I’m done with Undercover Boss. I wish I weren’t. I had high hopes for the show. I assumed that the bosses would kick far more ass than they do. That they would weed out the jerkoffs that torment the rest of us at our jobs and give them the heave-ho.

But what it has turned into is a mawkish affair; where rich guys spend a week with the little people, doing the kinds of things that normal humans do; namely, bust their ass to survive. Most episodes feature an employee with a sick or dead child; and about half have single mothers who drive more than an hour to get to their dead-end jobs. Men cry like babies. Routinely and unashamedly.

The boss then cries and goes back to tell his top management how messed up everything is, while they feign concern. Next is the ta-da! moment when the boss introduces himself to the employees and makes sure that those people are taken care of. I have yet to see an episode where a boss’ revelations change anything institutional—something that could benefit thousands of people. But I have watched three where down-on-their-luck folks get new furniture.

Some people call it “feel-good” but not me. The whole affair sort of bums me out. Like a band-aid on a stadium filled with bleeding people. (No, I’m not seeing a therapist. Why do you ask?) And it speaks to how out-of-touch the bosses really are. What exactly did they think was going on out there in the real world? When they ask for more productivity from fewer people?

I am hoping that after the season, producers come to their senses and offer more beatdown on the office bullies. If there were an hour-long show of that every week, I’d probably get a little emotional myself.

We just had dinner next to an escaped mental patient, and his paramour. I probably throw that term—mental patient— around more than I should. This time, however, it was apt: they were both wearing hospital bracelets and he had a sticker on his shirt, on which “Hello my name is Gary” was crudely written. They were like his-and-hers Boo Radleys.

We were eating in the bar area of Knickerbocker, an older restaurant in our neighborhood. She burst in and pulled off a coat that was some kind of animal fur other than any kind of animal fur worth anything. He looked like the scion of a blowfish and a sleestack.

They quickly began to badger each other. She wanted to order something without French fries and didn’t seem to think that was possible. He was having difficulty comprehending that a waitress who’d previously waited on him no longer worked there. Both appeared slightly deaf and he was also scanning his menu using a small flashlight.

Unfortunately, they were sitting next to the two worst, most shameless eavesdroppers in the world: GG and myself. We are able to carry on a full conversation with each other and, by the time we leave, will have a full download on what was going on with the people next to us.

The difference, and it is an important one, is that I’m discreet. GG less so. Much less so. Tonight she had trouble focusing on me and not her neighbor’s bad dye job and his bulging eyes. I couldn’t get the check fast enough. The last thing I wanted to do was interact with them. Because escaped mental patients are dirty.

But you didn’t hear that from me.

Little by little and piece by piece we are filling in those cracks in our country’s character that were created by eight years of Bush & Cheney and the “I’m okay, so therefore, it’s okay” way of thinking.

Because every time we decide to protect the rights of the voiceless we become a better, stronger country. Every time we run through the soft sand of fearmongering and selfishness and emerge with something inspired—Obama’s election, universal health care—we win, plain and simple.

Passing universal health care legislation was so huge, not just for the people who do not currently have coverage. It also buoys the rest of us, many of who are struggling and yet, who supported it, despite the howls of our more conservative friends and co-workers.

Many of us want to believe that we are a moral nation, that we aren’t just churchgoers, but are living spiritual lives. That we want to preserve dignity and respect and not just when the cameras are rolling.

The Statue of Liberty, a symbol that we all so revere, proclaims, “Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” The statue, it should be noted, is also French.

There’s a story about President Andrew Jackson that has stuck with me since I read Jon Meacham’s excellent biography American Lion last year. In The Battle of New Orleans, which was the penultimate battle of the war of 1812, Jackson’s troops were greatly outnumbered and inexperienced as compared to the polished British war machine, yet with the great general’s leadership, the Americans nevertheless routed the British.

When it was over, Jackson refused to leave a single soldier behind, no matter how mortal his wounds were. He forced his officers to dismount their horses and, when the steeds were loaded up with the wounded, Jackson marched his weary troops hundreds of miles home to Tennessee. Officers shoulder-to-shoulder with enlisted men. Imagine.

