Judge Mathis, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Mills Lane, Judge Hatchett, Judge Wapner, Judge Mablean, Judge Alex . . . I watched anything in a robe. I would have even watched Judge Reinhold if he had a show. And that’s saying something.

But eventually, I got tired of it all. The hoaky catch phrases, the forced attempts at being a hard ass, the lapsing into Spanish every ten seconds and talking about notarized tongues and paying for the hot chocolate. It just got old.

Well most of it, anyway. There was one judge who always kept me interested. Judge Judy.

“Interested” is maybe too casual of a word. I love this show like a fat girl loves Twilight. Nothing makes me happier than being out of town for a few days so I can come home to a Tivo full of Judy. I don’t even care that I’ve seen the episodes over and over again; the eBay scammer, the idiot lady who told her 6 year old that her father might be someone else, the woman who sued the cop for giving her a ticket, the woman whose hair fell out after the bad perm, I know them by heart at this point and I could still see them again.

People ask me what it is about her that I like so much, and all I can really say is that I enjoy watching stupid people get punished. There’s just something so satisfying about watching someone with intelligence and authority put the smack down on some idiot who’s really asking for it.

In any case, the unimaginable happened yesterday: I actually got to meet her. Through the tireless efforts of my thoroughly amazing friend Gina, I was able to walk into the studio as thought I had a right to be there. I even got a drive on pass!

I wasn’t expecting a whole lot, to be honest. I thought I might get to watch a case or two and possibly get an autograph, but I actually wound up spending several hours with the judge in her dressing room, talking about politics, mothers, movies, shopping and Gin Rummy. And after seeing my engagement ring and asking if we set a date, she even gave me some advice about pre-nups.

If that wasn’t enough glamor, I was invited to sit in the front row of the audience for two cases, which means you’ll actually be able to see my pale and sweating face when they air that episode in September. Hot damn, it’s like Make A Wish for a middle aged woman in relatively good health.

And to put the icing on the torte*, I even had lunch with her honor. I was invited into the dining room and I had salad, green beans and chicken. They had corn on the cob and ribs too, but I didn’t trust my hand-eye coordination for that one. Plus I thought I’d get food in my teeth and look like an even bigger starstruck hillbilly.

Now, I don’t want to say too much more, because Judge Judy was very candid and relaxed with me. And I thought that was gracious, considering I am nobody and likely to remain that way. So I don’t want to be rude by spilling everything all over my blog.

But I will tell you that she wears a tank top and jeans under her robe, and she’s built like a brick courthouse.

More pictures on Flickr

*Law comedy

I know. It’s almost too much to process.

Liza with a motherfucking Z, lisping and trembling and stumbling across the stage like some kind of ancient chihuahua in a sequined pancho. Nothing but jazz hands and pant suits, as far as the eye can see. I am beyond excited. I only hope to be as drunk as she is.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that I almost didn’t buy these tickets. When I first saw the billboards on the way to Palm Springs a few months back, it just didn’t click. Oh, I snorted and laughed, but the gravity of it all didn’t really sink in.

This morning, however, someone sent me a message on Facebook, asking me if I was going to go. And suddenly, the clouds parted.

Three little words popped into my head. Three words that made the difference. Yes, they were only three words, but what a story they told.

MICHAEL

JACKSON

TRIBUTE

Am I right?

Because there has to be one. There has to be some sort of slapped together, rushed, emotional tribute, and this is the time to see that hot mess. Now, when it’s still fresh, and she knows why she’s crying.

Obviously, I can’t say for sure what’s going to happen in this part of the show, but I think there are going to be slides. That’s what I think. Slides of them through the years; with Halston at Studio 54, at The Wiz wrap party, drinking Shirley Temples at Benihana, wearing leg warmers and rehearsing with Peter Gennaro, all those happy moments, all the way up to this freakfest. That’s what I’m thinking.

And I think she’ll be dressed in a glittering pantsuit, perched on a stool and bathed in a single light; and when the band eases into a slowed-down version of “The Way You Make Me Feel”, she’ll bring the microphone up to her lips and that’s when we see she’s wearing one glove.

UPDATE: These amazing photos have been linked hundreds of times since I posted them. They’ve been featured on some really high-profile sites, which is gratifying, but I’ve been frustrated by not being able to credit the photographer.

I asked her to tell me about her experience at the rally, and this is what she said:

“We went to Obama’s very last rally, at the Prince William Fairgrounds in Virginia. We were part of 90,000 people who came to show their support. We stood for five hours waiting for him, after having stood and walked all day. But it didn’t matter. And I know it’s cliche to say, but the crowd was so diverse. We made friends with the people around us, and when we took a picture, we managed to cover pretty much the entire skin color spectrum. And this fact cannot be undervalued. Obama is not black, he is not white–he is Indonesian, Hawaiian, Kenyan, Caucasian, and about a million more.

