I know some people do drugs to escape some of the harsher realities of life, but I never got into them beyond the occasional glass of red wine, which is really quite good for you. I manage the escape anyway, only tuning back in occasionally to see if a sanctimonious chimpanzee still has our nuclear launch codes.

He does? Oh dear.

I suppose the secret is that I get distracted easily. I probably watched too much television as a child, or did anyone see the “Judge Judy” this week where the musician guy was suing the student journalist for libel for writing that he used marijuana? Judge Judy sent him out to get a hair follicle test, and it was supposed to be continued the next day, but TiVo was too busy taping “Sex and the City” or something, so I totally missed the results.

Sanctimonious chimpanzee? Yes? Drat.

Anyway, the problem is that I sometimes tune out during the good stuff, too. Take Thursday night, for example. Please. Ha ha. No, seriously, Thursday night was lovely, my anniversary. Our anniversary, I should say. It takes two to make an anniversary. Except in that fabulous movie starring Bette Davis called “The Anniversary,” which is about the funniest thing going. I have a framed poster for that film on my living room wall, which my friend James gave me last year. I mean, he gave me the poster, not the living room wall. I already had a living room wall.

The chimp? Aw hell.

Okay, I think we were on Thursday. We went to see “Little Shop of Horrors” on Broadway again because our friend Jonathan, who is the understudy for the main character, Seymour, went on for the first time. He was really quite brilliant in the role, and we agreed that he was more enjoyable than Thurgood Marshall, or whatever his name is, the guy who plays it most of the time. The funny part was—and I think this may be my point, although I’m not entirely sure—I kept forgetting that was Jonathan up there, the star of the show. Every few minutes, it would occur to me, and I’d get a little shiver of pride. During the curtain call, he got a special standing ovation, and I started crying because I knew that, right at that moment, I was seeing a person’s dream come true, and that person is my friend.

Lovely.

After the show, Rob and I had a late anniversary dinner in the theater district. Before the meal came, Rob, who was facing out into the dining room, said something like, “Ann Coulter just came in.”

“She did not,” I said.

“It looks just like her,” he said.

“Does she have an Adam’s apple?” I said.

“I think so,” he said.

A-ha! Immediately, I started looking for something I could throw at her. Bread? Wine? Silverware? My shoe? Should I throw it from across the room, or should I approach her and pretend to be a fan until I could sock it to her?

Then I discovered it wasn’t Ann Coulter after all, but she did resemble her, that poor woman. I once worked with a woman who was the spitting image of Minnie Driver, who I think is lovely, but she hated the comparison. My coworker, that is, not Minnie Driver, who as far as I know was not consulted. She, my coworker, said, “My husband thinks Minnie Driver is ugly.” I, on the other hand, think Ann Coulter is ugly. Or, at least, her hateful soul would be. If she had one.

Chimpy? Oh for chrissakes, something really has to be done.