Jack Gray and his father, John Gray, circa 1985.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

I am not a good athlete. The only sport at which I ever showed a modicum of skill while growing up was tennis. And even then I was less concerned about my serve than I was about squeezing in a Marlboro Medium before practice.

It’s not that I didn’t want to be a good athlete. It just wasn’t in the cards. And, frankly, I was fine with that. But my father, intent on instilling in me a commitment to one day put him in a nursing home against his will, insisted I stick with the teams on which he had signed me up behind my back.

There was soccer, which I objected to on the grounds that there wasn’t a snack bar. There was basketball, which discriminated against those of us unnerved by buzzers. And, of course, there was football, an experience that immediately downgraded my father’s twilight years from a mediocre nursing home to one known for its health code violations.

Still, I hung in there, remaining on whatever sponsored-by-the-local-pizza-parlor team I was on until the end of each season. And, as much as I hate to admit it, not every game was awful. Sure, I spent a lot of time on the sidelines, staring at my shoelaces and planning what I’d say when Connie Chung grilled me on the circumstances surrounding my dad’s lawnmower “accident.” But, there was the occasional triumph, like the time I hit a home run in Little League. Let me tell you, it doesn’t get much better than that. It’s a moment that’s stayed with me all these years, not just because I can so clearly recall the thrill of watching the ball sail over the left field fence, but because it was witnessed by my father. Also in attendance at that game was my grandfather, who apparently had a few free minutes in between arguments with the staff at Radio Shack.

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Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

There’s nothing like a hot ride. And my first car was nothing like a hot ride. A 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity station wagon. Baby blue with a generous array of leathery rust spots, it was the vehicular love child of an obese Smurf and Dog the Bounty Hunter.

The car was a gift from my grandfather, for whom it had served the dual purpose of smoking lounge and elderly chick magnet. As with most things – especially his changeover from a black toupee to a white one – my grandfather had impeccable timing, giving me the car at the height of my high school insecurity. Because nothing makes a 16-year-old more self-confident than a battered station wagon manufactured in the previous decade.

That said, I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, or toupee. So I accepted the car just as I had accepted puberty, with profuse gratitude and quiet shame. And to my surprise, even though I would have preferred something red and Italian, The Celeb – as my friends and I called it – would come to serve me well. It was clean, the engine started on cold mornings and the brakes – unless I needed to stop – worked great.

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Cast and crew of 'The Norman Conquests' speak on stage during the 63rd Annual Tony Awards at Radio City Music Hall on June 7, 2009 in New York City.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

The Tony Awards were given out last night here in New York. I boycotted them over the snub of my one-man show,  Nice to Meet You, Now Please Get Out of My Bed.

I’m at a loss, frankly, as to why I was passed over. It’s not like I was a diva. In fact, I went out of my way to encourage audience participation. I don’t care what the critics say, folks in the mezzanine loved those diet pills.

The only reason I can think of – aside from the unpleasantness with that jar of Nutella – for this theatrical injustice is that the Broadway establishment didn’t like my burlesque tribute to Angela Lansbury: “Murder, She Wrote…All Night Long.”

I mean, yes, there were those who raised their eyebrows at my habit of spending intermission arm-wrestling with Kathleen Turner. But those are the same people who criticized the opening line of the show. Which, by the way, I think says less about me than it does about their fear to consider the question: “What would Jennifer Love Hewitt do?”

And sure, 43 minutes of the show were me weeping over a spilled container of body glitter. If you didn’t like it, well, I’m sorry you hate America.

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Larry is featured on a WKAT radio sales sheet from the 1960s.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

I remember the first time I saw Larry King in person. It was the summer of 2004 at the Democratic National Convention in Boston. “Mr. King!” I shouted as I chased him down the hallway and gently placed him in a headlock, “May I have a photo?” Ever the class act, he graciously agreed, though he drew the line when I asked to try on his suspenders.

It was a moment for which I had been waiting my whole life…or at least since my grandparents got cable. While other kids my age were busy developing social skills, I sat wrapped in a quilt watching Larry King interview Elizabeth Taylor and her jewelry.

Afterwards I’d go upstairs to rehearse what I’d say to Larry on the inevitable night when I’d be a guest on his show:

Hi Larry, it’s so good to be here. I love your glasses frames. What’s that? Is it true that I’m having an affair with Shannen Doherty? Now, Larry, you know better than to ask about my love life. How about we just take some calls?

During the commercial breaks Larry and I would relax because, of course, we were buddies off-camera. We’d smoke cigarettes and talk about our mutual friends like Jon Bon Jovi and Florence Henderson.

It was a golden age.

Fast forward to 2009 and I’m still in awe of Larry King. It’s cliché to say he’s an icon, but he is. The memorable moments are too many to count. Interviews with the biggest stars, debates among the most important politicians. And, of course, that time he made out with Marlon Brando.

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Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

All this talk about President Obama’s commencement speeches has gotten me a little bummed out. Sure, cable news producers aren’t exactly A-list speakers, but I’m still disappointed that not even one college invited me to deliver my inspirational address, “It’s All Downhill From Here.”

So, I thought I’d share with you – you being Anderson Cooper’s pet Komodo Dragon, Debbie – what I had hoped to share with the Class of 2009:

Good morning Class of 2009. It’s an honor to be here at (insert name of unaccredited plastic surgery medical school and/or halfway house). Never in a million years did I think I’d be awarded a doctorate, especially one printed on such lovely scented paper. But today isn’t about my degree or the pharmacist who is now obligated to fill those prescriptions I’ve been calling in for myself.