Obama is, in part, an idea man, but in his being, in his person, he takes these ideas and gives them a reality, and this is what you understand when you see him. He gives lofty thoughts and progressive dreams substance and tangibility. Yet, he is a pragmatic progressive. His ability to address problems gains its strength from his ability to recognize nuances, to turn a problem up and down and mold it into something that can be changed, that must be changed and that will be changed.

And there was this kid at the rally, I think he was about six years old. He was black, and sitting up on his dad’s shoulders. He had an Obama-Biden sign, and for what I swear was about 3 hours straight, he held the sign straight up, with the most determined look I had ever seen on a six-year-old’s face. And then this other kid appeared, a white kid, on his dad’s shoulders. And all of a sudden they were sharing the sign back and forth. And then, then they held it together. And…it was so simple, SO simple. Yet, at the same time, it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, and the great part was that they had no idea what they were doing. Everyone looked at them, people took pictures, but they were just holding a sign. “Little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls…” It was so simple.

And then Obama came out. We listened to him talk, we wondered about the emotional roller coaster he was experiencing–his grandmother had just died hours before, and here he was at one of his biggest rallies ever, after 21 months of campaigning, only 21 hours away from winning the presidency. It. was. amazing. And I was so proud to be just one of those 90,000 people, to blend into the crowd, just to be there to listen to this man. It was incredible.”

I can’t even believe this gorgeous man comes home to me every night.

And here’s the thing. He’s beautiful all the way through. Just an incredibly warm, loving, decent, smart, kind, funny, sweet, patient, generous man.

Whatever. He’s hot as shit.

Happiness

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of happiness. I’ve come to the conclusion that happiness is a myth.

A few years ago, I was the most profoundly depressed person you could ever meet. I can’t really describe it, but it was a very oppressive kind of heaviness that almost made it hard to breathe. I felt like someone was sitting on me all the time.

In the course of really examining myself and deciding to change my life, I realized that I identified myself by that sadness. That is to say, I would describe myself as “a sad person”. I had been sad so long, that I came to believe that it was who I was. And since it was such a huge part of my identity, I was reluctant to part wth it.

Fortunately, I soon came to the understanding that sadness is transitory. It comes and goes, much like Ted Danson’s hair.

Now that my depression has largely abated, or at least, stays away for longer periods, I’ve made the surprising discovery that happiness is a transitory emotion as well. Just because you feel happy from time to time, doesn’t make you a happy person.

So if you accept the idea that our emotions don’t define us, you have to accept the idea that there are no happy people. Anywhere. Even at Wal Mart.

This revelation is by turns depressing and liberating. On the one hand, it means you’re never going to be a happy person, because there are no happy people. There are just people who feel happy, some more often than others. Which is kind of sad.

On the other hand, it releases you from that expectation of happiness, which always leaves you feeling inadequate somehow.

I think the best example of this is what happens to us during the holidays. We see manufactured images of truly happy people enjoying their families and feeling “the spirit”, and it makes us feel like hell. We’re not having that feeling, are we? We don’t want to knit mittens for the orphans or make snow angels in front of the rectory. We want to upend the table and shove a turkey leg down our sister in law’s throat. And if we don”t want to do that, well, we’d at least like to just go the fuck home and jerk off. You know what I mean.

We think we are supposed to be happy, even though no one truly is. Other people seem happy, why aren’t I? What’s wrong with me? Look at that girl in the commercial. The one whose husband flies her whole family to Italy as a surprise, then gives her a 3 karat diamond and tells her she still makes his dick hard after three kids and a second mortgage. She’s happy.

Yes, the girl in the commercial is happy. For 30 seconds.

Of course the actress who plays the happy girl is probably living in a shit hole in Van Nuys, making herself vomit after every meal and wishing she booked that Correctol commercial so she could keep her health benefits.

If you accept the idea that nothing will ever make you a happy person, because the idea of “happy people” is a myth created by advertisers and other groups trying to sell you shit, you can stop thinking there’s an answer. You can put away your growing lists of disappointments. You can stop measuring yourself against what appear to be all those happy people out there. They’re not out there. They don’t exist.

Now this is not to say that happiness itself doesn’t exist. It does, like any other emotion. But like all other emotions, it is fleeting. It marks a moment in time, not the quality of your life or your character.

Chances are, if I asked you when you were your happiest, you would relate to a single moment or an incident. Because that’s what happiness really is. A hamburger. An orgasm. A winning hand.

You might relate to a period, like, “I was really happy when I was in college”, but that would be an idealization, a romanticism that would not be accurate. Because no matter how much you loved those days, there were many nights you ate Ramen off a crappy hot plate, thinking, “Jesus, this fucking sucks ass”.

I have to go. Dr. Phil is here with my enema.