Mike Novick is back. Hide your heart.
Updated 2002-12-16 16:00:00
Just then, Reza enters and tells PoorMan'sReneeZellweger to come with him. Cate asks him what he told Soul Patch. Reza is all, "The truth." He reminds her that it's Papa Crew's company and that he's the one in charge. Cate accuses him of ratting out Papa Crew to save his own ass. "I have done more for your father than you will never know," says Reza elliptically, and faults Cate for hiring a private detective to dig up dirt on him. Cate points out that there was still dirt to be dug up, and that's Reza's fault. Reza insists that Papa Crew is the one to blame for that. Cate yells at him to stop slandering her father. AnemicBitchFace tells them both to shut up and leaves the room, probably to weigh herself compulsively or pick at imaginary fat rolls in front of the mirror. "Nice work, Cate," says Reza, exiting behind Renee. Cate is left alone in the living room, looking confused and horrified.
NSA. 24 is on a roll. For the third week in a row now, a new favorite from last season is being brought back. First it was Nina, then it was Lady Mac, and this week it's the moment the viewers have really been waiting for: PoorMan'sHumeCronynÂ…or should I say, "The Chief Of My Staff"? Yeah, I'd been doing a lot of thinking about The Silver Fox of 24 this summer. Wondering if and when our paths would really ever cross, and even indulging in fantasies of what it would be like to be truly together. In my dreams, we meet at a retirement community in Boca Raton, Florida. I'm just hanging by the pool, shooting the ***** with the ladies from my bridge club. All of a sudden, I feel the heat of his penetrating gaze from nine deck chairs away. I look around just to make sure it's really me he's giving the eye to. It has to be. I wander away from my group and stand near some bingo tables, suavely pretending to be engrossed in the Golden Girls rerun being shown on the big TV in the rec room. I don't have to wait long. Soon he is by my side. Our arms accidentally brush up against each other, and the hairs on my forearms tingle. A noticeable bulge starts to emerge from inside his sans-a-belt slacks. "You know, you should really be wearing your flip-flops," he says, breaking the ice. "You could get athlete's foot from these carpets." "You're a bad, bad man, Mike Novick," I say, sipping my Cel-Ray soda. "You're going to break my heart." We make love back in his convenience apartment while his wife is out playing canasta and it's a hailstorm of passion. The lust becomes love, sacrifices are made, and soon we escape into the country, running a bed-and-breakfast in the Berkshires and supplementing our income by leading bird-watching tours of the surrounding areas. Most nights, we'd just stay home at our farmhouse. I'd make him his favorite meal -- Jimmy Dean pork sausage patties with a side dish of Green Giant Baby Lima Bean and Niblets Corn Medley -- then we'd sit on the back porch swing and listen to NPR or the crickets, wondering how we ever got through life without each other.