Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

It was around the time that I explained why I was going to Los Angeles – "Soleil Moon Frye invited me to a Twitter conference at The Kodak Theatre"  – that my friends’ heads exploded. It was as if I had never before flown cross-country to discuss social media with a TV icon at a Hollywood landmark. They had completely forgotten about that night outside Whisky A Go Go and the woman I thought was Alan Alda.

Nevertheless, I’m thrilled to be in L.A., a city I visit far too seldom. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed its palm trees and Kardashians.

Frankly, the reason I don’t come to Los Angeles more often is that I have a slight to moderate fear of flying. Luckily, on my flight out, I was distracted by the gentleman next to me; a man who – for reasons known only to his grocer and/or therapist – kept fiddling with a variety of deli meats.

Transcontinental salami aside; it has so far been a great trip. The only caveat is that I’m nervous about this afternoon. That’s when I’ll be joining Ms. Moon Frye (call her Punky Brewster and she’ll cut you) and businesswoman/writer Jane Buckingham (she’ll hold you down while Punky cuts you) for a panel discussion of Twitter. Hardly a seasoned public speaker, I have no idea what to expect of myself. I suppose I should just play it safe and stick to religion and politics.

Of course, our panel discussion is just one of many over the course of the two-day 140 Conference. And while it and the fake Oscar acceptance speech I may or may not attempt to deliver before being ripped from the stage are stressing me out, it’s nothing compared to the anxiety I feel knowing that my boss, CNN/U.S. President Jon Klein, will be there. In. The. Same. Room. Watching. Me. Speak.

Mr. Klein (@JonKleinCNN) is participating in a separate panel discussion later today. I’d like to be the first to say he was amazing and way better than me.

Regardless of my contribution to the conference – whether it be refreshing insight or backstage dry heaves – it should be a fascinating event. Soleil (@MoonFrye) and Jane (@Jane_Buckingham) are incredible people and I’m humbled to be participating alongside them. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that my friend Mariel Hemingway (@MarielHemingway) is speaking at tomorrow’s session. Wise and beautiful, Mariel never loses her temper when I call in the middle of the night quoting For Whom the Bell Tolls.

As for my friends, for whom the idea of people wanting to read my tweets is second in insanity only to the idea of people wanting to hear me talk about them…well, I’m confident they’ll come around.

140 characters at a time.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgrayCNN.

Jack Gray
AC360° Writer/Producer

Good evening and welcome to the AC360° Emmy Awards Live Blog. The winners, the losers, possible Kanye West interruptions…we’ve got your running commentary. And sure, considering all that’s going on in the world, the Emmys aren’t hugely important. But if you’re looking to get away from the bleak news-of-the-day for a few hours, then this blog is the place for you.

As for my qualifications to moderate this blog, well, I once saw Angela Lansbury in the grocery store.

We should point out that we’re not encouraging you to change the channel from CNN, but if you’re going to watch the Emmy Awards anyway, you might as well watch them with us.

And even if you’re not watching them, we think you’ll still enjoy the live blog. I’ll be with you from 8:00pm Eastern Time until the Emmys finish airing.

If you would like to participate in our Live Blog (and we hope you do) please follow our rules.

Here are some of them:

1) Please keep your comments short
2) Don’t write in ALL CAPS (we don’t like screaming)
3) Use your real name

Please note that due to volume we may not be able to post all comments.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @JackGrayCNN

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

In a way, I now realize, I have always subconsciously considered Ted Kennedy to be immortal. I remember the first time I saw him in person. It was the summer of 1994 and I was at the Yankee Homecoming Parade in Newburyport, Massachusetts, a few miles from where I grew up.

The senator was at the time locked in a tough re-election bid against a little-known businessman named Mitt Romney. From my perch on the sidewalk I heard the crowd down the street start to cheer. And then I saw him. The famous face, the wavy hair, the stylish polo shirt. And then I heard the voice – that inimitable sound.

He bounded down the street with his beautiful new wife Vicki in tow, shaking hands and greeting the crowds in that uniquely Kennedy way. For a teenage news junkie like me, shaking the hand of the man whom I had read about and watched on television for my entire life was a thrill beyond words. He was one of the original political rock stars.

I would come to meet Senator Kennedy a half dozen or so times in the years between then and now, some because of my former job as a television news producer in Boston, others by chance. There was the time I was walking through Boston’s Back Bay with my mother and sister and we came upon the senator standing alone on the sidewalk outside his townhouse, soaking up the sun, waiting for his wife to join him.

