to himself in the third person only three times, while Kenley found giddy solace in a miniature version of her overly cocky, vintage self. I used to like Kenley. I think I'd like her more if she were sent for some speech therapy and emerged sounding less like a k'fetching yenta who smokes filterless camels, lives by the sea in Boca and mows down pedestrians at street festivals in her Lark mobile.

Please note. If you've TIVO'd tonight's episode and haven't yet realized who got the AUF, you might want to stop here or risk spoiling some of the best, bitchy judging of the entire season. Some highlights:

Nina Garcia was left speechless by Suede's hot tranny pirate sleeve mess. She mentioned having many issues with the outfit. I believe I heard "tip" and "iceberg" and then her refusal to waste another breath on the matter.

Korto wasn't smiling. But she did whip out one sassy looking burlap jacket.

Michael Kors thought Joe's pinstriped suit cliche looked very Working Girl, ala 1988. Those shoulder pads didn't work for Melanie either. Let the river run, I say.

Jerrell was wearing his Puck garnish once again during the runway show. He looked like he was abducted by Peter Pan's gay twin and then turned into Sprout on the flight home.

In what should really have been a double elimination, Suede was spared. Joe, the lone heterosexual mullet, was sent to pack up his sewing machine and say adios to the Blue Fly accessory wall. There were considerable taste issues with Joe from the get go. But just as every episode of The Real World has a formula ...

One gay and or asian
Bigoted white guy from small southern town with bad teeth and hair who voted for Bush
Brothers or BFFs from Boston with wicked bad accents
Mormom girl, engaged to high school sweetheart
Alcoholic
Ivy league Abercrombie Hot guy
Clueless, big breasted girl next door with boyfriend (that she will invite to the house, cheat on, cry to and then beg for forgiveness)

I believe Project Runway's formula called for one jersey looking heterosexual male this season. It's the only logical reason why producers would keep Mr. Faris around as long as they did. Maybe they had a hetero quota to meet? Perhaps they were fearing the faggy wrath and thought they'd toss us a testosterone filled bone? I have to say, Joe's bone was more reminiscent of Lane Bryant women on a bender than anything else. The producers were not doing us any favors by keeping him around. I hope he returns with much less hair for the reunion special.

Auf Wiedersehen, Joe.

Pound Sand

Looks like Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh have been making the talk show rounds as of late. I spotted them on Letterman and again on Ellen via Tivo, my reliable old friend. On the off-chance that you do not own a television and were not held captive by eight hours of Olympic coverage per day last month, Misty May and Kerri Walsh are beach volleyball players.

My interest in watching beach volleyball ranks somewhere between making a godseye and getting a bikini wax. I'm not overly enthusiastic about it. These two wedgies, however; are complete lunatics about their sport. From what I can gather, neither is the sharpest tool in the shed either.

Often spotted around Beijing wearing "crazy" wigs, sunglasses and drinking beer from an old school helmet, tailgate style, I wondered if their insanity stemmed from the fact that they were simply wasted? Not so. After their gold winning match, sly commentators gave us a glimpse into their diminished mental capacity.

Commentator: Congratulations you two! You've just won Olympic gold again. The first women's team to repeat in back to back Olympics. How do you feel? Can you put it into words?

MM & KW: We have to thank Mr. Bush. Without you, none of this would be possible. We love you Mr. President!

That's right. The tools thanked George W. Bush. They squealed that if it weren't for him, none of their success would be possible. Now just how in the bloody hell did GWB turn these women into Olympic gold medalists?

By critiquing their form and giving them gentle, non-lecherous pats on the bottom of course. It's a damn good thing he was there - all 14 days - or Misty might have suffered from the dreaded burnt ass cheek syndrome, effecting one in five pro volleyball players. All hail the monkey.

Michael Jackson's Big Bang

Nerds around the world are rejoicing today.

According to the BBC, scientists have hailed a successful switch-on for an enormous experiment which will recreate the conditions a few moments after the Big Bang. You can read the full article here if you feel like getting your geek on.

I caught a documentary about the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) on Nova a year or so ago and was struck by the scale and astronomical cost of the project, which has now reached several billion dollars. Hmm, let's see. What should we do here .... fart around with the idea of shooting particles at each other for 13 years or invest in universal health care? Now there's a quandary.

One of the stated World of Warcraft type goals of the project is to isolate the particle called the Higgs boson or God Particle. According to the theory, particles acquire their mass through interactions with an all-pervading field carried by the Higgs.
Oh boy! We'll get to see ol' Higgsyboy in action! Wooohoooo! Getting excited yet??? Me neither.

What would get me excited, however; is if someone could please take Michael Jackson's $1.5 million dollar grundies off of Ebay and place them inside of the Hadron Collider. This way, we could really see what the conditions were like in his pants during his infamous 2003 trial. What would we find? Quarks, Leptons, Leprechauns, Unicorns, Llama hair, Purple Clovers, Bubbles the Chimp, three white sequins, a tube of bleaching cream and a small sip of Pepsi. Now that would make some good baaad TV.

The Mini Bio

Still in SF, stuffing L'Occitane soaps and lotions into my bag faster than they can turn down my sheets. Y needs to get her L'Occitane on, you see. I was given strict instructions to pocket whatever crack was available in my hotel room. I'll come home smelling like lavender and figs but I refuse to pilfer the Bonnet de Douche.

When was the last time you wore a shower cap?

My mom used to have a lime green one that hung on the wall outside of the shower. Can't say that I ever used it, nor do I recall her using it. Very peculiar. She must have bought it at a second hand store and thought it might come in handy at some point. If you haven't already listened to the kind of voice mail that my mom is capable of, I highly suggest The QVC Intervention, where you can hear a real live excerpt. It will help to get an audible on what's to come.

Whenever my mom has a story to tell about someone I don't know, she slips into what I refer to as the mini bio, so that she can get me caught up. Like so:

Honey, did I tell you what happened to Lois at work? She's around my age. She sits next to me, so sweet, she wouldn't hurt a fly. Dresses a little frumpy, one of her kids is blind in his right eye, her husband has been on disability for a million years, I'm not sure what the story is there. Anyway, she got into a fight with one of the partners and wound up throwing a paper weight across the room. You know, one of those heavy muthahs, with the fake snow inside?

She must think that the story would lose some edge, had I not known her husband was on disability. Either way, Lois threw a paper weight across the room. Now you don't hear that everyday.

My siblings and I talk about how hilarious this is, when she launches into the mini bio. She knows she does it, because I've imitated her to her face, which had her rolling. As much as I poke fun at the Ginbomb, I think she's onto something here...

Inspired by her snippets, I think I'm going to start reviewing movies without seeing them, based on the trailer alone. I could use the mini bio method - to warn potential moviegoers of sure to be flops before they spend their hard earned cash on a total piece of sh**.

Nights in Rodanthe:
She's an older woman, attractive, reddish hair, whose husband has been a complete pig womanizer. Apparently, hubby now wants to take her back. Red helps out a friend by running a fancy ocean-side inn for a weekend, meets Richard Gere, bonds with Gere for his affection for J. Crew hoodies, Banana Republic good-looks and his quiet intensity that involves pseudo flirting on a beach. Must love dogs and equally unrealistic and sappy films based on traveling to Tuscany to find oneself.

Death Race:
Like Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome, but without the Thunderdome. Joan Allen plays a prison warden in the distant future. She already looks about a hundred years old and is seriously malnourished. Sunken in cheeks, bulging eyes. She gets her jollies off on putting together a "race to the death" and allows some of her inmates to participate. Lots of sweating, car flipping, shooting, cursing, explosions and oh yes, lots of driving.

Beverly Hills Chihuahua:
Some Paris Hilton type must lose her pocket pal that winds up mingling with the Huas from the other side of the tracks. All of the Cesar Milan sounding miniatures probably take Tinkerbell under their wing and start behaving badly together. I see potential for shoplifting along Rodeo, dog romance between Taco and Tinkerbell and two hours of pure, unimaginative crap that can only be appreciated by some (less gifted) children 3 and under.

Punanis for Palin?

This is not a political blog, as I'm sure you've already gathered. Unless you consider lesbian intentional communities erected by Olivia Travel an act of political asylum for gay retirees in Tucson, in which case, I stand corrected. Couldn't help but comment on the goings on of the Republican Party this week, given its close proximity to Minneapolis. The RNC convention will descend upon St Paul on September 1. What a good week to be a stripper in the land of 10,000 lakes. Wonder if Diablo Cody will return to make a cameo appearance on the pole?

