Rick Nelson and Claude Peck dispense unasked-for advice about clothing, etiquette, culture, relationships, grooming and more.
CP: Weddings, funerals, the cancellation of “All My Children.” I have been crying an awful lot lately.
RN: You and me both. I recently rewatched “Terms of Endearment” and nearly had to be hospitalized.
CP: I saw a show on the gym’s TV the other day that seemed designed entirely to give its guests — and us — a good half-hour sobfest. A middle-aged cancer survivor was brought on and she was then treated to a song, a long-distance call, a surprise visit from a long-lost child. Eskimos may have 50 words for snow, but this woman had 65 different ways of crying.
RN: You’d have the emotional waterworks flowing, too, if you found yourself subjected to the Wendy Williams version of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
CP: I imagine a production assistant bursting into a meeting room to announce, “I have found a virtual crying machine! She’s perfect.” There was a program on Univision in which every character — dad, adolescent daughter, grandma, the gardener — had cheeks soaked with tears. Isn’t crying best done in private?
RN: Not on a telenovela, where eyedrops are frequently a major budget item. You’ve always seemed fairly impervious to tears, despite your penchant for bringing underlings to them. Or is there some sob sister within that I don’t know anything about?
CP: While it is true that the sight of roadkill doesn’t make me weep, as it does for some of my loved ones, I am no stranger to the occasional emotional outburst. Unlike you, who sat dry-eyed through the movie version of “A Single Man.” I was a puddle.
RN: To each his own. I need a jumbo roll of Bounty to get through the second movement of Balanchine’s “Concerto Barocco.” And I bawled like Diane Keaton in “Something’s Gotta Give” last week while reading a preview copy of “The Days of Anna Madigral,” Armistead Maupin’s latest installment of his “Tales of the City” opus.