He was, as always, incredibly gracious when we stopped to talk with him for a few minutes. He and Vicki were headed, he said, to one of his nephews’ soccer games. For the lone surviving son of Rose and Joseph Kennedy, family always came first. He would often arrive at interviews with a super-sized Kennedy entourage: his wife, his in-laws, his nephews, even his two Portuguese Water Dogs, Sunny and Splash.

For Massachusetts and the nation, he was a constant – there in the good times and the bad. My friend and mentor, the veteran Boston television anchor Chet Curtis, vividly recalls the moment in 1963 when as a young reporter in the Senate gallery he witnessed a staffer rush to Kennedy’s side and say, “Senator, your brother the president has been shot.” Three days later my grandparents and parents watched from Massachusetts as he marched behind his brother’s casket in Washington.

Five years after that they hung on every word as he eulogized his other brother in New York. And in 1980 the country watched as he unsuccessfully challenged President Carter for the Democratic nomination – a challenge that culminated with Kennedy’s stirring “Dream Shall Never Die” convention speech.

The Kennedys may belong to the nation, but Massachusetts natives have always felt that we have first dibs. The family that has been a fixture on the national landscape has been even more of a fixture on our local landscape – Senator Kennedy chief among them. We watched as he sailed with Jackie Onassis and her children on Nantucket Sound. We knew each year he would make a special appearance with his aging mother on the Hyannisport porch to celebrate her birthday. We saw him climb into a waiting Coast Guard helicopter when his nephew, John F. Kennedy, Jr., went missing in 1999.

We got chills, as a fellow intern and I admitted to each other in the summer of 2000, when he walked onto the Democratic National Convention stage to the Orleans hit, “You’re Still the One.” And perhaps my fondest personal memory: handing him a big piece of cake decorated with an American flag when he celebrated his 74th birthday.

The last time I saw Senator Kennedy in person was at the 2008 Democratic National Convention in Denver. Though weakened by his illness, he nevertheless brought the house down. It was a moment I will never forget.

Ted Kennedy was, of course, not everyone’s cup of tea… or chowder, as he would probably prefer it be described. Indeed, he had his flaws. But even his harshest critics will acknowledge he was a tireless and effective senator for the people of Massachusetts.

Perhaps to no issue was he more dedicated than health care. Today Massachusetts is reeling from the news that Ted Kennedy’s fight for health care has come to an end.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @JackGrayCNN.

Jack's dog, Sammy, on the west side of Manhattan

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

My dog is snoring. It is, as far as I’m concerned, one of the sweetest sounds in the world. Especially considering the alternative – a duo of pub-goers on the sidewalk below my window pondering that age-old question, “Why aren’t you wearing underwear?”

At a time when the future of health care seems more uncertain than ever, it’s worth pointing out that a dog snoring is not just among life's more pleasant sounds but among its healthiest, too. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention say that having a pet can reduce blood pressure, cholesterol and feelings of loneliness. Unless, of course, your dog runs away, in which case the loneliness thing becomes a bit of a gray area.

My canine health care comes in the form of a Labrador Retriever named Sammy, whose birthday is today. Ah, Sammy – the center of my world, the odor of my studio apartment. I can’t believe she’s already 5-years-old. It seems like only yesterday that I picked her out of a squirmy puppy pile in southern Maine. Now she’s just another maladjusted New Yorker, unabashedly flatulent and all too eager to fornicate in public.

For all Sammy’s quirks – the aversion to right turns, the cigarette thievery, the feud with Regis Philbin – I wouldn’t change a thing about her. If you’ve never had a dog the experience cannot be fully explained. To say these animals offer unconditional love and loyalty would be an understatement. You are their sun and – if you have an extra liver biscuit – you are their moon.

Like most roommates who have been together for five years, Sammy and I have settled into a daily routine that borders on the mundane. Walks around the block, naps on the couch, shots of Jagermeister…I guess it’s true, I do take after my grandmother. Still, it’s bliss. And the great thing about dogs is that they love you for who you are. They don’t look down on you for being boring. Never once has Sammy badgered me to go out clubbing at 2am. Which is more than I can say for my friends...or my grandmother.

I don’t know if Sammy realizes that today is her birthday. I sang Happy Birthday to her but, truth be told, I sing to her every day. I’m not sure she can make a distinction between Happy Birthday and the theme song from Growing Pains.

I suppose dogs probably don’t get hung up on birthdays. Their lives are too short as they are to dwell on the passing of another year…they might as well live each day to the fullest.

