Okay, the guy’s back on his cellphone, pacing back and forth, trying to rescue the deal by blaming his wife.

Exact quote:  “I’m sorry if my wife got it wrong.”

Classy.

Last night I went to a presidential debate-watching party at Picanha Churrascaria hosted by the Burbank Democratic Club. I got there about 15 minutes late and found a packed room — the club had turned out about 80 people to eat, drink, and shout merry whenever Obama scored a point. After the debate when I gave a few remarks, I couldn’t help noting that the turnout proved once again that Democrats are good for business and good for the economy.

The restaurant is a Churrascaria, or Brazilian barbecue, where servers bring endless servings of meat until finally you are dragged off to be processed as Soylent Green. When my wife found out a few days previously where this event was being held, she asked me if I was going to wear sweatpants. I didn’t think I owned sweatpants (which I don’t), which led her to remind me that we have a friend who, before we dined at a churrascaria in San Diego a few years ago, purposely donned a pair of green sweatpants so he could really fill up on meat. I don’t know about him, but I know that by the time we left I was dizzy I was so overinjected with bovine growth hormone.

(The guy behind me here at the airport has been trying to work some real-estate deal over his cellphone while marching around giving his wife lunch orders and complaining to me about TSA. He’s been on the phone so many times and so long, I think the property’s lost another 20% in value. And we taxpayers probably now own it. I hope it has a pool and a walk-in humidor.)

This  morning on NPR I heard an interview with an undecided voter. I know, I know; you’re asking:  “Who could possibly be undecided at this point? What would it take?” Because that’s what I’ve been wondering. But this woman was very thoughtful, and what she said surprised me greatly. First she went on about abortion — and I was sure I knew what was coming. Instead, she said that she learned in the debate that what she’d been told about Senator Obama was wrong:  that he’s not in favor of late-term abortions. So, much as you and I would mock these dreary debates, they’ve swayed the opinion of at least one voter. Then the interviewer asked this woman whom she would vote for, and after listening to her cultural conservatism (she had also said that abortion should be a states-rights issue, echoing McCain) I was sure of her answer because I couldn’t believe she actually had been undecided — but she answered,  “Obama.” And here’s why:  She said that McCain was so visibly angry throughout the debate — so scrunched up and churlish — that she could imagine how he would deal with people around the world the next four years, and she didn’t like what she was imagining. “If you can’t get along with someone from your own country — an American — in the same room with you, how are you going to work with the rest of the world?” Exactly right. Which makes me wonder where she and her compatriots were in 2004. Maybe they just needed to feel a whole lot more personal economic pain.

Okay, the guy on his cellphone just snapped the phone off, jumped up, and threw his hands over his face. I guess we’re not going to be smoking cigars by the pool in that villa outside Palm Springs. But wait… he’s making another call. Who knows what could happen? And isn’t that a little metaphor for the economy right now?

So I’m here at LAX waiting for my new flight to Amsterdam and thought I’d take a minute to let you know I might not be posting much here the next week. Yes, I know the internet exists in Europe, too (certainly moreso than here at LAX, where this T-Mobile Hotspot has a lot of nerve calling itself a hotspot. The connection is so slow it’s more like a NotSpot). So we’ll see.

Why am I waiting for a new flight to Amsterdam? Because the flight I was booked for — and, I should note, for which I got up at the unhappy-making time of 7:06 after going to bed earlyish at 1:30 and then, of course, not sleeping well — was canceled. Or late. Or something. They couldn’t decide, although the various Northworst Airlines personnel working the lines kept calling out to each other, “He missed his flight!” so that I could keep calling out, “No — I didn’t! It isn’t scheduled to depart for more than two hours!” Getting humiliated is a no-no; adding a public scolding, and incurring both of them when you are unquestionably deserving of neither is strictly disallowed. I was not late — I was early. The PLANE was late, and would make me late for my transfer in Detroit. (A city I hadn’t intended to add to my Facebook Places I’ve Been map anyway.)

The ticket agent  very helpfully got me onto a direct flight to Amsterdam. Upside: direct. Downside: Waiting here an additional 5 hours. A quick scouting of what exists here in the dank end of Terminal 2 — some “Route 66” eatery, a knickknack kiosk, something laughably calling itself a Wolfgang Puck’s, and a Burger Kringe — told me it’d be a long 5 hours.

