PUTTING OUT

So, I was, like, totally psyched. My writing partner and I had received some good feedback on our comedy, "Snooze," and extremely favorable coverage on our thriller, "Phobic." It was like telling a woman you like her new shoes. Or that her hair looks great. I could have walked on water, or air. And then (drum roll, please) the e-mail came. It was from a professional reader who had given his evaluation of "Snooze" - and it wasn't pretty. Now, like any good Jewish son, I can handle criticism; but this critique was harsher than Project Runay's Nina Garcia on crack. Or worse: Whitney Houston off crack. He basically said that I couldn't write; that I should move from LA and live under a rock; and, that the slaughter in Darfur was entirely my fault. I felt worse than Star Jones did when Babs gave her the boot. And then I felt...well, since I obviously can't write well, I can't actually think of the appropriate words. So, like President Bush's strategic war planners, I guess I'll have to resort to using pictures:






















After that reaction I did what any self-respecting artist would do: I took to the bed. I mean it; just like a fifties housewife, I laid myself down and slept for 36 hours. I only woke up to pee. And eat. And, hell did I eat - food, and more food. No matter that I've gained ten pounds this past year (and been forced to cave and finally buy medium Calvin's); I didn't care. Hell, I ate so much that I emptied the cabinets and had to eventually crawl to the refrigerator and eat raw coffee grounds with milk for dessert. Then, when that routine got old, I ordered take-out. (Not an easy task in L.A., by the way, as compared to New York where you can order both fine cuisine and a prostitute from any country in the world and have them delivered comfortably to your tiny apartment door. Not so here; you're lucky to get decent Chinese that's been over-cooked by Latinos and delivered by a boy who can't make change for a ten.)

And while my gut worked on the mass of calories I had consumed, my mind was digesting the perceived rejection. I began to ask myself: Why was in Los Angeles? To write (and to act). And: Why do I write? Because I have something to say; and, more importantly, because I enjoy it. So am I going to let one no-thank you letter cause me to quit? To cut and run, as the Neo-Cons say? Why, I say, "No, thank you," back. And with a smile.

That was it. I didn't cry, I didn't whine, and I didn't tell a soul about my pity party. With that, I realized that there was just one more (entirely logical) question before me: What would Jesus do? Just kidding; but, really: what would Madonna do? I suspect that she, like any self-respecting whore, would just keep on putting out; critics be damned. And that's exactly what I'm going to do.