I ask because for the last few days, Beauteous Reader, I find myself on Telluride, a tiny planet 222,000,000,000 miles east of Earth. It whirls around in its own little solar system simply jammed to the mountain tops with popcorn, Milk Duds, Junior Mints, movie screens, cowboy hats, critics, dogs off leashes, writers, directors, producers, brunch for 200, cocktails for 300, ice cream for 400, etc., etc.. But on this planet, stars do not shine on it.
No. No. No.
This planet makes stars.
And the stars walk around molting so much stardust, that when I am thrust towards a seat for the Class Photo of 2025, and turn to nod to the woman next to me, I am hit with such a blaze of light I nearly lose my balance and come quite, quite close to crashing to the ground in my good blue coat.
It is difficult, you see, for my pupils—what with Telluride kicking off the Oscar race and Bruce Springsteen wandering around and the avalanche of Skarsgards and Laura Derns and Noah Baumbachs and Ethan Hawkes and Emma Stones and Jesse Plummins and Jodie Fosters and Colin Farrells and Claire Foys and Dustin Hoffmans and Chloe Zhoe’s and so on and so forth— it is difficult for my poor pupils, as I say, to adjust; but I do at last recognize the rose and brown blaze sitting next to me. Rose Byrne.
Here’s a little photo snapped just before I am struck momentarily blind by the Byrne klieg light.
So that’s me on the right, Lisa Birnbach, Adam Sandler, Robbie Kaplan and Ivy Meeropol.
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And speaking of Ivy . . .
You remember that Ivy and I travel to Telluride by train, right? Well, Beauteous Reader, do you know what Ivy and I see from that train? We see a big, big, big majestic country. And we also see that one man is dividing this majestic country. And we see that on the man’s side, the man has many weapons—-both houses of Congress, the Supreme Court, the United States Army, nuclear bombs, etc., etc., etc.
And on the other side? On our side? What do we see?
Confusion, worry, and fear.
But we do have a weapon. It’s a small weapon, but deadly as hell. What is it? Ivy Meeropol’s film. And why is Ivy Meeropol’s film so lethal?
Because it reveals the secret of how to beat Donald Trump.
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Well. Needless to say, Ivy becomes the toast of Telluride, her film is a hit, Robbie Kaplan and Lisa Birnbach star in it, I stagger around overwhelmed and the reviews are so boffo, that boffo is not the word!
What’s the name of your planet?
What does your planet look like?
Who are your planet’s gods?
And what’s the Number One Rule on your planet?
Darling! My planet reeks gloriously of peat and salt — the very perfume of a fine Laphroaig. The ground is cushioned with pine needles and pine bark so soft, you could faint dead away and land in mossy bliss.
Who strides here? Women and non-binary stars, flinging off stardust of creativity so potent it sticks to your eyelashes. The air? A score of new age swells and flamenco strums — instrumental, darling! — so we can gossip, conspire, and laugh without ever missing a beat.
You don’t fly here, you slip through a secret passageway (and if you don’t know where it is, my cats — yes, the gods themselves — may or may not let you in).
The only law: kindness. Compassion. Never, ever compare or judge — lest you be whisked off the planet entirely.
Visitors swoon from the peace, the sheer beauty, the radiant kindness. Pupils dilate! Knees wobble!
In our class photo: mostly women, darlings — and next to me, the incomparable Gloria Horton-Young and her dazzling wife.
And our weapon, small yet deadly? A smile. And a pause. Which, in the right hands, can stop wars
Dearest E. Jean,
Your planet looks positively celestial with all the stars!
Right now, my planet is called Academia. It looks the same as our planet if everything were made of paper clips. Our chief custom is to correct each other‘s grammar. This occasionally leads to intergalactic war. Other times, it leads to dancing.