So now I’m checking email and downloading apps for my iPhone, including one called Flight Tracker. I checked on my (previous) flight to Detroit. Flight Tracker tells me that that flight is delayed. Good to know.

It’s finally happened: I’ve lost my sense of humor. About one thing, at least.

The other morning as I was driving my son to take his driver’s license test, we passed a billboard for the new Oliver Stone movie, “W.” Guess who it’s about.

“Dad, are you going to go see that?”

“No,” I said rigidly.

“It looks really funny in the trailer.”

“There’s nothing funny about him,” I said, noting to myself the irony of the word “trailer” in connection with the infamous subject of this film. “Trailer” as in “FEMA trailer.” As in: rusting hulks bought for too much money from private contractors for the scattered survivors of Hurricane Katrina. More reasons not to be amused.

In today’s LA Times I came across a caption about the movie that said it was the story of one man’s rise “from riches to more riches.” I guess that’s humorous too.

I haven’t lost my sense of humor about everything. I’m always cracking wise on those marathon training runs; it’s a good way to deal with the seeming impossibility of running dozens of miles, or other ordeals. I’ve written comedies about cancer and suicide and incest, and even my recent play about the son of a serial killer was good for a few laughs. But it’s hard to imagine anything funny about “W.” or the creature the film is named after. Maybe the scale of impact is too great to laugh away. The serial killer in my play killed a few dozen women; the Bush death count is in the hundreds of thousands (Iraqi civilians; Afghani civilians; U.S. soldiers; Katrina victims; old folks shooting themselves because their retirement has been wiped out and they can’t pay the mortgage; and on and on). I don’t think I’m alone in this sentiment: I don’t want to spend any more time with him, real or fictional.

Except in one case.

If there is a sequel, one in which he’s tried and convicted, I will gladly buy a ticket. Many of them.

I don’t think I’m alone in that, either.

Sent in by my father-in-law. Like all jokes, there’s a regrettable truth at the end.

While walking down the street one day a Senator is tragically hit by a truck and dies.

The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulder.

“I don’t understand,” stammers the politician.  “Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time.  Now there’s just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable.
What happened?”

Today you voted.”

How much money do U.S. taxpayers owe? So much that the debt clock has run out of digits.

Thanks to Paul Crist for sending this in.

As I noted previously, the lack of outrage is inhuman. Which, in Obama’s case, someone else has already pointed out.

That AIDS Marathon I keep blogging about is just around the corner. On Sunday the 19th I’ll be running 26.2 miles in Amsterdam to benefit AIDS Project LA.

But tomorrow night I’ll be drinking drinks and playing Rock Band. Please join me at Fubar in West Hollywood between 6:30 and 9. See below.

By the way:  Afraid of that infamous West Hollywood parking (or lack thereof)? Not to worry. We’ve arranged for 50 individual parking permits. If you can join us, shoot me an email and I’ll have a runner stand by at the curb with a parking pass.

(Can’t make it to the event? Well, you won’t get to hear me sing “Anarchy in the U.K.” But you can still sponsor me. The donations go to help people suffering with HIV / AIDS and who have no health insurance. A big thank-you to everyone who has sponsored me already.)

I watched the second presidential debate tonight. Or was it a rerun of the first debate? Sure seemed that way. I’ll bet if you spliced together the sound bites from each debate, they’re the same.

What should have been different was the level of outrage.

Even overlooking all the other crimes and malfeasance of the past eight years — invading a foreign country that didn’t attack us; stripping away civil liberties; sanctioning torture; letting people starve or drown after Hurricane Katrina; stealing two elections; oh, this would be an endless list — the rape and pillage of the treasury on the way out the door must, finally, break the camel’s back. The John McCain I remember prior to this campaign would have been aghast. And I would think that the Democratic nominee would be too.

I understand that Obama’s goal is to get elected, and not to give me a thrill by speaking harsh hot truth in front of millions of people. But I ask this:  Once he gets elected, can he show some outrage then? Please? I appreciate the cool demeanor and the thoughtfulness (what a refreshing change that would be in the top position). But at some point true leadership gets royally pissed off at injustice. And we’re past that point. I know I am.

Further proof that a) Barack Obama is cool; and b) that he’s in it to win it: He’s got his own iPhone app.