Happily getting my hands dirty with the Sunday NYT

Some days I long for the simplicity of yesteryear—when I was comforted by printed advertisements in newspapers.  It’s one of the reasons that despite training myself to digitally read the New York Times during the week, I insist on subscribing to the printed weekend edition of the Gray Lady.  I actually look forward to getting my hands dirty opening up the Sunday Arts & Leisure section for a clue from the advertising as to what Broadway hits/flops are headed my way, or which ‘70s TV star has a cabaret career courtesy of Feinstein’s at the Regency.  The ads themselves become part of my pop-culture fact-finding mission.

Promos online just don’t give me the same sense of satisfaction.  The great benefit of Internet advertising is supposedly targeting products directly to interested readers thanks to a generous helping of cookies profiling users’ behaviors.  Sometimes, I feel like there’s a mad baker behind the scenes who is just throwing tracking confections at me non-stop.  On Facebook, an ad for “Bichon T-shirts” seems like it has become a permanent part of my home page thanks to missives about my foofy dog Frida.  On Statcounter, I site a I use to track statistics for my own blog, I’ve been getting ads for the gay hook-up site Manhunt 24/7.  Okay, I get it.  I wrote about your competitor Grindr a couple of times on the blog.  Just don’t tell anyone I’ve checked out your site, too.

Things get a little more awkward over at NYTimes.com.  No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to escape the “Portraits of Peninsula” ad campaign from the luxury hotel company.  The black and white portrait features a multi-ethnic cross section of employees—it should give me a good feeling about the inclusiveness and diversity of the company.  But when it popped up next to a story about Arizona’s draconian immigration initiatives, the ad took an unexpected and appreciated political tone.  One click later, and it was next to a story on the continued waste and despair in Haiti.  Boy, that makes you rethink the meaning of luxury—and not in the way I imagine the Peninsula folks intended.

41 years of a Glee-ified existence

Like many bloggers, I am tackling how to incorporate advertisers and sponsors into my site that does not distract from the user experience—but enhances my bottom line.  Today’s NYT’s advertising column by my friend Stuart Elliott, Serving Up Musical Comfort Food, gives me hope.  Marketers are turning to songs from classic musicals like “South Pacific,” “The King and I,” and “Sound of Music” to advertise everything from Hyundai cars to Dove hair care.  The experts interviewed say the songs are like “comfort food” for folks during a recession.  I don’t know about that.  I think it’s the Glee-ification of America that suddenly makes show queens like me popular again.  When Oprah devotes an entire gushing hour to the corny, must see mega-hit show, you know America’s at a musical theater tipping point.  Incidentally, the ads that popped up next to Stuart’s piece?  Bonus miles for cross-country travel on American Airlines and an investment conference in Kazakhstan.  Clearly, the web cookie bakers know about my upcoming book tour.

So don’t be surprised in the next few months when you check out ABCitblog.com and you hear me singing some musical jingles authentically integrating sponsors into the site.  I’m thinking for my insurance company of choice crooning a show-stopping number as Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors… “Suddenly State Farm, is standing beside you…”

Other suggestions?

Chef and I decided a few years back that if our little dog Frida were ever an animated character that she would be voiced by singer-actress Kristin Chenoweth.  They both share the same sense of perky spirit and sometimes curls, although I imagine  Kristin has a little more drive—we often refer to Frida as the “laziest dog in the world.”

Frida and Kristin, the resemblance is uncanny

So I follow Kristin’s career with considerable Glee (when is she coming back to my favorite show?), even devouring her memoir A Little Bit Wicked.  Of course I’ve already set my DVR for this Saturday’s Lifetime movie “12 Men of Christmas” where Kristin stars as A NEW YORK PUBLICIST casting a male pinup calendar!  Alessandra Stanley in today’s New York Times refers to it as “a watered-down reworking of Jane Austen’s famous comedy of manners (call it ‘Pride & Pectoral’).”  Sign me up!

Remember the literary agent who told me that a publicist wasn’t a familiar figure in people’s lives?  Well, I’m sure Kristin and Lifetime are about to change all that.

But if not, and you’re still wondering what publicists do, I thought I’d give you more of the behind-the-scenes tales of book tour with Tyra Banks.  You’ve seen only a snippet of this story, and if you forgot how I landed the job with the supermodel then you should probably read Episode 4 first.  Then delve into Alphabet City’s Episode 5: The Bodyguard.