That is, when they’re not snoring.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgrayCNN.

David Beckham #23 of the Los Angeles Galaxy takes a shot against AC Milan during the international friendly last week in Carson, California.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

You can only take your health for granted for so long. Never one to have been a fanatic about blood pressure and cholesterol, I’ve lately become somewhat of a gym rat, unyielding in my devotion to physical fitness unless there’s a compelling reason to stay home…like it’s cloudy outside or I’m watching The View.

I’m not entirely sure what prompted this renewed interest in my overpriced club membership. Perhaps, selfishly, it has something to do with my recent beach vacation – a coconut rum-fueled derailment of self-esteem if there ever was one. Or maybe I’ve realized – amid all the talk about health care reform – that, although I’m one of the fortunate ones who currently have coverage, there are no guarantees in life.

I suppose it’s a byproduct of me trying to accept that if – at age 28 – I’m not as healthy as I could be…well, I have no one to blame but myself: I used to smoke and have been known to enjoy a drink or five. And I’ve tried, with varying degrees of success, to end my love affair with chicken fingers. Though, frankly, I’m not sure I want to live in a world without breaded poultry.

Regardless, following through with exercise isn’t easy. At least not for me. For me, going to the gym is like going to a wedding. I have to drag myself there and by the time I leave I’m sweaty and full of resentment. And thinking about cake.

At one point I was convinced the only way I would go to the gym was if I had a financial obligation beyond my monthly dues. So, I signed up with a personal trainer. (You’re welcome, American Express.) His name was Scott and he was a genuine ex-Abercrombie and Fitch model. Yeah, I hated him, too. Anyway, Scott got a kick out of making me run up and down the gym stairwell for an hour. He said it was for my own good but I think it was just an easy way to keep me busy while he admired his biceps. Three days a week, every week, for who knows how many months – up and down those stairs. Each morning I would show up hoping Scott had finally gotten a call from Susan Lucci requesting he give up his fitness career to play her frisky cabana boy, Pierre.

Now personal trainer-less, the burden of staying in fighting shape rests squarely on my shoulders. There is, in my view, no longer time to procrastinate. Life is short, the clock is ticking…pick whatever cliché you want. It may at times be painful and I may never have David Beckham’s abs…but hopefully it’ll buy me some more time on this earth.

Besides, the chicken fingers never loved me back.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @JackGrayCNN

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.

Fast forward to the present…I’ve long since come to terms with my place on the athletic ladder. And after years of me responding to his holiday sports challenges with a middle finger and a re-fill of Mimosa, my dad has stopped trying to recruit me for anything that involves fresh air and/or character building.

Nevertheless, our bond is strong and I realize that I am, in many respects, who I am because of my father. A passion for politics, an addiction to Chevy Chase movies and the ability to sniff out any pancake parlor within a 25-mile radius; our similarities outweigh our differences.

He is a man of humility, compassion and respect…and I wish him a very happy Father’s Day.

That said, the nursing home is a done deal.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @JackGrayCNN

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.

Like many high school vehicles, The Celeb saw its share of youthful indiscretions. Cigarettes were smoked, beer was transported, and virginities were lost. At the time they all seemed like perfectly constructive activities. Though I suppose, in retrospect, I was just trying to keep up with President Clinton.

Fast forward a dozen years and I’m now car-less…memories of my baby blue Chevy brought back today by news that the House of Representatives has passed so-called “Cash for Clunkers” legislation. The idea, as I understand it, is to give Americans who turn in their gas-guzzlers vouchers for up to $4,500 toward the purchase of a new fuel efficient car. I’m out of luck on this one, since The Celeb is long gone. Which is just as well since Anderson has a policy about staffers displaying bumper stickers that read, “Come and Get It, Tiffani-Amber Thiessen.”

So, with my gas-guzzling days behind me, I travel mainly on the New York City subway, a form of transportation for which there is little difference between overcrowding and an unsolicited lap dance. But, the price is right and I find comfort in the knowledge that by taking mass transit I’m doing my part to help the environment, even if on most days the experience ranks right below having my hair set on fire.

Still, I miss The Celeb and what it represented: Pride of ownership and the freedom to go where I wanted when I wanted.

And, of course, sexiness.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgraycnn.

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.

By the way, no, it’s not considered nudity if you’re covered in Grand Marnier.