Some soldiers perished along the way, but Old Hickory still took them back to their families. That was his moment. His deeds let the world know what kind of country was being built over here. It also propelled him to the presidency.

This legislation was Obama’s moment. Through all of the Republican horcruxes and misinformation and planted hysteria, and those tea-bagged morons hurling racial epithets at Civil Rights heroes, he managed to keep his sails pointed due north, worked the phones, twisted arms and delivered us to a much better place. Together.

You know how I know that? Because Rush Limbaugh says that we are teetering on the brink of collapse. And Sarah Palin says that we have become a socialist state. And Dick Cheney had his 34^th heart attack last night, his sixth in as many days. As a general rule, if two out of the three of those maniacs dislike something, sign me up.

Is this legislation perfect? Please, of course not. It has been watered down and neutered, as always seems to happen. The insurance and drug companies will still have their tethers into us, for as few more years at least. And the Republicans, who bellyached about how the spending would bankrupt the Federal government, still managed to scurry back to their states with government-issued pork, like rats with cheese. And fake tans.

Yet like the election of President Obama himself, it sends a powerful message both to our own citizens and to the rest of the world. We walk it like we talk it. We don’t just say that we preserve the sanctity of life; we actually do it. We don’t just claim to honor the Constitution, and promote equality, we actually live it. We take care of our own.

The United States has become far less hypocritical and far more inspirational, overnight. We’ve lain the cornerstone on the building that will eventually become the shining city on the hill, finally.

That’s what began the other night. Obama declared definitively that nobody wins, unless everybody wins. And he delivered us to a better place. Yes, together.

It was about 2:30 yesterday afternoon when I first met Bella. I was on my terrace planting and replanting and weeding, when I heard a small voice say, “Heeeelllllooooo down there!”

I looked up and saw a boy, no more than 9 or 10, two floors up, sticking his head out of an apartment window, which is about 30 feet above my terrace. He introduced himself as Roman. I had never seen nor heard him before. Apparently, his family was new to that building.

Roman asked me what I was doing. I responded that I was gardening. He seemed satisfied and waved goodbye.

Two seconds later, I saw Bella’s little head pop out of the window. She was about 7 years old. Long dark hair, dark eyes with a mischievous smile.

“Hey, you,” she called to me. “What’s your name?”

“My name’s Tony. What’s yours?”

She answered, “Bella. So what are you doing?”

“I’m gardening, Bella.”

“That’s so funny! Hey, take off your sunglasses. Let me see your whole face.”

Seriously, I felt like I was talking to a 30 year-old. I normally don’t like to talk to kids that I don’t know. Not because I don’t enjoy them, but because small children shouldn’t really be talking to strangers. I qualify as a stranger. But I saw Bella’s mother peeking out another window, checking me out. So, I took off my sunglasses and waved up at her.

She seemed satisfied. “Okay, thanks. So where’s the lady I see with you?”

“That’s Gina. She’s out.”

“Doing what?”

“Something involving shopping.”

“She’s pretty. That your sister?”

“No, my wife.”

She giggled and disappeared.

For the next few hours, while I sweated and toiled while removing all traces of winter, she would periodically poke her head out the window and call down, “What are you still DOING down there, Tony?” She seemed to feel that I was moving too slowly. At one point, GG was also talking to Bella, who had all sorts of questions for us. The thing about kids is they have no problem asking any question, however personal.

At around 7pm, I was smoking a cigar, and Bella popped up asked for GG again. She was out again. Bella then casually observed, “Gina goes out a lot.”

I answered, “I guess so,” a little to defensively for my liking. Having made her point, she said, “Good night!” and disappeared, presumably for dinner or a bath.

Today at noon, I was pruning and heard Bella yelling for her mom to open the window. She emerged firing, “Hey Tony, I hope you enjoyed your evening.”

Such a precocious child. I had, I replied, and asked her what she had been up to since last we spoke. I don’t really speak to children differently than adults, save for the disparaging comments about midgets and, you know, the curse words and all.

“Not much. Do you have babies?”

I replied, “No I don’t have babies.”

“You should have babies. Then you could make them do the gardening for you.”

I started laughing. “That’s a brilliant idea, Bella. How many do you think I need?”

“Five or six,” she estimated. “That would be enough. So where’s Gina?”

“She’s getting her nails done.”

“Is she EVER home?” Bella asked.

“Sometimes,” I said. “She needs her nails done for an event.”

“What’s an event?”

“Like, a party.”

“I like parties,” Bella responded, before evaporating again.

By the time she reappeared, I had almost finished. She had a small spray bottle and was attempting to spray my red maple from above.

“Tony, is this your country house?”

“Bella, this is our only house. It’s just an apartment, though.”

“You should rent a country house,” she advised.

“What’s a good area for a country house?”

“How should I know? I’m a kid! You’re silly. I have to go. I’ll see you soon.” With that she waved goodbye and her mom smiled and closed the window.

I will have a new gardening companion this summer. Of this fact, I had no doubt whatsoever.

I’ve been drinking too much coffee lately. I am saying this aloud, hoping that it somehow gets though my thick skull. I’ve been drinking too much coffee lately. In my world, this constitutes a self-intervention.

I only drink three cups a day, but, in reality, the cups I employ are more like goblets. My rationale, that there is no difference between number and size of the cups, is at once ludicrous and troubling. My fear is that if I continue to lie to myself, it won’t be long before I begin submerging my head in a coffee trough.

I met a friend at a new coffee place called Kaffe1668, which he found on some list of the ten best coffee places in NYC. (Brooklyn doesn’t count. Duh.) It was way down in TriBeCa, filled with out-or-work graphic designers and a large British woman who obviously had some connection to Chris Brown, as she was loudly advising the person on the other end of her cellphone, which was cradled in her paw like a pat of butter, that all he needed to do was sing, and “everything would take care of itself, Chris.” I wasn’t aware that he sung, not even a little bit.

Anyway, when I got up to counter, I was able to choose from among seven or eight kinds of drip coffee, which they ground and brewed fresh per cup.

I felt like I was in an Amsterdam coffeeshop, as I browsed a menu filled with destinations like Durbin, Colombian and other far off lands. I chose the Rwandan for two reasons: 1) it was the most expensive (at $3.68) and therefore the best; and 2) I felt like supporting Rwandan coffee is thumbing my nose at the blood diamond merchants.

That and the guy who worked there said it was the “strongest.” He was just trying to be helpful; he could probably tell that I was jonesing and, at the point in my addiction cycle where I was just looking for the pick-me-up and not the flavor. Even Michael Stipe who was huddled in the corner with such exaggeratedly crossed legs that I thought he was Liza without the drag get-up, seemed bemused. Or maybe that’s just him.

Here’s the scary part: as I gave the coffee guy the thumbs up, indicating that I would be supporting the Rwandan people’s coffee, I noticed my hand was shaking.

Stay tuned. There might be a stepping-down in my near future.

I have quite a few friends from the UK and their views of David Beckham range from annoyance to bemusement to grudging admiration. But quite a few other people, older folks in particular, dislike him.

To them, Beckham isn’t just a footballer; he’s a silly celebrity, one half of the world’s most famous and grating couple, Posh ‘n Becks. (I may be in the minority, but I really like his wife and find her shtick—and it is a shtick, I’m sure of it—to be hilarious.) He may not be hated, but he sure isn’t thought of warmly.

Many of them have never forgiven him for getting tossed in the second round of the 1998 World Cup semi-finals versus England’s archenemies (at least in football) Argentina. The then-enfant terrible was getting battered the entire match before he made a late, petulant tackle out of anger and was tossed. “Ten Heroic Lions and One Stupid Boy” was how the Daily Mail framed it the next day. And that stuck.

But since then, Beckham has redeemed himself with some spectacular set-play and general sportsmanship, and once he left Sir Alex Crypt-Keeper and his Old Trafford mopes, he became infinitely more lovable.

Despite the fact that, at this point in his career, his on-pitch contributions would be as a second-half substitute, he was destined to make the World Cup squad this year, heading to South Africa. That is, until the other day when he tore his Achilles tendon clean in AC Milan’s 1-0 Serie A victory over Chievo Verona.

Eight months of hard rehab await a 34-year-old who has logged more miles than a catalog model’s coke dealer. The realization that his international career was over seemed to hit everyone at once. Becks cradled his head and cried as he was tended to on the sidelines. Even to the casual fan, it was a heartbreaking scene.

And I think I could hear the last of the ice cracking all the way across the pond.

Gossip Girl is a television show that is perfectly engineered to appeal to a 16 year-old girl. It has snobbery, sex, clothing, underage drinking and femmy looking foreign guys. And yet my niece of that age has no interest in watching it, so whenever I call to discuss an episode she ends up steering the conversation to whatever gets her closer to, “Here’s mom.”

As many of you know, I feel that, of all of the characters inhabiting Gossip Girl’s phony version of NYC, the most intriguing is clearly Blair Waldorf—whose pouting insanity is the show’s fulcrum. And yet, it was halfway through Season One, when I realized that the show’s most appealing character was right there under my nose. Or more accurately, about 18 inches south of Serena van der Woodsen’s chin.

Rack van der Woodsen’s versatile performances have become the bedrock of Gossip Girl and I am convinced that, without her appearance at, say the French Ambassador’s dinner or some sort of costume ball that these kids seem to go to every week, the show would die quicker than that story arc involving Georgina as Blair’s roommate.

I managed to catch up with the enigmatic Rack the other day—who’s a twin, no less!—for my first official interview at selectism.com. Get comfortable; this is a good one.

TG: Hey there, Rack.

RvdW: Huh? Wha? How did you get this number?

TG: From your…publicist Amy.

RvdW: Hmmm….oh crap, it’s already 4:30? Okay…well, hello.

TG: You sound like you’re underwater. Where are you?

RvdW: I’m underwater.

TG: Come again?

RvdW: We’re taking a bath. Don’t worry; my Bluetooth is waterproof. I’ve carried a cellphone ever since that stalk….

TG: Yeah, Rack, I only have 200 words. So let’s get to it.

RvdW: 200 words? I’m hanging up now.

TG: Hey, wait a minute…

RvdW: I mean it. 200 words? That moron who plays Nate gets 1,000 on popsugar and I swear to you, I think he really has brain damage.

TG: Rack, so when did you know you were Gossip Girl’s breakout star?

RvdW: It was the episode with the polo match and the script called for Serena to wear that white tank top. Then it rained. After that, I kinda knew that everything was about to change. Off the record, Serena is the most annoyingly vapid character on a show filled with annoying vapid characters, and yet she gets the most screen time.

TG: Interesting. How has your celebrity been received by costars Mini-Rack Waldorf, Chin Bass and Giant Eyeballs Jenny Humphrey.

RvdW: They’ve been okay but…look, I don’t want to create problems here. I saw what happened to Charmed.

TG: Fair enough. So, I’m sure readers want to know: what are your future plans, vis-a-vis a film career?

RvdW: No definitive plans, but I do know this: it will involve nudity.

TG: Do you think what’shername will mind?

RvdW: Are you kidding? You watch the show. Do YOU see any Oscar statues in her future?

TG: She could win Best Use of a Husky Voice to Imply Intelligence award from Wired.

RvdW: Yeah, you’re a real rocket scientist. Anyway, I have to run.

TG: In super slo-mo, of course.

RvdW: Duh.

For as long as I can remember, whenever someone would really irk me, I have tended to do this thing with my index finger, where I simulate pressing a button. Just a tap. It’s always been my way of saying, “I would like to make you go away. And if I could I would.”

Not dead, mind you. Just away. Immediately and, with any luck, incontrovertibly. Tonight, for example, while I fretted about something beyond my control, I watched back-to-back-to-back entertainment shows and I swear to you that my index finger is cramping.

It wasn’t so much the antics of the actors and actresses that were being interviewed, heading in and out of premieres, or offering “exclusives” from their various sets. My expectations for their conduct is so low they would probably have to physically assault me to get me to care.

It’s the hosts of these talk shows, this herd of blathering blondes and shiny, brown-haired boy babes desperately trying to bridge the distance between them and the actors. Like, trying to pretend that they’re friends. As if we care.

