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almost-past-his-prime, with-a-more-nasty-personality version of Ryan Seacrest.
    Maybe out of frustration or anxiety, I keep going to YouTube and binge-watching Britney Spears videos. Tonight I ate maybe two pounds of candy in bed and watched pieces of the “Femme Fatal” tour. It’s an eighty-something-minute study on how to create the illusion that Brit is dancing. It’s so funny. They are all dancing around her, and she’s someplace else. She walks like a hologram. I just want Britney to be Britney. Our idea of Britney. But the truth is, I think Britney has left the building. After watching all of her videos, I can tell you she doesn’t dance. She just walks, flips her hair, cracks a whip. It’s crazy. I ate so much candy. It’s like I’m trying to bulk up.
    FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4, 2013
    I FaceTimed with Anderson today—his first FaceTime ever. He was in a chatty mood, which doesn’t always happen, and we had a good, gossipy session. I wish it could have been televised. He and I broke it down, then reverted to a common refrain, how bored we both are. Both of us lead pretty exciting lives, but on any given day you’ll find one of us texting the other that we are bored out of our minds. I still have that childhood affliction characterized by walking into the kitchen when my mom was cooking dinner and telling her, “I’m bored. ” I guess it happens to the best of us. Maybe that’s why we do the jobs we do. I watched the afternoon Cardinals game with Matthew Broderick at the bar at Riviera on Seventh Avenue. We won. I have playoff fever. That’s a good place to watch a game.
    I buried the headline. The big news is I killed a bug tonight. The booze helped give me strength. I started the night at Kelly’s birthday at Indochine. After dinner we went to Club 8 and the ten of us were the only ones there. It ended up filling up and we danced. We stumbled toward home and into that new Sultan’s Pizza joint around the corner from me at two in the morning. Bruce was giving advice to the owner about how to run a restaurant. Everything he told him was right, too. They are doing everything wrong at this place—the lighting is bad, the prices are too cheap (a buck per slice), and they have a bad attitude. Oh, and the pizza isn’t so great unless you’re drunk or desperate. This joint is not going to make it, mark my words. That guy should’ve listened to the King of the Palm Restaurant, but he didn’t know whom he was talking to.
    Back to the bug. In the haze of the night, I discovered a beetle was on my soap tray. It wasn’t lion sized, but still. So I got the Raid, tiptoed into the bathroom, aimed my shaking but incredibly masculine and brave hands at the bear cub, and sprayed and killed it. I threw the soap out and the bug is still under my sink, dead. There is no way in hell I’m picking it up. I’m gonna leave it till Wednesday, when my housekeeper comes. I’m not alone on an island with the bug thing, right?
    SATURDAY, OCTOBER 5, 2013
    I didn’t leave my house all day. I did absolutely nothing until I went out to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty at the New York Film Festival with Bruce, Bryan, and John Hill; I went with the movie and thoroughly enjoyed it. I talked to Kristen Wiig a little bit at the after party. It was one of those times when I love someone so much and am such a fan that I am too nervous to think of anything to say. My personality erases itself. Richard LaGravenese, the great screenwriter, came over to me, said he loves my show, and was very nice, but we got interrupted. Ten minutes later I turned to him and asked where he lives and he said Tribeca and I said, “Oh, that’s where my studio is,” and he replied, “What’s your studio for? What do you do?” And I tell him, “My show,” and I realized I wasn’t speaking to LaGravanese anymore. I’d resumed the