I’ll be honest, the timing of this snub couldn’t be worse. I’m trying to nail down a deal to sell the film rights and I’m worried that, without recognition from the Tony Awards, I’ll never realize my dream of being portrayed on the silver screen by Mary-Kate Olsen.

Meanwhile, the chances of me staging my follow-up Broadway production are now slim to none. It’s beyond disappointing. I had such high hopes for Any Day You Don’t Sleep With Your Landlord is a Good Day.

But, look, I’m not naïve. At least not after that night with Liza Minnelli at Red Lobster. I’m aware that edgy theater productions such as mine are easily dismissed as unappealing to a wide audience. America wants high-quality mainstream entertainment like NBC’s  I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here – a reality show so far best known for the alleged torture of Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag somewhere in the Costa Rican jungle. I’ve yet to see an episode of this trainwreck, but rest assured, I will tune in for the finale – provided the aforementioned Couple from Hell is shot out of a cannon.

Just don’t shoot them in the direction of Broadway.

Follow @jackgraycnn on Twitter

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.

Nowadays – two years into my job at CNN – I find myself playing it cool when I see Larry in the hallway. I say hello and he says hello back. Not because he knows who I am but because he’s a genuinely nice guy. And perhaps because he sees me eying his wallet.

By the way, I no longer have the need to chase Larry through the building and put him in a headlock. Though I will say I have found the headlock to be useful when Lou Dobbs gets rowdy in the cafeteria.

So, Larry, here’s to you. And congratulations on your new book “My Remarkable Journey.”

Even though I’m told the final version omits the chapter where I saved your life during that make-up room melee with Dr. Phil, I have no doubt that it’s going to be a amazing read.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some suspenders to put back.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgraycnn

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.

True, the president has said he sees "glimmers of hope" but America’s fiscal health is still not what it used to be. Nor, for that matter, is my dog’s stash of Chardonnay.

The good news is that you now have the necessary education and skills to be competitive in the global job market. The bad news is that, even if you get a job, everything will not always go according to plan. And I’m not just talking about marketing your “Tylenol Gelcaps are for Lovers” rain bonnets.

Don’t get me wrong, you may very well wind up with a wonderful job. A job that will pay the rent with enough left over for a rainy day. Perhaps you’ll even be able to afford those breast implants you’ve been wanting. Although I should warn you: With that surgery comes a 50/50 chance that you’ll one day end up at a news conference with Donald Trump.

And sure, you may plan on becoming a successful working parent. But unless you simultaneously give birth to a minimum of eight babies, no one will care.

And, let’s not ignore the elephant in the room: At least once between now and when you retire, Betty White will try to kill you.

I know what you’re thinking: Who’s he to give advice? Well, I don’t want to brag, but I did once work at a video store/tanning parlor. And, of course, there’s the business sense I acquired while selling knock-off Larry King suspenders outside the Times Square Olive Garden.

But, when it comes down to it, I owe what I know to my education. Just like you.

Congratulations Class of 2009. May you have much love and success.

Or at the very least a hot body.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgraycnn

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.

But, as is often the case with the Hollywood crowd, things can easily get out of hand. I suppose I should apologize to Sean Connery for what happened out on the ocean. I didn’t realize there was such a fine line between water-skiing and becoming a drug mule.

And regardless of whether I was – as I believe – on Sandra Bullock’s yacht, or, as the police report says, in my hotel room watching Speed 2, I regret those late-night phone calls to Rue McClanahan.

Also, my apologies to that woman I mistook for Mickey Rourke. You do not, as I said upon approaching you, look manlier in person.

Perhaps, as I think back on it, the craziness of Cannes is in large part due to the language barrier. Hell, the last time I was there all I remembered how to say was, “Judi Dench just stole my Speedo.”

And apparently the French paparazzi were not telling me I looked like a hotter Hugh Jackman, but rather like a more disheveled Olsen twin.

Alas, those glory days are history. The reserved seats at the hottest films – nowhere to be found. The pie-eating contests with Cheech and Chong – now only when I see them in the Larry King green room.

But that’s OK, nothing lasts forever.

Except for my Angela Lansbury tattoo.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgraycnn

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.

Regardless as to whether or not you agree with the decision to allow Miss Prejean to keep her crown – or sash or fanny pack or whatever it is – the real loser in all of this is America. It has become painfully clear that – given the possibility conservatives may boycott future pageants – we may never get to see Dick Cheney don his Tina Turner wig and compete for Miss USA. I guess the country can only hope for the emergence of a pageant newcomer who is equally talented at singing “Anyway You Want It” while waterboarding an audience member.

CNN is, as you know, a global network. So, I’ve been trying – during my free time – to find out whether the Miss California USA story has an international reach. Of course my free time isn't as plentiful as it used to be, what with my habit of flirting with operators at the taxi complaint hotline.

I suppose whether or not this controversy is interesting on an international level is a moot point at this stage of the game. What could have been a civilized debate about an important social issue has devolved into a tabloid circus.

And, as with most things in life, it all comes down to Donald Trump.

And, of course, his hair.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgraycnn

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.

Actually, I see my mom all too infrequently. Not because I haven't offered to drive up to her house in New England, but because she's always so busy, even on the weekends. You know how it is...gardening, singing karaoke, wrestling alligators.

Nevertheless, I know she's happy for me. I can hear the pride in her voice. Unless that's just the red wine.

Like any mother, mine is concerned about my quality of life. She's mellowed over the years, though I'm not sure she'll ever be entirely convinced I didn't move to New York to "smoke the pot" and turn tricks on the West Side Highway.

Not that I haven't given her reason to worry in years past. She once busted me for having a party while she was out of town. I thought I had covered my tracks pretty well. But apparently – as a non-smoker – she found it odd that there were matches in her bed.

And sure, I once forged her name on a car loan, but I still say that was more the fault of whoever designed the sexy Ford Focus.

Anyway, I'm 28 years-old now. And even though I like to think of myself as my own person living my own life, I still have occasional anxiety about letting my mother down. How much is "occasional?" Well, let's just say my therapist drives a Jaguar.

I never mention my neuroses to my mother because I know what she'll say. You could never disappoint me. Just remember what I taught you: work hard, be humble and never call during Jerry Springer.

By the way, I joke about my mother because I love her and because she has a great sense of humor. But one thing that I won't joke about is her gift as a schoolteacher. She is the epitome of everything an outstanding educator should be: dedicated, caring and brilliant. I honor my mother and all the under-appreciated teachers like her who work – thanklessly and tirelessly – each and every day.

So, on that note: Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you more than any blog could ever express. And, yes, I took my vitamin today.

Follow @jackgraycnn on Twitter

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.

Anyway, William Shatner and the rest of the Star Trek gang all lived together on this thing called the Starship Enterprise. Their only neighbor was Sam Donaldson. Sam and Spock bought their hair at the same outlet mall.

Ratings for Star Trek were initially low, likely due to Captain Kirk’s habit of sunbathing in a teddy. But producers, to their credit, quickly realized the secret to ratings success. Prostitutes. And lots of them.

So, from that point on, the Star Trek crew sailed around in outer space with their cadre of call girls, frequently welcoming guest stars like Kermit the Frog and Florence Henderson.

Ratings were additionally boosted by those legendary dance-offs between the Vulcans and the Klingons.

And, of course, like it’s spin-off series, Full House, Star Trek was known for its “very special” episodes. I know I speak for the entire nation when I say we held our breath when Scotty thought he was pregnant.

Now, as I said, there’s a new movie version being released. It stars Kathie Lee Gifford and Nicolas Sarkozy. I also know that Leonard Nimoy is in it because, well, who among us doesn’t have a Google alert set for Leonard Nimoy?

I don’t know much about the plot of the film, except for one scene where Captain Kirk gets into a dispute with the night manager of a Holiday Inn Express and a subsequent melee winds up in full-front nudity.

And, obviously, I would never reveal anything about the ending. Let’s just say you Courtney Love fans won’t be disappointed.

So, here's to Star Trek and all the Trekkies out there. I hope this weekend is a blast.

In the meantime: Live long and prosper, Lou Dobbs.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter @jackgraycnn

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.

Anyway, Justice Breyer was incredibly gracious and went out of his way to make our crew feel welcome. In fact, he even made us coffee. Of course, I don’t drink coffee but I wasn’t about to decline anything from a Supreme Court justice. So I did what any polite guest would have done: I accepted it with profuse thanks and then – when His Honor wasn’t looking – poured it down my pants.

Not surprisingly, it was an incredible interview. Justice Breyer’s breadth of knowledge was staggering. And he didn’t mind when I asked for a break to watch Maury Povich.

Justice Breyer also seemed genuinely interested by my suggestion that the Court open up oral arguments to television cameras. He didn’t say so expressly, but I got the feeling he was excited about the possibility of announcing “and now back to you, Ryan Seacrest.”

By the way, don’t even ask me if I kept the justice’s address and phone number. I will only say that I know whom I’m going to call if I get caught shoplifting Parmesan cheese from Whole Foods.

But in all seriousness, it was an extraordinary experience that I will never forget. Justice Breyer was as kind and thoughtful as one would want in a public servant. And, unlike Henry Kissinger, he didn’t bum money off me for Keno.

So, now the search is underway for a new member of the Supreme Court to replace Justice Souter. I briefly considered putting my name in for consideration but decided not to after learning I wouldn’t be able to wear my Snuggie in lieu of a judicial robe.

What can I say? God save the United States and this Honorable Court.

And my Snuggie.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

There’s nothing quite like spring in New York City. You can smell it in the air. An intoxicating blend of tree blossoms and crushed dreams. And, of course, everyone is saying, “spring has sprung.” Which, I don’t know about you, sounds to me like the tagline of a seasonal Viagra ad.

This past weekend actually didn’t feel so much like spring as it did like summer, at least here in Manhattan. To be honest, I wasn’t quite ready for it. And apparently neither were a few other people. Let’s just say Hell hath no fury like a Mama Cass look-alike behind the wheel of a 1987 Toyota Corolla wagon stuck in gridlock on Seventh Avenue.

At one point I went to Hudson River Park to enjoy the breeze. I had forgotten how much skin people show down there when the weather warms up. I kicked myself for not bringing a wad of dollar bills.

I was going to take my dog with me but she couldn’t decide on which tube top to wear so I left her at home with a jug of Pina Colada mix and those Larry King DVDs.

Anyway, I went down to the river and, of course, the only open spot on the grass was not next to glistening Brazilian exhibitionists but rather a couple of miserable yuppies.  Evan, I TOLD you to pack my Fiji water. The guy just sat there in madras shorts – shorts that his wife, no doubt, had selected for him – looking out onto the water, presumably pondering the new life he could start for himself in New Jersey if only he knew how to swim.

I should say, though, that it wasn’t just the young lovers down by the river who were affected by the weather. I got mugged and the guy didn’t even want my money. He just wanted me to rub sunscreen on his back.

And I still can’t believe the paparazzi didn’t notice Susan Boyle singing the new Flo Rida track while rollerblading without underwear.

By the way, I know what you’re thinking:  How can he write about the weather when the government has declared a public health crisis? To that I say, look, I know you’re afraid that we’re all going to die from Pig Flu. And, let’s face it, we probably are.

But all you can really do at this point is be prudent about traveling, be alert to symptoms you may be exhibiting and go to the doctor if you feel like you may be ill.

So, in the meantime, enjoy the nice weather. Otherwise you’re just letting the pigs win.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter

Related Post
A snowball's chance in Manhattan 

From left to right, Jack's grandfather (X.L. Papaioanou), Aristotle Onassis and Michael Dukakis.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

Well, actually, he’s not fat. But he does have Michael Dukakis’s eyebrows and Aristotle Onassis’s liver spots.

If you’ve been watching AC360° this week then you’ve probably seen our series of reports on the supposed health and longevity enjoyed by residents on the tiny Greek island of Ikaria. They’ve reminded me of my grandfather: a first generation Greek-American who has long insisted that the secret to a healthy life is a proper balance of Baklava and flat ginger ale.

Words cannot describe the strength and inspiration my grandfather, “Papou,” has given me over the years. Mind you, that was before he turned into a hermit who sits in his basement eating Sam’s Club-brand peanut butter cups and making paper mache busts of Yanni.

Nevertheless, Papou is a man to admire. A brilliant physician, he instilled in me the importance of hard work, honesty and – when he wasn’t looking – complimentary painkillers.

A man who by day saved lives and by night brought home items like a remote-controlled flatulence simulator called Le Farteur. “But it’s French!” he said, as my grandmother pushed him out the door.

He is, as his children and grandchildren will attest, a great listener – always available to dispense advice. Except when he’s asking strangers at Outback Steakhouse if they think he made a mistake by never becoming a chorus boy for Liza Minnelli.

Equal parts savvy consumer and hearty outdoorsman, my grandfather is as comfortable shopping for a used Cadillac as he is euthanizing a turtle that’s had the misfortune of encountering his grandson’s fishing tackle.

He is a man for whom – although he loves his family – there is always a 50/50 chance he will skip his own birthday party in favor of watching a Ron Popeil infomercial while wearing my grandmother’s nightgown.

A modern man who passed on to me his love of photography and electronic gadgets, he retained his parents old-world sensibilities and disregard for U.S. law. “What do you mean,” he asked me when I was 11, “you don’t know to drive?”

He is also a brave man, one who – in all seriousness – has never once complained about being afflicted with Multiple Sclerosis. Nor about the time I shot him in the face with a BB gun during Thanksgiving dinner. (Hey, I warned him to hurry up with the mashed potatoes.)

But, time passes on. And no matter what is happening on that Greek island – and let’s face it, it’s probably some scam run by John Stamos – my grandfather is getting older.

Nowadays I see him only a few times a year. Not because I don’t make the effort. But because he’s usually curled up with a bottle of Ouzo and a ukulele.

He knows, however, how much I love him. Provided, of course, that when he someday goes to that Greek island in the sky, he leaves me Le Farteur.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

So it turns out today is Earth Day. I heard something about it as I was in my Humvee, en route to stock up on Styrofoam plates.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m passionate about the environment. In fact, just this morning I was cradling a baby eagle. And – aside from me accidentally blinding him with my aerosol hairspray – it was pure bliss.

Sadly, I have friends who don't share my passion for environmental preservation. They give me strange looks when I discuss my rigid requirements for trash disposal. But their mocking has had no effect, I have not wavered: I still only throw away biodegradable items…like cigarette butts and relationships.

Of course I can't take all the credit for saving the environment. Some of it has to go to Al Gore. Who'd have guessed him getting booted from Hollywood Squares would have ended up helping restore the polar ice caps.

There are, as always, the critics who say I’m a hypocrite, that I’m actually not doing enough to save the planet. Unfortunately, once again, that they have their facts wrong: I don’t have a chinchilla coat, I have a chinchilla bathmat.

And no, I’m not exploiting endangered species for monetary gain. That snow leopard wanted to do those used car dealership commercials.

Sure, not all of my attempts at environmental activism have gone smoothly. I mean, I tried to embrace my inner hippie. It’s not my fault that rolling around naked in the mud doesn't qualify as standing out from the crowd in New York. Not even on the subway.

And it’s not like I didn’t sign up for what I thought was an alternative energy supplier. You can imagine my surprise when I opened my door to find a drag queen named Hydrogen Tanks.

At AC360°, as you know, we have our critically acclaimed Planet in Peril series. I asked to be assigned to work on it but was turned down. Something about the elephant tusks I had tried to hide underneath my “Oil companies do it slicker” beach towel.

At one point I came close to joining GreenPeace, but backed out at the last minute after learning they didn’t have a bowling team. I also considered volunteering for the Sierra Club but balked when they refused to pay me in Delta Sky Miles.

Anyway, here we are. Earth Day 2009. I hope you’ll join me in doing something environmentally friendly. Like recycling that already empty container of muscle relaxers you picked up at the pharmacy yesterday. Or helping the rare Siberian Tiger break his addiction to adult movies.

Because, remember, if you do something to help the environment on a day other than Earth Day, it doesn’t count.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter

Soleil Moon Frye in 2005.

Jack Gray
AC360° Producer/Writer

First of all, I think we can agree that – with the possible exception of Boutros Boutros-Ghali – the coolest name in the world is Soleil Moon Frye. You know it, I know it, even Hugo Chavez knows it.

Ms. Frye – for those of you pretending to not know who she is – is the actress who rose to stardom playing lovable orphan Punky Brewster on the popular 1980s NBC sitcom of the same name. And let me say that if you really don’t know whom I’m talking about, well, I’m just sorry you hate America.

You see, long before stars like the Olsen twins and Hannah Banana, or whatever that Cyrus girl’s fake name is, there was Soleil Moon Frye. As a child, she was a staple of my weekday television viewing. As opposed to my weekend television viewing, which revolved mostly around the Solid Gold Dancers.

Each afternoon I would put on my jean jacket, tie a brightly colored bandana around my head and watch Punky get into new mischief. And sure, I still wear the same outfit when I watch Larry King, but back then I would furiously write letters to Santa during the commercial break asking for a golden retriever and an elderly foster parent.

After the show I would sit in my room, silently resenting Punky’s best friend, Cherie (pronounced Cherry) Johnson for living my dream of being named after produce. (Note to Soleil: The episode where Cherie got stuck in that refrigerator…I’m not saying I wanted her to die, I’m just saying you could have left her in there a little longer.)