It’s about you.

You, who have proven that hard work and perseverance do indeed pay off. You, who exemplify the notion that education is the key to success. You, who will end up defaulting on your student loans to support your addiction to body glitter.

Indeed, today is a happy day. And you have much of which to be proud. But as joyous an occasion as this is, let’s not forget that these are challenging times for college graduates. The economy is in tough shape. Jobs are scarce. You know it, I know it, Kim Kardashian knows it.

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Director Francis Ford Coppola traveled to Cannes to unveil his new film Tetro.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

You’ll excuse me if I get teary when someone mentions this year’s Cannes Film Festival. Even though my career as a Hollywood leading man is long over, I still yearn for those carefree days on the French Riviera, watching Gene Hackman exfoliate his knuckles while Sophia Loren hand-fed me Twizzlers.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I was part of that whole scene. I think my last trip to Cannes was when I was promoting the buddy western I had just made with Linda Evangelista, “Is That a Honda Accord in Your Garage or Are You Just Happy to See Me?”

It was a wonderful trip, aside from that one small incident on the red carpet. But, in hindsight, who among us hasn’t accidentally given Kathy Bates an open-mouth kiss?

As with the Oscars, we see coverage of Cannes on television, but it’s really not the same as being there. The glittering jewelry, the well-coiffed hair, the flowing ball gowns. And that’s just Steven Seagal.

And, of course, it goes without saying that one does not go to the festival merely for the film screenings. There’s plenty of fun-in-the-sun to be had on the beach and – if the mood should strike you – in the Applebee’s parking lot.

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Miss California USA Carrie Prejean may lose her crown, a decision to be made by pageant owner Donald Trump.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

I don’t know much about beauty pageants. All I know is that if I were ever in one I would begin all my answers with “Well, Mario Lopez, as they say on General Hospital…” and end them with “…in conclusion, in no way am I in favor of world peace.”

My lack of knowledge notwithstanding, I am aware that today is a pivotal day in the controversy over Miss California USA, a woman by the name of Carrie Prejean. If you don’t know the story by now, well, consider yourself lucky and go back to watching your DVDs of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman.

The rest of you have probably heard that Donald Trump – employer of newly crowned Celebrity Apprentice winner Joan Rivers (and her face) and himself an inspiration to millions of college students majoring in Beauty Pageant Ownership – announced today that Miss Prejean will keep her title. As always, for in-depth analysis of scandals involving nude pictures and fake breasts, I refer you to my colleagues at PBS.

By the way, yes, I’ve heard the rumors that Miss Prejean was or is dating Olympic gold-medalist Michael Phelps. Mr. Phelps has reportedly denied those rumors, although if true they would explain my hunch that Miss Prejean’s position on same-sex marriage has changed: She now supports it, provided both parties are stoned.

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Jack's mom, Maria Papaioanou Gray.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

Michelle Obama says her most important job is that of Mom-in-Chief. I can’t imagine anyone would disagree with her. George Washington once said, “All I am I owe to my mother.” The same is true for me. No one has had more of an impact on my life than my mother. Except for perhaps the good people at Hostess Powdered Donettes.

To know my mother – her name is Maria, cue the song from West Side Story – is to love her. Smart, funny, beautiful, the list of her attributes goes on and on. At least it will until she pays off my credit card.

It’s a bittersweet thing to consider, one’s relationship with a parent. My mother is the person who tucked me in at night, cut the crusts off my sandwiches and taught me that stealing candy bars is wrong. But enough about her visit to New York last week.

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Actors in the new Star Trek movie, which opens this weekend.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

So apparently there’s a Star Trek movie opening this weekend. I know this not because I’m a fan of the franchise, but because Lou Dobbs keeps giving me the Vulcan salute.

Now, I’ll level with you, I’ve never actually seen an entire episode of Star Trek. Not the original. Not Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not even Star Trek Saves Christmas.

All I know is what I’ve pieced together by flipping through the channels in between Ron Popeil infomercials. From what I’ve gathered, the whole thing was based around a group of guys – Captain Kirk, Scotty, and Spock – who met at Gamblers Anonymous and later moved into a spaceship/meth lab.

Now, just because I’ve never seen an episode or any of the movies doesn’t mean that I have anything against Star Trek. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, quality television begins and ends with two words: William Shatner. Hell, I named my guinea pig T.J. Hooker. Sure, he died of malnutrition but that’s beside the point. I’ve just always had a tough time wrapping my mind around science fiction characters. Which explains my aversion to the cast of MTV’s The Hills.

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Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

I’m a little disappointed, frankly, that Supreme Court Justice David Souter didn’t tell me personally about his retirement. I mean, come on, our families go way back: My grandmother once saw him in the grocery store.

Oh well, I’m more of a Justice Stephen Breyer fan anyway. I remember several years ago when I spent an afternoon at Justice Breyer’s home in Massachusetts. It was similar to the afternoon I recently spent on Lady Gaga’s roof, except I had been invited.

No, I wasn’t at his house to pitch my idea for a Supreme Court musical.  Antonin Scalia dance numbers? Yes, please. I was there producing a rare sit-down interview with the justice. And by producing I mean sniffing his furniture and stealing his ties.

The whole thing was surreal to say the least. To be in the home of one of the most powerful people in America left me almost speechless. It was like meeting Fabio all over again.

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