First there was Botoxed lioness Mary Hart dry-humping a bemused Sean Penn. Then Chaz Bono lookalike Stephen Cojacaru slobbered all over Sarah Jessica Parker—while her tragic failure of a hairdo (it’s a technical term) was nearly poking him in the forehead saying, “Hey, dummy. Look at me. I’m a train wreck.”

But it goes beyond them. David Patterson, that Saints defender who hit Favre’s knees, Jon Bon Jovi, the lady who clips her nails on the N heading uptown from Union Square.

I wonder if it’s therapeutic. I suspect that it must be. After all, I just tap-tapped about twelve people on that “Lost” (everyone but the fat guy) and I’m smiling.

Last year, during the Academy Awards broadcast, GG called me an unprintable term. Twice. My transgression? I had headphones on, and was unable to hear her commentary on who looked good or, even better, opinions like: “Oh, I hate her. She reminds me someone I hate, I just don’t remember who.” You may be wondering: Why was I wearing headphones during a night where virtually everyone else I know (that is either female or gay) is breathless with anticipation?

Because if there is anything I hate more than actors pretending to be surprised, speechless, touched, wowed and so forth…well, I haven’t found it yet.

I invariably root for the underdog and the underdog invariably loses to somebody who has a better agent and was in a movie with a stronger marketing campaign.

Last year, Mickey Rourke was extraordinary in “The Wrestler.” The role of his lifetime, and he has had some heavyweight performances in his career. He lost out to Sean Penn’s great performance in Milk, but let’s face it: in ten years, people will still be stopping Rourke to mention how amazing he was. Penn? Folks will still be talking about the death reveal scene in Mystic River.

But this year, I promised to eschew the headphones and will instead be tweeting madly, as a way to distract me from the epic phoniness that is taking place onstage.

And if GG calls me something unprintable? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I wouldn’t think of myself a naïve person. I’ve known all sorts of people and seen all manner of behavior. A few times—we’re talking years ago, when I was your age—I found myself in situations that I knew were way beyond unsafe and, you know, not cool. We may have already spoken of them, I’m not sure and have no desire to rifle through my back catalog of award-winning prose to find out.

But I’ve been over-my head, under-the-influence, overseas and ill prepared to deal. Sometimes, when you’re young you get swept along with the tide and haven’t yet found your voice enough to say, “No, I don’t want to buy that machine gun from you and have no desire to make fifty grand for two-hours work. And, by the way, whose effing kid is that?”

I’m sooo joking. That said, today I was in the Cancun airport, still shaking the sand from my hair, when I encountered something that made me say, “what the…?” I went into a pharmacy, across from the gate to buy GG some Advil to go with her orange Fanta. While in there I saw shelves upon shelves of generics of prescription drugs like Vicodin and Zoloft. Sure, there were generics for Propecia and Zantac, but let’s face facts: their best sellers are the mood alterers. By a mile, I’m sure. It was like a TGIJunkies. Yet it was in the airport, 100 feet from a gate that was taking me to NYC, where folks gets their prescriptions the old-fashioned way: by hood-winking doctors.

You stand there, amid the pharmacological possibility, and have that quiet conversation: Am I the kind of person who needs a bottle of bootleg painkillers or depression drugs in my medicine cabinet? Is that where my life is, at this moment?

As a mild hypochondriac (compared to others in my family), I could probably have justified the purchase. Thankfully (and, probably, sadly) I was more enthralled by the acre of antibiotics: Zithromax (kids’ stuff), Levaquin (crazy side effects), Amoxcillin (the Budweiser of antibiotics) and my personal favorite, Biaxin (it could cure a stab wound). They were speaking to me. Antibiotics. Seriously. I know, I’m the brass ring.

Instead, I purchased the Advil, but as I did, I saw a crazy eyed American kid roll in, hand a prescription bottle to the “pharmacist” and ask for a refill. Which, the man behind the counter, virtually indistinguishable from our taxi driver, save for a white lab coat, dutifully filled.

No wonder we are a nation of pill-obsessives. Because all someone needs to do is cross the border to get hooked up. Quack doctors are becoming passé, apparently. It sure sounds like the Mexican government has its priorities straight, especially after it made a big to-do by confiscating, of all things, GG’s orange Fanta.

Know what? I’ve been thinking about that soda ever since.