Liars and Saints

  Mike White has explained the genesis of the "blondes trio" in his most recent scripts. He was on vacation, and he saw three friends in a cluster. Whenever one friend would leave, the other two would gossip about the absent friend. This insight triggered a series of defensive reader posts in the NYTimes. "That's not how MY friendships work." "I have NEVER been in Carrie Coon's shoes." (The squirming within these posts helped to suggest that perhaps the writers were not yet fully acquainted with themselves.) I did relate to Carrie Coon throughout this most recent season. I especially liked when Coon wanted to put Michelle Monaghan on trial for Monaghan's naughtiness; this was anxious, controlling behavior. Coon had the wrong idea that "punishing" Monaghan for a perceived transgression would be a step toward correcting the universe, making everything right. I have been in this position so often. For example, this week, I dreamed of tat...

 When I think of the circus, I think of the amazingly tasteless musical "Side Show," which assigns these lyrics to conjoined twins: I will never leave you! I will never go away. We were meant to share this moment. Beside you is where I will stay! To its credit, the Ringling Museum in Florida doesn't shy away from the troubling history of the Side Show. There is an ad for "Bird Girl," whose posture resembles the posture of a penguin. There is also a gigantic man, a woman with unusually long hair, a photo of (yes) conjoined twins, a bearded lady, a three-legged man. When the circus was most popular, in or around the 1930s, you, a performer, would travel all over the country (staying for one day in each new spot with few exceptions). You would eat your meals in a tent. And you would share transit accommodations with aerialists, clowns, lion tamers, strongmen, tightrope walkers. The Ringling has a special alcove that describes the training of clowns and distinguishe...

  "Like Father, Like Clown" is a beautiful episode from the third season of "The Simpsons." It's one of only three cases in history in which a guest actor won an Emmy for a "Simpsons" voiceover (a performance by Jackie Mason as Hyman Krustofsky). The episode rewrites Paul's famous monologue from the climax of "A Chorus Line." A young man has a taboo interest--an interest in clowning. His imperious father, the rabbi, says that the interest must die. The boy Herschel locks himself in the bathroom--we think he is masturbating--but a violent act destroys the lock. (Nothing onanistic was happening; Herschel was just trying to teach himself how to juggle.) Later, in the Catskills, Herschel paints his face white; attending a rabbinical conference, Hyman doesn't recognize the clown. A bucket of water falls from on high; the makeup is washed away. Hyman understands that he is looking at his son, and a rupture occurs. The reconciliation is sill...

 Yesterday, I was in a small hot tub; I watched as a ten-year-old boy slowly and deliberately spat a wad of mucus into the tub. This kid's father was distracted. Surely, the act wouldn't happen again? Then it happened again. Before I could stop myself, I was interceding. I sternly announced that there was to be no spitting in the hot tub. The father observed none of this. Later, my husband spotted the father pointing at me. Perhaps there would be a physical altercation! But--to his relief--Marc saw that the father was not notably mobile. We could outrun him. All this interested me for a few reasons. Had I been impetuous--speaking directly to the kid and not to his parent? What if the father had *sanctioned* the spitting? Did my spouse really think that an altercation could be in the cards? And what was going on in the kid's head? Was the spitting a cry for help (as in the little Spatafore's public pooping incident at the end of "The Sopranos")? This is what I ...