Friday night's "Real Time With Bill Maher" featured a panel discussion on health care reform. Maher and the guests broke down what the Democrats need to do pass the bill, including the potential use of reconciliation. Getting fed up, Maher make it clear: "If they can't get this through right now, then they're NBC. They're are joke."


WATCH:

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ose Gonzalez was asleep when he got a phone call from a friend at 1 a.m. this morning telling him that Chile had just been struck by a massive earthquake.

For the next seven hours, Gonzalez, Chicago's consul general of Chile, tried to quell his fears about his four adult children in Santiago, whom he had been unable to reach. He did this while offering whatever information he could to concerned Chileans in Chicago by phone, Facebook and Twitter.

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One of my favorite museums in the world is the Frick Collection in New York--and I am a museum junkie. A lavish early 20th-century mansion built by industrialist Henry Clay Frick to house his priceless art collection, The Frick is also one of the most beautiful. My mother, a former art teacher who honed her craft growing up in the immigrant tenements of the Lower East Side, and I pay an almost annual pilgrimage. Strolling through the ornate rooms, we're treated to El Greco, Ingres, Rembrandt, Renoir, Monet, and Goya. For an $18 entrance fee, I tell everyone I know who visits New York that the gilded tranquility of The Frick is one of the most soothing experiences one can have in this city.

So it was to much excitement that on February 25, I attended the annual Young Fellows Ball, an evening to support The Frick's many free art education initiatives, targeting schools and art enthusiasts of any age. This year's The Diamond Deco Ball theme honored the 75th anniversary of the opening of The Frick Collection to the public. In 1935, the luminaries of the day--Charles Lindbergh and his wife, Astors, Carnegies, Mellons, Rockefellers, Strauses, Sulzbergers, Vanderbilts--feted around the same indoor fountain and garden as Thursday's vibrant, bedazzled crowd. The sparkling, flowing gowns made one's head spin as did the great show from the men who sported sharply cut tuxes. There was the occasional top hat, from men and women. I especially adored the sparkling turban of Elisabeth Saint-Amand, one of the evening's organizers.

I cannot tell you the sensation of looking all fancy in front of breathtaking works of art. It's such a nice change from the usual jeans or whatever uniform of museum-going. It's as though you can actually hold a candle, almost, to the priceless works on display.

The highlights of my evening included indulging in the incredible food, which varied from American sturgeon caviar to classic pigs in a blanket; spotting Blackstone founder Steve Schwarzman; getting "adopted" by a gorgeous group of gentleman; and dancing to the Ting Tings--spun by Lit regulars Harley Viera Newton and Cassie Coane--in front of a David.

The evening raised $235,000 for the Education Program of The Frick Collection. For a look at the gowns, paintings, and the hot turban, check out photographer Stephen Kosloff's new website, LaunchStalker.com.

C'est moi! (Photo by Stephen Kosloff)

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The prediction of 2010 is that States will become much more integral to governance, management and rebuilding the economy.

Go figure! Who would have thought that the rhetoric of the Tea Party loonies would be laden with gems? Those spin doctors have always been better than ours. So why not hijack "their" rhetoric, strip away the absurdities, create NEW "hybrid" State and Federal programs, and make it the new Democratic message? Borrow from their spin doctors and use it for good! We can do this because we need good solid social programs that retrain the work force. We need jobs. We need affordable health care. We need local finance -- like community banking. We need incentives for companies that retool workers for the new economy. We need to give control back to the PEOPLE who can reclaim their dignity through their day-to-day lives.

And we all know that the system is broken at the national level just watch the squabbling going on in Congress. We also know that disproportionate monies are extracted from the large voting states leaving them bereft with broken roads, broken schools and broken dreams. Why should Senators from miniscule states in Podunk determine the future for the majority of folks that vote? Kibosh the nudniks, and take away their Pork Barrel spending that comes off the backs of the bigger, and more densely populated states. It is time to say NO!

