Em, M.E., Emmy.

My friend Em used to tend bar in a roadhouse called the Highliner in Westbrook, CT. There was sawdust on the floor, trains would go by and the beer was still 2.50. On Fridays the whole town would converge on the Highliner to hear the Convertibles play popular 50's and 60's tunes. Em would navigate the bar in cut-offs and a white button down looking like a curvaceous dilletante who didn't know she'd been drugged, mugged and taken from the cotillion. Somewhere between Patty Hearst and The Mrs. Astor you'd find my beautiful friend tending bar and maintaining her ben-wa-balls. When my better-half was courting me, he brought his good friends in to spec me out, the Highliner was designated as the petri dish (funny on two levels). The good friends associate queried Em on what white wines does she serve. Em, sweat running from buzz-cut blonde tip to bossom stopped patiently and delivered, "I don't know if you've noticed sir, but you're in a gin-mill. The only white wine we serve comes out of our soda gun. How many would you like?"

An M.E. cuts into you when you are dead.

Emmys this year posthumously honor almost as many shows that are off the air as they do shows that are still running. If you trace my tangent properly you'll see that all topics reach the root of what's real/reel. And you're probably smiling, natch. Gray's Anatomy was nominated for an emmy, has had an ME, and reminds me of my friend Em. Coincidence? I think not.