So there I was with Anderson's wife and a few glasses of a very nice red in me. And I realized when she froze that I'd been a bit—how d'you call it?—terribly rude. And so I softened and immediately began to talk about how wonderful the daughter (Tony winner DaisyEagan) had been and how excellent had been her writing. (She was! And so was it!)
No dice. It was just like that one big muckamuck Republican wedding I went to where I accidentally said "drugs" to the Christian teens from Texas, which, I learned the hard way, is kind of like saying box cutteron an airplane or putting a chicken in front of Ann Coulter. Or a vagina.
And that's probably why my boss changes the subject when I ask why he doesn't put me on the radio. Because I'm drunk.