And here we go:
Please Let It Rain–So there was this show on a now-defunct network UPN called Marker that starred Richard Grieco. A while ago I wrote about when repulsive becomes sexy–Alex Ovechkin–and how scary that is. Scarier still is when sexy becomes repulsive, a’la Richard Grieco. What happened to the hot young Italian stud who came onto 21 Jump Street as Detective Dennis Booker to start Johnny Depp quaking in his boots? He got his own spin-off, landed maybe two commercial movies that bombed and then became a punchline. The first RG moment that started to tip the scales in favor of repulsive was when he went on to the Arsenio Hall show and admitted he wrote poetry. Arsenio asked for a sample and Richard went on to recite in its entirety a cautionary poem entitled Child of Hollywood like he was delivering the next Gettysburg Address or MLK’s I Have a Dream speech. Arsenio sat stone faced, mustering up a response akin to “Yeah, yeah, dude that was good, I’m feelin’ that” when Richard finished. No. Not feeling it. The next chink in the sexy armor came when he posed for Playgirl, unbuttoning his jeans and twisting his face into various I’m About to Come expressions. The interviewer asked him the craziest place he’d ever had sex. He said he had a girl ride him in his seat at a Van Halen concert. Ick. But the final whack of the Ginsu on any remaining shred of sexiness came when he decided to sing on Marker. Clad in jeans and a shiny satin red jacket (open to reveal no shirt, just some smooth moobs and a little hubbage), red faced and sweating, he bent over like he was battling an oncoming hernia as he tried to belt out some rocker tune entitled “Please Let it Rain.” Arty Party and I taped it and watched it over and over again, mimicking RG’s voice and moves, laughing ourselves to the point of vomiting. SO . . .
Fast forward about four years. AP and I are working on the boardwalk in Wildwood because she wanted to be near Tommy for the summer and I am the obliging wing(wo)man. This particular night is threatening to thunderstorm, it’s windy and miserable, hot and sweltering, the cheap owners won’t put on the air, we haven’t seen a real customer in about two hours, we’ve been working since noon nonstop, it’s now close to eight and the owner won’t let anyone go home because all the rides are still open and we just might get a rush at midnight even though the boardwalk is empty. The only thing that will close the rides? Rain. About eight-thirty we start to get a light sprinkle. Not good enough. The owner refuses to close. Thunder booms. AP stands in the middle of the restaurant and, doing the best Grieco imitation I’ve ever seen (she can pull it out when it matters) shouts out with some slick bend-overs and fist pumps, “Puh-leez let it rain!” I nearly collpase on the floor with laughter, then with glee as the sky suddenly opens up and–yes–rains. The restaurant closes at nine. The owner isn’t too pleased with either of us, but we are in fine spirits. Thanks, Richard Grieco, for such a marvelous rain dance. So now, when you don’t want to be somewhere or do something, express your discontent be declaring “Please let it rain” as if you’re trying to shoot one into the toilet bowl. Works every time.