This is pretty cool, and it seems that even our President may be onto it. At the televised Health Care Summit, he made a big, bold move to co-opt many of the most conservative Senators as he engaged them in a dialogue about State run health care exchanges to level the playing field on health care insurance premiums. Who would have thought that he would commend the likes of Senator Tom Coburn? Well he did while he silenced others with a stare. Aha, if he keeps this up he may win big time by installing a "hybrid" of Federal legislation mixed with State run solutions for health care reform.

OMG, he may have found the magic elixir to squash the discontent pervading the psyche of the people. Who would have thought that the secret mission of the right wingers could bring it home! If the President and his minions do not stumble, fall or fight with one another because they can, this may be the very strategy that is the hope of rebuilding America. Admittedly, this is not a plea for succession from the Union by the big states that take their toys and go home; rather it is a plan to revitalize a broken system that has gotten too "big' and is failing. Consider this breed of "hybrid" solutions that are not made by Toyota or Honda.

This is the first of a series of articles on "hybrid" solutions that harness the power of the States with a mix of Federal legislation.

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Broadway ironies abound at the Duke on 42nd Street, where Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, presented by the Theatre for a New Audience, is playing until March 14, 2010.

One of its stars, Elisabeth Waterston, is truly splendid in the role of Isabella, who, like Portia in The Merchant of Venice, makes the case that Shakespeare may have wished to "kill all the lawyers," but apparently he also believed that if one's life is on the line it's better to have a merciful woman as an advocate than a rigidly by-the-book man. In seeking to spare her brother, Isabella calls for justice, but in the end stands not for judgment but rather forgiveness and mercy.

The judges who occupy 60 and 100 Centre Street here in New York City, mostly men, rarely reach such decisions.

Shakespearean scholars can debate whether Measure for Measure introduces the need for the rule of law or rather highlights its limitations. In the meantime, this superb production at the Duke offers many fine moments in a setting that couldn't be more geographically appropriate. Much of the play conjures the brothels of old Vienna with its seediness and sordid crime. It wasn't too long ago, however, that 42nd Street itself was home to vagrants, junkies, and prostitutes--a red-light district flickering in the darkened shadows of Times Square--before Disney replaced the homeless with The Lion King.

And for rambunctious New Yorkers who have a sweet spot for crusading prosecutors, and even those who question whether Foley Square is the proper place to try 9/11 mastermind Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, Measure for Measure raises the question of what is justice in a world where rules are often arbitrarily applied and abused. After all, this city (and state and country, for that matter) is no stranger to men who purport to live lives of honor and virtue and end up indicted, or publicly humiliated, for assorted crimes they zealously once condemned. (Think governors Sanford, Spitzer, and now Paterson.)

The reasons never end to cast doubt on the moral hypocrisy of failed human beings standing in judgment of those equally flawed. The leap of faith in the service of God seems a safer bet than the far more daring leap that is required believing in the virtue of man.

And the play, which takes its title from the biblical injunction of an "eye for an eye" and a "tooth for a tooth," where justice demands fair and exacting payment--measure for measure, no more and no less--leaves us all wondering: What is the correct measure of compensation--the debt to be redeemed, the payback undeniably owed--after 9/11? Could Shakespeare's characters convince the widows, orphans and adults who became childless on the day the World Trade Center collapsed that revenge is not the proper to measurement of their loss?

As for children, this production of Measure for Measure is a poignant reminder that Elisabeth Waterston, in the role of Isabella, was cast neither against type nor family. Her famous father, Sam Waterston, America's beloved fictional New York Executive Assistant District Attorney (now District Attorney), Jack McCoy, has, for over 15 years, come to symbolize what the law in Law & Order means.

Like father like daughter, even in their fictional guises: Law & Order's McCoy, ruthlessly fixated on seeing that justice is done; his Shakespearean daughter and true namesake, Isabella from Measure for Measure, passionately aware of injustice, and yet willing to give even the monsters a second chance.

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QUESTION

Dear Irene:

I am in my mid-thirties and have always made and had easy friendships. People really like me and I like them and being liked. All would be well except that I harbor a very strong and miserable envious streak. I cannot bear to see my friends be happy in their romantic relationships. This is the case no matter what my own romantic situation is at the time. It is no less painful for me to see them in love when I'm in a happy and loving relationship than it is when I am completely alone.