Fast forward 20 years and it turns out that Soleil Moon Frye is now a Twitter powerhouse, @moonfrye, and co-owner of an eco-friendly children’s clothing store. She has about 250,000 Twitter followers, compared to my 3,000. If my math is correct – and it usually isn’t – that means she is 83 times cooler than me. And, let’s face it, you didn’t need Twitter to tell you that.

Anyway, imagine my shock and delight this past Friday when Soleil Moon Frye posted a link on her page to the blog I wrote about Ashton Kutcher winning the first-to-a-million Twitter contest.

I mean, I was already pretty excited, what with me single-handedly eradicating malaria and all, but this was beyond comprehension.

Friends who couldn’t have cared less when Angelina Jolie said hi to me, or that brief period when I was President of France, were through the roof with jealous curiosity.

Come to find out that Mr. Kutcher is godfather to Ms. Frye’s children. Which obviously raises the question: Why is Soleil Moon Frye not my godmother? All it would take is one phone call: “Hi, Aunt Sue, sorry, but you’re out and Punky Brewster is in.” I’d be hanging up before she knew what hit her.

I am, however, nothing if not a realist. So I know that – despite the Twitter link – the chances of Soleil Moon Frye and I becoming best friends are slim to none. Kind of like the chances of Gary Coleman recording my outgoing voicemail message.

Regardless, it’s just nice to see that she turned out so well. A pop culture icon turned tech-savvy entrepreneur.

It gives me a warm feeling. Or maybe my bandana is just tied too tight.

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter

Soleil Moon Frye reminding us once again what it means to have Punky Power.

Jack Gray
AC360 Producer/Writer

The real headline is not who made it to 1,000,000 Twitter followers first.  It’s that I had nothing better to do at 2:30am than watch a live webcast of Ashton Kutcher, Demi Moore and – wait for it, waiiiit forrrr ittttt – yes, Soleil Moon Frye, dancing to “Celebration.”

After checking to make sure I hadn’t taken the wrong pills on the wrong day, I realized that Mr. Kutcher had indeed, by about a half hour, beaten CNN Breaking News (@CNNbrk) to the one million mark.  I informed my dog of the news, at which time she promptly yawned and scratched herself.

What can I say?  I’m no Ashton Kutcher (@aplusk).  I'm only me (@jackgraycnn).  I have a mere 2,000 or so Twitter “followers.”  No surprises there.  I mean, it’s not like I was the star of “Dude, Where’s My Car?”  Although I once was asked by a woman on the subway if I would star in a film she was shooting on her cell phone camera called “Dude, Where’s My Girdle?”

Anyway, Larry King (@kingsthings) was the point person for CNN on this contest.  And, let’s face it, I’m no Larry King, either. I mean, sure, I put on suspenders and shout out “Wichita, you’re on with Priscilla Presley.”  But, frankly, that’s between me and the other shoppers at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

And, of course, it goes without saying that I'm no Anderson Cooper (@andersoncooper).  Despite the name I use to get good tables at restaurants.

My low rung on the ladder notwithstanding, I love Twitter.  It lets me hear from people all over the world.  People who give me feedback on my blogs and update me on their dermatitis.

A few people have even hit on me via Twitter.  At least I think they’re hitting on me.  Sometimes it’s tough to tell the difference between a romantic overture and an errant elbow on the keyboard.

But yeah, all in all, Twitter is pretty cool, as long we don't become totally consumed by it and forget to occasionally read a book or, you know, get fresh air.

And I’m happy to spread the word about Twitter.  In fact, I've gotten my sister to sign up as well as some friends.  I even thought about trying to explain it to my grandparents but ultimately had second thoughts, considering they’re still trying to figure out “The Google.” (I'll save them some time, Soleil Moon Frye played Punky Brewster.)

And as far as today’s news is concerned, I guess what it means is that we’ve officially entered a new era of movie stars.  No longer are they mysterious and sultry like those week-old chicken fingers in the back of my refrigerator.  They’re tech-savvy and omnipresent, like the Viagra ads in my spam folder.

By the way, I want to be clear about something.  As with the First Dog earlier this week, I am not suggesting this Twitter contest is some earth-shatteringly important story.  It’s just an amusing example of how technology has changed the way we live.  And more importantly, it’s raised awareness for an admirable charity, Malaria No More.

So, relax, I’m not saying you have to be excited about the whole Twitter thing or start hanging out with Soleil Moon Frye.

I’m just saying that if you’re against Twitter then you’re for the spread of Malaria.
______

Follow Jack Gray on Twitter
Related post:
Just between you and me and Twitter