Meet Sarah Palin. The gun toting, feminist for life praising, moose meat eating junior senator from Alaska could be a heartbeat away from the presidency. Now there's a scary thought. With two years of good ol' Alaska governin' under her barracuda belt, she's assured us she's poised and ready to take the reins. The reins of what, however; still remain to be seen. Quoted as not knowing "what a VP actually does all day," perhaps she was simply referring to her top of the line equestrian skills.

Oh McCain, do you really think women will vote for you, simply because you added a little estrogen to the lineup? Tsk tsk. You silly, ancient, white haired gremlin, you. The prospect of converting former Clinton supporters to the dark side is highly unlikely. That's the delusional equivalent of thinking a Red Sox fan will cheer on the Yankees, if the Sox are out of the running. Do I like baseball? Yes. Will I therefore throw my support behind any ol' team, simply because they also play with balls? Not a chance.

I, like many women in this country, like the idea of a woman in the White House. But alas, vagina ownership does not trump common sense. Remember your SAT verbal? Vagina is to Elected as:

A) Simian is to Monkey
B) Verdant is to Green
C) Precipitous is to Sharp
D) Cojo is to Chastity Bono

The answer is of course D. Entertainment Tonight's "Cojo" longs to be Chastity Bono, just as I long to see a woman in the White House someday. I fear that Cojo might be closer to seeing his dream become reality than I am. Cojo has a right to dream, even if all the botox, eye jobs, cheek implants and forehead lifts have made those dreams a little foggy. I'm still holding out for my dream too - and Sarah Palin's not in it.

A Fierce, Hierarchy of Hottness

Caught an interesting story on NPR this morning that apparel retailer Abercrombie & Fitch is in trouble yet again. Much to my surprise, they aren't being berated by the Christian Coalition for their half naked boy toy porn pinups this time. Nor is legal action being taken by a former Abercrombie customer who lost all sense of taste and smell after wearing A&F's Fierce cologne religiously for more than a week. OK, I made that last part up. But it's bound to happen sooner or later! Have you walked past an Abercrombie store lately? I can smell that place from the parking lot. As Ginny always says, cologne should be a whisper, not a shout. Let's just say that I'm deafened by the smell of homoerotic boarding school boys with perfectly messy hair, rope jewelry and names like Blaine.

An A&F employee in Texas was sent to the stock room because "she wasn't cute enough" to work the sales floor and has since filed suit. Abercrombie managers had rated her face a ZERO on their internal ranking system, used to determine whether or not the models (the term A&F uses to refer to their sales force) are suitable for retail work or too fugly that they risk tarnishing the brand image if seen by other humans. Ouch.

From an article in the Dallas Morning News:

"There's no real problem to discriminate against 'ugly' people," said Jahan Sagafi, a partner at Lieff Cabraser Heimann & Bernstein, the firm that represented the plaintiffs in the original diversity suit. "The problem is when you define beauty to incorporate white, which it essentially does at Abercrombie. These rating systems remain legal as long as they don't discriminate based on race or gender."

Don't despair, fuglies. There are myriad career paths out there where you will find unconditional love and acceptance, even if you're a zero on a scale of one-to-five. Might I suggest looking into the following options:

Become a Mascot

Often the unsung hero of the game, the mascot has an important role to play boosting morale, selling merchandise and starting the wave. If you're particularly limber, you might also be asked to display your gymnastics ability by somersaulting down long flights of stadium stairs, beating loud noise making implements or jumping through hoops of fire. If you long to have children of your own, but find that you're too beauty disadvantaged to find a suitable mate, you'll find joy in the eyes and smiles of the children who have come to cheer on their favorite teams.

Look Into Welding Apprenticeships

Look, I don't pretend to know much about welding, but I'm sure your skills will come in handy. You'll get paid well, you'll become part of a union where ugly doesn't apply to the bylaws and your face will be shrouded underneath an over-sized metal helmet for the rest of your life.

Move to Mount Isa, Australia

The mayor himself asked that ugly women make the pilgrimage to his small mining town. Once they tackle the installation of nail salons, I'm sure the construction of an Abercrombie store will not be far behind. Please reference the recent post, Lend Us Your Fugliest, for more information on traveling to this fine state.

Matthew McConaughey Has Baby, Becomes Jesus

I find it hilarious that Matthew McConaughey (who we will now only refer to as Jesus) is never snapped by The Pap wearing a shirt. Whether he's eating at Nobu, hanging out w/ fully clothed women wearing Armani couture or filming a scene for his next flick in Australia, the guy always has his beautiful man pecs on display. Can you blame him? If my stomach looked like this, I'd consider clothing optional too. I'd offer up my six-pack abs to house your smorgasbord sushi platter. Yes, use me as a plate. Go ahead, eat off my impressive work of art ab nuggets if you must. Hold the wasabi.