The very fact that they have "someone" eats me up inside. I find reasons to fight with my friends or be overly critical. I give them advice designed specifically to screw up their relationships. But, because I have such a strong history of being a "good" friend, no one would ever suspect my real motives.

I hate this about myself. I am a spiritual, introspective person. But when this envy problem flares up, I feel like a very mean child. Any insight or suggestions would be very welcome. Please know I am sincerely troubled by this condition. I love my friends and hate being this miserable person who wishes the worst for them.

Signed,
Donna

ANSWER

Dear Donna:

It's natural for even a very good friend to feel envious once in a while when a friend has something she doesn't. For example, a woman might wish she had one friend's good figure or another's quick sense of humor. But these are usually passing feelings that recede in the background because there is an overall sense of balance in the relationship. A friend may have some qualities or characteristics you admire and wish you had, and vice versa.

Because, the envy you describe seems to rear its head repeatedly and isn't specific to any one friend or situation, you need to consider the possibility that it stems from your own feelings of possessiveness and insecurity. Why else would you be wishing ill will for people you consider friends?

I must say that your problem is somewhat unusual because it's obvious from your note that you are very uncomfortable, even self-loathing, about feeling the way you do. Someone can't feel good about wishing the worst for her friends. Also, you have to feel ashamed, especially, about acting on your feelings by fighting, being critical, and purposely giving friends bad advice.

What doesn't make sense to me is how your friends can overlook this rather fatal flaw in your ability to be a good friend. I believe that it is more transparent than you realize and that it lessens the intimacy of your relationships. Close friendships are built on trust, honesty and respect.

If you want to salvage your existing friendships or develop new ones that are mutually satisfying, you need to change your behavior. The fact that you have some insight and are able to admit your peccadilloes to yourself and to me suggests there is hope for you to do so.

You might benefit from speaking to someone you trust----perhaps a counselor or mental health professional----to explore what's going on and find out what's making someone who isn't ordinarily a bad person act in ways that are destructive to her and to others.

I hope this is helpful.

Best,
Irene

The Friendship Doctor will be speaking at the Westport Library on Monday, March 8th at 7:30PM and at the Mount Kisco Library on Saturday, March 13th at 1PM. Come meet Dr. Levine and hear her speak about friendship. More info here.

Have a question about female friendships? Send it to The Friendship Doctor.

Irene S. Levine, PhD is a freelance journalist and author. She holds an appointment as a professor of psychiatry at the New York University School of Medicine. Her new book about female friendships, Best Friends Forever: Surviving a Breakup with Your Best Friend, was recently published by Overlook Press. She also blogs about female friendships at The Friendship Blog and at PsychologyToday.com.

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Recently, I was reading in one of the entertainment rags that in 2009, Steven Spielberg was paid $50 million dollars by Universal for theme-park royalties based on his movies. It made me wonder if Steve (as I like to call him) might be interested in designing a ride based on my life.

About a month ago, something happened to me that I wasn't really expecting. I was struck with a very real bout of despair. I'm not talking about the to-be-expected mood swings that come along with being in the entertainment business. I'm talking about an uncontrollable freefall into the ninth circle of hopeless hell.

I'd just come back from visiting my oddball family, which to be honest, can sometimes put me in a vulnerable place. Dropping my luggage just inside the door, I gathered up my unopened mail and began to sort through it. Among the restaurant menus and union magazines that I never read, were two unexpected bills. I supposed "unexpected" is the wrong word, in that I knew they would be arriving at some point, but I didn't think they'd arrive on the same day. And I didn't realize just how frighteningly huge they would be. 2009, although very fulfilling in a number of ways, hadn't exactly been a banner year in the money department. As I stared at these two ginormous invoices, both of which were marked "due on receipt," I had absolutely no idea how I was going to pay them.

In order to avoid a panic attack, I did what I always do -- I applied a nice thick layer of denial over the whole situation. "Oh, it'll all work out," I heard myself say as I tossed the offending bills on the dining room table, but something about the statement sounded hollow and unconvincing. A cloud began to form over my head and for the next two days, I couldn't shake it. Then midweek, as I sat at my desk, eating a chicken salad sandwich, the earth opened up without warning and I tumbled into the abyss. There was no denying it. I had failed.