As I was reading the chapter this morning, the non-stop cross-country travel reminded me of George Clooney’s character in the new film Up in the Air.  Would the suave Oscar-winning actor be the right choice to play me in the Alphabet City movie?  Nah, I’d probably ask Frida’s permission to let Emmy-winner Kristin Chenoweth step into the role—she may be the wrong sex, but the attitude is all right.

Some readers have asked why I think of my life as a sitcom when the current American obsession is with reality shows.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m addicted to some of those programs.  But I am not sure where I’d fit in on some of my favorites.  Tap dancers don’t do well on So You Think You Can Dance.  My body image issues are not large enough to force a weigh-in on The Biggest Loser.  My fear of sewing needles precludes me from walking Project Runway.  And if you’ve read any of my Kitchen Nightmares posts, you know why Chef Juan Pablo is better  on Top (Chef).

Instead, a character in a scripted series is how I see myself.  Angela and I often got pegged as Will & Grace, which always offended me—they were kind of cruel to each other.  And just because I’m gay doesn’t automatically make me Kurt in Glee—my competitiveness in high school had shades of Rachel.

Growing up, I developed a crush on Mary Tyler Moore.  Thanks to her fabulous fashions and plucky spirit, Mary became my  role model—and that’s taken me pretty far in life.

JP's early Mary Tyler Moore fashion sense

Here’s more on those early years with an excerpt from Episode 2: Will He Make It After All?

No surprise really that I process my life through the lens of sitcoms and drama series considering that much of my worldview was formed by a steady diet of 70’s programs and variety shows.  Television was an event in my household—an opportunity for the clan to gather round the exotic Sony TV in our garishly ultra mod yellow and green den decorated with matching LeRoy Neiman tennis player lithographs.  Instead of imparting pearls of wisdom around the family dinner table, my father used television as a way to instill morals and values.  Every Sunday, when the new TV guide insert came out in the paper, my father went through it with a highlighter—our cue as to what TV show lessons were on tap for that week.  As such, he set the agenda—and the dial—with favorites like Barney Miller; Welcome Back, Kotter; Soap; and, my enduring role model, Mary Tyler Moore.

As a seven year-old, I spent an inordinate amount of timing thinking and worrying about Mary Richards.

“Will she ever have a steady boyfriend?” I asked my 16 year-old sister, Pam.

“Mary doesn’t need a man to be fulfilled, Paul, that’s the entire point of the show,” she replied exasperated.  Her feminist streak, now fully developed, had emerged when she was two.

“Will Mary ever move into her own house?” I asked my 14-year old sister Paige kicking the soccer ball around our half-acre backyard.

“Nah, her apartment’s pretty fab,” she said, proud of the orange shag carpet in the bedroom she shared with Pam.

“Will we ever meet Mary’s mom?” I asked my own mother who was frying up extra greasy chicken-fried steak for dinner.

“Mary’s pretty independent. She has a nice group of friends.  You should have some friends like her,” she counseled, always worried that I played mostly by myself.

“Where does Mary get her clothes?” I asked my constant feline companion Pfeffa.

“From someone named Evan Picone,” I verbalized for the cat, reading off the designer’s name from the closing credits.

“Will Mary ever get promoted?” I worriedly asked my father at dinner one night.

He was hidden behind the afternoon edition of the Dallas Times Herald, a dying breed of liberal journalism in Texas, and for the most part didn’t engage in conversation with the family at dinnertime.

“Dad, did you hear me? Will Mary ever get promoted?”

Dad knew a lot about work because he was always there.  He peered over the top of the paper.

“You’ll just have to keep watching.”

Week after week, year after year, Mary Richards, her friends and co-workers in the WJM newsroom formed the foundations of my perspective on life.  Mary taught me that things work out in the end—just remember to have on a cute outfit when they do.  She became my role model—perfect job, funny friends, and—after her move to the big city—no interaction with her family.

When Mary’s sassy sidekick Rhoda Morgenstern got her own show and moved to New York City, I dreamed right along, plotting my life in the Big Apple.  Maybe one day I could land my own series, leave behind my family and escape the long shadow of my father.