Many of People's Sexiest Men Alive have procreated before - so why all the hoopla over Jesus? I have some theories.

#1) There's an obvious scientific correlation between uber sexiness and paternal competence.

Ugly celebrity dads get no love. I didn't realize that Jack Black had a baby until pics popped up of the toddler playing at the park recently. The kid has a full set of teeth already! No baby picture madness over Nacho Libre's offspring, no bidding war vs. People and OK! magazine. No question, he's a worthless father devoid of joy. While we like staring at Jesus' sculpted body while hitting the waves off Malibu, we will drool even more readily over pictures of him sporting his sexy spawn ala Baby Bjorn, while strolling through Whole Foods.

#2) We go ape shit over (former gigalo party boy) celebrity dads who are both sexy AND sensitive environmental warriors.

Ecorazzi just reported that Jesus decided to keep the baby's placenta and looks forward to returning it to the earth. He's planning on planting it beneath a tree in an orchard in Australia. Come on Jesus. Just buy a Prius! Must you always "one up" all of the celebrity greenies? Where will that leave sensitive greenies like Sting? Bono? Dave Matthews? They'll now be forced to BUY the orchard, donate it to a nonprofit and start a green placenta exchange program with India.

Facebook: Revenge of the NERDS?

I finally gave into peer pressure and hopped from MySpace to Facebook earlier this year. Can’t say that I like it any better. Everyone had been telling me to open an account, going on and on and on about how much they love it, how amazing it is. After its street value was tagged at a whopping 15 billion, I decided to see what all the crazy hoopla was about.

Am I the only person on the planet who thinks Facebook is, um, just kinda silly?

As much as I loathe Facebook, find it clunky and harder to use than MySpace, it does have its perks. I’m able to send short little notes to friends from college that I’m too lazy to call, thereby assuaging my guilt for being a bad friend. Facebook can also give you the comforting illusion that you’re in touch by viewing a recent photo album, or by sending things like virtual champagne bottles to congratulate them on their new job or new baby. Lest I forget, you can also throw sheep at them and various other sundry items, should you bother to dig around long enough to figure out how to do it.

One truly fascinating aspect of Facebook that I find hard to ignore as of late, is how former high school classmates have literally come out of the woodwork, sending friend requests with a frenzy. Many are people that I wasn’t particularly close to, some I’m certain I’ve never even had a conversation with. Yet I don’t see any harm in accepting these kinds of requests. Many of the people I didn’t seek out a friendship with when I was 15 would probably be much more interesting to talk with today. Had I paid much attention in 1989, they would have been much more interesting back then, too, than some of the people I was friends with or looking to befriend.

In 2008, more than sixteen-years after I graduated from high school, I’d like to think that we’ve all changed for the better. That we don’t think too long and hard about what it might mean or look like to accept someone’s offer of friendship. Even in the virtual land of Facebook, where I will likely not come face to face with former classmates unless I attend my 20 year reunion in 2012.

I’ve spoken about this tidbit with friends, who share my experience and have heard from people they had never really known as friends in real life. Maybe it’s voyeuristic curiosity that spurs the invite, or maybe it’s something more? Maybe this is the way that former social outcasts are making peace with their pasts?

A friend of mine recently received a friend request from someone who was hopelessly nerdy and awkward in high school. She said that she had never really spoken with him, but remembered that he played the trombone and didn’t have many friends. After further snooping of his profile, she said that he now looked like Zach Braff and was a Tony award-winning producer.

The criteria for mainstream acceptance and popularity when I was 15 was pretty cut and dry - and I’d venture to say - not unlike every John Hughes high school movie cliché that many of us lived and breathed. 1) You had to be good looking OR 2) You had to be well liked and deemed worthy by those that were universally agreed upon as good looking. Have we really changed that much? Or are we just given a new set of criteria to judge by?

On Facebook, I can instantly see where someone went to college, what degrees they hold, what their occupation is, who they work for, if they are married or partnered or single, what their spouse looks like, what their kids look like, or if they think that Obama should be the next president. For the Mr. Tony Awards out there, it must be cathartic to be accepted by those who once ignored or rejected them – even if that acceptance comes in the form of a virtual poke or a potted plant.