Last night, I got an e-mail from a producer for a TV program that she described as "Dr. Phil on the road." The subject of the e-mail had the headline of a column I wrote in 2002, and asked me simply to give her a call.
I won't give the producer's name, but my editor said her name sounded like a stripper's chosen moniker. Let's call her Divine.
She answered the phone by saying: "Who's this?"
"Uh... Divine?" I asked.
"My name is Chris Cope. You sent me an e-mail asking me to call you. I assume it's about a column I wrote."
Somehow Divine had read this column and decided that I was in the military and stationed many miles away from my wife. She wanted her "Dr. Phil on the road" to set things right.
"That's not what the column was about at all," I said.
Divine was then forced to confess that she had not, in fact, read the column at all. She just saw the headline and thought it was sad.
When I reported back to my editor on how the phone call had gone, I offered a less than favorable opinion of Divine's professional capacity.
"She was up late pole-dancing. Give her a break," he said.
On a related note, I would suggest that any advice offered on this show be taken with a grain of salt.
Scott Peterson's lawyer needs to come up with some sort of Cochran-esque rhyme. Something along the lines of: "Because of the fetus, you must acquit us."
Amorous alligator + German restaurant = Comedy gold.
I doubt those cars do him any good.