The Cocktail Party Primer (Episode #16)

Why Don’t Ya Come Up and See Me Some Time, Federal Agent?

Hello lovelies! Was your Thanksgiving adequately gluttonous? I discovered a marvelous recipe for something called the Perfect Turkey (a Wild Turkey Manhattan with both sweet and dry vermouth), and it kicked off my holiday season just right. And here it is, the weekend all over again. I’m already feeling pretty festive, so I’m thinking I’ll probably don a fuzzy sweater, whip up a batch of nog, and stay in with the Grinch and Charlie Brown this weekend, if you know what I mean. But if you find yourself in a setting that requires more by way of repartee, here’s my take on the news of the week.

• Rumbles of hope emanated from Strike Land on Thursday when the producers presented the WGA negotiators with new terms that address, among other things, some of the issues with Internet royalties. The WGA asked to have until December 4 to mull it over. There are reports of cautious optimism, gleeful reticence, suspicious titillation and other not particularly informative feelings from Hollywood tonight. In a statement, a spokesperson for the American Motion Picture and Television Producers said, “The development of a new offer has surely caused everyone involved to be suffused with a particularly subtle brand of effusive evasiveness. Without a doubt, we are moving toward further action that could possibly result in consequences with either positive or negative results, depending on the tide, what we’ve all had for breakfast, and whether or not we’re having a good hair day.” In other words, this might be great news, or it might be nothing, and there is absolutely no way to tell.

• It’s November 28, 1999. I’m glued to the TV watching the Millennium crossover episode of The X-Files. I know, everybody knows, since the buzz has been coming hot and fast, that Mulder and Scully were finally going to score some hot lip-locking action. It wouldn’t be like the episode from the previous season where the smooch didn’t count because it took place in some kind of alternate reality on a boat. This would be for real, and all our lustful vicarious dreams would finally be realized. Except that they totally wussed out and just made it a stupid little midnight at New Year’s kiss that didn’t mean anything. Assholes. I’m not sure I ever forgave them. Fast forward seven years, 364 days. With just a hint of that former obsessive gleam in my eye, and the strange realization that I apparently have some kind of televised FBI agent fetish, I tuned in to see Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan play a little tonsil hockey on Bones. Sure, it wasn’t an X-Files level of anticipation, but I’ve watched the show since the beginning, and as unrepentant shipper, I was more than ready for some action. And you know what? Those Fox cretins fooled me again. This time they did it with a stupid little Christmas under the mistletoe kiss that didn’t mean anything. Welcome to Gullibleville, population me. But I’ve got to admit, while it wasn’t as hot as the pervert in me clearly desires, it wasn’t a bad kiss; there was even gum swapping. So maybe I squealed a little. And clapped my hands. And rewound it three times. I’m a fool for the FBI (Federal Bureau of Intimacy, natch.)

• I kind of don’t get Dancing with the Stars. When I want to see vaguely celebrity-like people strut around in spangly costumes, I go to a drag show, but maybe that’s just me. But I will say this. Dancing is without question the glitteriest show on TV, and what with the strike and the war and Mitt Romney and Rudy Giuliani sniping at each other over who’s the bigger hypocrite, I reckon there’s a need for old fashioned glittery TV. Maybe it is to us what Sonny and Cher were during Vietnam, a tanned and smiling panacea for what ails us. The major difference is that during the 70s, the disco balls were big, made of glass, and hung from the ceiling whereas now they are small, plastic, and should fit perfectly on the back of the toilet in any B-lister’s spare bathroom. Plus, I bet a significantly smaller portion of Dancing’s studio and home audience are totally out of their heads on coke.

• Did you know Carson Daly is still alive? And that he still has a TV show? Apparently, he is and he does. I’m led to believe that it airs quite late at night. I have virulent, tyrannical insomnia and have spent many, many hours with only the television to keep me company in the wee hours, and I’ve never watched it, so forgive me if I remain suspicious as to its existence. Anyway, he’s alive, has a show, and is, as it turns out, so much filled with glorious spirit of support for the workers. This week he became to first late-night talk show host (and the second host after Ellen) to break the picket. Unlike, for instance, Letterman, Daly isn’t himself a member of the guild. Whether his action is the first crack in the WGA damn or an attempt to save the jobs of his staff which have been threatened while the show is off air depends on who you ask. That Carson Daly is an aging has-been who refuses to acknowledge that he reached his peak of cultural relevancy in 1999 is something basically everyone agrees on.

Martha Smith is a San Francisco-based freelance writer and editor. She writes mostly about food, TV, and other things that can be enjoyed while sitting down.