Just a few hours before, I had been a working artist. Not famous. No genius, but clever enough to make a living in Hollywood and remain vaguely optimistic about my future. Now suddenly, I was a middle-aged flop. What had happened? Instantly, my mind went leapfrogging backward to my early days when all I wanted in the world was Timothy Hutton's career. He'd just won the Oscar for "Ordinary People," playing the same kind of sensitive troubled young man I knew I was born to play. And why hadn't I been cast in "Mask" instead of Eric Stolz? I was really good in that audition. They'd said so! Surely, if I'd gotten that part, I'd have lots of money now. Plus I'd know Cher.

Having opened the wound, I couldn't stop pouring on the salt. Why hadn't I moved to L.A. when I was still young and cute? Why had I clung to that stupid New York actor dream for so long? Or maybe I should never have left New York in the first place! Who knows? By now I might have been a big deal Tony-winner (like my friend Julie White). The slide continued into the following day. Why hadn't I signed with Agency A instead of Agency B? Why had that guy I used paint apartments with become an A-List writer instead of me? How come my former neighbor was now a gigantic film star and I couldn't even get a lousy audition for one of her movies? Maybe I should have had children. They'd be young adults by now and could support me. And why hadn't I won a fucking Emmy for "Boston Legal?" They give out a truckload of those things every year! They couldn't spare one? Suddenly, I was neck-deep in that awful feeling I'd when I was a kid and it was time to "choose up teams" in gym class. Bespectacled and utterly un-athletic, I was always the last to be picked. Here I was again, standing against the wall. The last to be picked. What the hell had happened to me? What had gone wrong?

Clearly, it was time to take action. I might not have enough money to pay my bills, but I sure as hell had enough to purchase a pint of Häagen-Dazs, a bag of Cheetos and a pack of American Spirits. As we all know, bad behavior never solved anything, but sometimes it can provide the perfect string section for the symphony of despair. As I sat watching a rerun of a talk show -- that I'd already seen - at one o'clock in the morning -- I tried to desperately to scrape up some forgiveness. Yes, it had been rugged lately. I'm not a born juggler. It doesn't come naturally to me, but over time, I've learned to keep tap dancing; to keep tossing pebbles at the palace windows until somebody opens the latch and screams, "Okay, you can come in for a minute." But on this particular evening -- at one o'clock in the morning -- covered in Cheeto crumbs, I felt like I'd run out of tricks. There are worse things than failing, I told myself. I didn't have cancer. I wasn't living in a cardboard box (yet). Many people I knew were struggling. Maybe I could have a garage sale. Maybe everything would look better in the morning.

It didn't. That is until the mail came and there, in among the flyers for shows I have no intention of seeing and offers to sink myself further into debt, was one extremely large royalty check for a play I wrote almost twenty years ago. I had virtually forgotten that the play even existed, much less that it was still being performed somewhere out there in the hinterlands. But happily, the play had not forgotten me. Suddenly, things weren't so bad. That sad, broken, hopeless wretch who hadn't showered in two days was quickly replaced by a still energetic guy who might have a few more tricks up his sleeve. I was fine. Better than fine. I was a show business professional.

Funny how dreams never really die. Thirty years after having bought my first ticket on this ride, I still like it. Every time the car whips around the track at breakneck speed, forcing my stomach into my throat, I swear that I'll never get on it again, but I always do. I haven't been near a real roller coaster in more than a decade, but I still remember that dizzying sensation when you are hurtling down toward what feels like certain death, only to be jerked up and out of harm's way at the last possible second. I always loved that moment of salvation, but my favorite part was what came next; that long slow climb back up the tracks as your heart fills with anticipation. Up you go, while anything resembling the earth slips from your peripheral vision. You can still hear the music and the crowd, but they are so far below you. All you can see is big blue sky. And you just keep getting closer and closer.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor ("Boston Legal") and screenwriter ("Kingdom Come") who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn