Here's a commentary I delivered on CBS Sunday Morning yesterday. I am brazenly proud that I could get my Rosemary Clooney joke past the censors. (And by censors, I mean the people that are terrified of any reference that appeals to people over the age of 50.)

Last night my friend Ginna and I saw an extraordinary new musical on Broadway. It's called [title of show]. That's the title: [title of show]. I know, I hate titles with brackets, too. (At least braces ({ }) have a flourish.) But trust me, if you're someone who:

- likes to howl with laughter
- has ever been plagued by self-doubt
- yearns to recapture the unbridled joy you felt as a child in your backyard make believe world

If just one of the above applies to you, you will love this show. If two apply, you will enter a state of ecstasy. If all three apply, you will feel no need to ever see another musical and you will die.

The show is about four "nobodies" putting together a musical. The musical is in fact about the creation of itself. It sounds oh-so-clever. And it is. But it is not snarky or sneering. It manages to be hilarious and hopeful, wickedly funny and - hokey as this sounds - inspiring. But it's not hokey at all.

Ugh, I'm doing a crappy job of describing it. Just go see it. The first five people to write in with a description of why they like it win this t-shirt:



The T-shirt depicts a typical prom in the state of Maine. Maine's state flower is the pine cone; hence the statewide requirement that male prom goers wear pine cone boutonnieres. (Slow dancing in Maine is notoriously painful.)

Talk about an historic election: both women running for First Lady are knockouts. Whichever woman prevails, millions of men will emulate her look. Without question, this is the most Drag Queenifiable election in American political history.

But how easy is it to look like the next First Lady? Let's start with Michelle Obama, with some helpful hints from Peppermint. Watch and learn ...

If there's one thing Republicans and Democrats can agree on during this election year, it's this: both prospective First Ladies are knockouts! Whichever of these women ends up in the White House, millions of ordinary American men will emulate her look. But how easy and affordable is this transformation?

Last week we turned one ordinary guy into Michelle Obama. (Watch it here.). Now, with the guidance of famed beauty expert Hedda Lettuce, it's time to turn another lucky lug into Cindy!

It's summertime which means field trip time for the 180 crew. This year we went New York's Grandaisy Bakery to learn how to make pizza!

I first visited the United States Military Academy at West Point when I was 8 or 9 years old. I returned there last week for a tour from historian Stephen Grove.

West Point is clearly a great place to get in shape. I was the only person not doing calisthenics. It's also spectacularly beautiful. Enjoy!

The New Yorker is defending its controversial cover of Barack Obama in an Islamic headdress and Michelle as some sort of Black Panther as satire. I'm not buying it. The articles inside aren't satirical. The cover is meant to shock and sell magazines. (It's also outdated: the Muslim rumor was eclipsed after that little old firestorm over the non-Muslim Reverend Wright, Obama's pastor.)

That said, Obama better stop being so damned sensitive. He's going to be ridiculed and he better get used to it if he wants to be Leader of the Free World. Here's a piece I wrote eight months ago...

***

FROM NOVEMBER 2007:

Barack Obama's candidacy is historic: He's the first viable candidate for the presidency ... to not be ridiculed. At all. It's obvious why this is happening. And it's ultimately a disservice to the Senator.

First, let's dispense with the obvious: All things being equal, black men face more hurdles than white men. This is an understatement. Any benefits from affirmative action (and I don't know that Obama has had any) are eclipsed by the constant skepticism and second-guessing that a black man confronts. (Never mind how that impacts opportunity. Just imagine the toll on a young man's psyche if he's always an object of suspicion!) On this basis alone, Senator Obama is an inspiration. (Once he tells us what he plans to do, if elected, we'll decide if he's extra-inspiring.)

But he's running for an American political office. He's supposed to be getting hazed right now, run through the spanking machine, mocked, kicked around, wedgied by columnists, pundits and most of all, comedians. But no one lays a finger on him, because everyone's afraid of seeming racist. (Rest assured, actual racists spread scurrilous lies about Obama's parentage and religion on line.)

I know this from experience:

I had the chance to cover a new and exciting sporting event last week. Enjoy!

Former White House Press Secretary Tony Snow died from cancer earlier today. Here is part of what I wrote when he left the White House in September 2007:

Tony is a great guy. I've logged a lot of time on cable news shows. Tony hosted his own show on Fox News on the weekend for years and I was a frequent guest. Sometimes I was funny, sometimes I wasn't. Tony was always supportive, laughing when it wasn't always warranted! Plus he called me on a couple of occasions to thank me personally for appearing on his show. (This is NOT typical.) He also had very kind words for me when my father was dying from cancer.

I don't know if he'll choose to return to TV journalism. If not, I can say he was a fair and, yes, balanced interviewer. In fact, he prodded me on a couple of occasions to let the Republicans "have it" when I was heaping too much ridicule on Democrats.

I only knew him as a TV host but that's something. The man was very warm (hard to fake that on-camera or off) and not full of himself; he did his best to make his guests look good, as opposed to using his guests as props. And that's more than something.

These days a presidential candidate is under unprecedented scrutiny. There's almost nothing about a politician that's not placed under our collective microscope. Last October readers of this blog pored over close-up photographs of the candidates' ears. Obama won our Democratic primary ear-lection with 24% of the vote:



And yet even in this tell-all and show-all culture, we haven't seen Obama's nuts. I for one am happy about this. Sure, we've all whispered about the Senator's huevos, gossiped about his gonicles. Critics have needled his nards; fans have marveled over his marbles. (Latino voters have decidedly mixed feelings on Obama's cojones.) But talk about Obama's taters was always off the record. While I generally favor full disclosure, I've respected the blackout on Barack's bonbons. Call me old-fashioned, but a candidate needs to maintain some mystery. (Even when the Emperor has no clothes, he's still wearing a thong.)

Apparently Jesse Jackson feels differently. He wants to cut Obama's nuts off, a course of action that would surely land Obama's nuggets on Hardball and every over cable news chatfest.

Now when I first heard the quote, I gave Jackson the benefit of the doubt. It was clear to me what Jackson meant: Obama was one of those cool customers who swaggers up to a bar, grabs a stool, then doesn't order a drink. The bartender offers him a drink once, twice, three times. Obama demurs each time. He's chatting up his guy friends, mackin' with the ladies, but not ordering a drink. Instead he's chomping on the pretzel mix, gobbling up the nuts. The bartender needs to make a living, though, and the junior senator from Illinois is taking up space. Finally the bartender says, "Sorry, pal, I'm cutting your nuts off."

Alas, this is not what Jackson meant.

I cannot speak to Jackson's assertion that Barack is "talking down to black people." I'm not black so I wouldn't know if I'm being talked down to.

The real question is: What does Reverend Jackson want to do with Obama's nuts once he harvests them? Does he want to display them? Pet them? Salt them? (Calling Andrew Zimmern!)

What do you think Jesse Jackson wants to do with Obama's nuts?

***

If you're new to the blog, stick around and check out our Drag Queen Cindy McCain!

LATER TODAY: Cindy McCain makeover. But first...

Come on, you know you think about it. Some of you more than others, of course. Watch below to see what images people keep on file for when they've got more than time on their hands...

The Singing Bee was the best reality show of last summer. So where is it this summer?!

Not to fear, we've taken it to the street!

This is NOT an anti-Jamba Juice post. In fact I drink a Jamba Juice after every workout. But I need to share this experience, if only to find out if I should be concerned.

Well, should I?

Actually this really isn't about me. This is my interview with the Funniest Girl on Broadway. Kerry Butler is the star of Xanadu on Broadway and she is a riot. You must see this show before she leaves the cast. (If you can't see it with her, see it anyway. It's non-stop laughs. And it's 95 minutes and intermission-less, like most Broadway shows should be.)

Kerry is rare. She's hilarious without ever mugging. She's not outrageous in the least. In fact she sings beautifully. And she manages to be believable in the Olivia Newton-John muse-on-skates role. Don't ask how. Just go see the show if you can.

UPDATE: This story below, about a mysterious lucky smoker, was published under the title "Smoker's Luck" two days ago. Now, in a stunning development, the lucky smoker has posted a comment (#36 in the comments section).

***

Smoking is dirty. Smoking is disgusting. Smoking kills. Right?

I certainly didn't need convincing. Last month I shot an episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I was playing TK Richmond, an extortionist gossip columnist who gets blown up in his car. Peter Blauner's script for the episode was first-rate, so I was thrilled.

Except that I needed to smoke. As readers of this blog know I've never smoked pot. In part this is because the one time I smoked a cigarette I nearly fell to my death.

I was a 16 year old summer acting student at the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. The students would cluster on top of these giant stone blocks in the courtyard and smoke. When I finally scaled one of the blocks and took my first drag of my first cigarette the buzz was overwhelming. My head began spinning, and it was all I could do to grab hold of one of the other black-clad brooding would-be Hamlets.

It was clear: smoke was not welcome in my lungs.

But with my stint on CI, I was faced with a choice: my art or my health. DeNiro famously gained 320 pounds for Raging Bull. And TK was my LaMotta. So I chose art. And boy did I suffer for it.

The office scene was the second to last I was to shoot. I was at my typewriter, on the phone pressing one of the subjects of my column to make a pay-off. I didn't have to type -- just talk on the phone while I was smoking. (Not a tall order. Burt Lancaster in Sweet Smell of Success managed to type, smoke and talk on the phone simultaneously.)

But I was committed to beginning my line on a smoky exhale -- and we were using filterless Camels. And so I began puffing, then inhaling deeply. Even typing this now nauseates me -- and for good reason. After 11 Camels, I stood up, moved into the kitchen set for my final scene ... and began violently heaving. If only there'd been a vomiting scene in the script, I would have come away with an Emmy. (Even as I was hurling into a trash can, I felt badly for the crew. I knew they wanted to bust out laughing and I understood why. I'm a really loud vomiter. But they were total pros.)

The Method approach hadn't worked. Languishing over the trash can, the ghost of Olivier came to me: "Try acting ... it's much easier." I wiped the upchucked grits from the corners of my mouth and returned to set, resolved never again to smoke.

But that was before I met Adrian Moreira.



TO BE CONTINUED! (I have to eat my oatmeal, then go see my personal trainer, Isaac. It's a back and biceps day. I'll be back with the conclusion later.)

***

AND NOW THE CONCLUSION OF "SMOKER'S LUCK" ...

"There's no point. They just don't fit," I said to Joe, the salesman at De La Sole Footwear in the Castro section of San Francisco.

I'd spent the previous day at the World's Ugliest Dog Contest in Petaluma, where the winner Gus, a three-legged, one-eyed Chinese crested, tried to rip my face off. (I'd be in a foul mood, too, if droves of people were pointing at me, cooing "Isn't he uuuuugly?")

Now I was headed to the airport but stopped at De La Sole to pick up a pair of Clae sneakers, the hottest kicks around. When it was clear they didn't have my size, Joe began scrawling their website information. That's when I suddenly realized my flight was taking off in less than 80 minutes.

I sprinted to my Mitsubishi rental. (Ooh, I just realized that spell-check recognizes Mitsubishi but doesn't recognize Obama. They'll have to update that.) And I tore through the streets of San Francisco, en route to SFO. The Avis agent was a blur as I ran for the monorail to take me to my terminal.

It was on the airport train that I saw a mysterious man with striking Nelson Rockefeller frames. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. We knew that we were both headed to New York on American Airlines with e-tickets that needed to be printed more than a half-hour before takeoff ... and our flight was departing in 33 minutes! The tension was unbearable.

As soon as the train doors opened at Terminal 3, we began running. Running hard. It became a competition for that one special seat. (Irrational, since I instinctively knew he was aisle, I a window.) The mysterious man had at least three lengths on me when the American Airlines counter came into view. It looked like I would have to live with the silver medal, when suddenly he stopped. He just crapped out in front of United. I flew past and printed my e-ticket with one minute to spare.

Moments later the man I'd come to know as Adrian stumbled up to the next monitor, defeated -- like Eight Belles, just waiting to get shot.

"Congratulations," he gasped, conceding victory. "You made it. That's what I get for smoking." He hardly needed to swipe his credit card. It was 29 minutes before takeoff. There would be no e-ticket for Adrian. We shook hands, then parted.

I felt so proud, so healthy, like a giant winner. I trotted through security, all smiles, and nestled into my exit row window seat. How blessed was I? The woman next to me was fine-boned and narrow-shouldered, even if she did have a gigantic head. It was like sitting next to a Bratz Doll. Not once did she invade my space.

For a moment I wondered if Adrian would ever make it back to New York. (Flights these days are filled to capacity.) Then I forgot all about him.

***

Then yesterday I was returning from a visit to Dr. Saguaro. I was walking down Fifth Avenue, not a care in the world, when out of the corner of my eye I saw Adrian! He was smoking outside his office building. (It turns out he works at J Records.)

"Hi!" I said, genuinely surprised, before I took it down a few notches. I didn't want to sound so perky, especially after his humiliating episode. I lowered my gaze. "You didn't make the flight ... did you?" I said in my best condolence voice.

"Actually," he said, taking a drag, "I did. Yeah, they put me in a business class seat."

I was stunned.

"Yeah, it was great," he continued. "The [check-in] lady helped me out, gave me an upgrade. There were a bunch of seats up there. You missed out."

It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem right. The man with the reckless health habit had won out over those of us who do what we're supposed to do? What ever happened to justice? What ever happened to karma?

Or had I brought this on myself by being smug?

Or is there such a thing as ... Smoker's Luck?