HOOKER 2000

And let's talk with clarity and kindness, please!

I was never planning on making a post about this topic, but I've received numerous comments and direct messages regarding supporting Andrew Rannells as some choose to label him a "Zionist."

While some have had kind conversations, others have been downright mean, and I'd like to put all my thoughts in this post to get them out as eloquently as possible.

On October 10, 2023, Andrew shared this message:

"You do not need to be Jewish or Israeli to be outraged by this pure evil. You only need to be human."

It was a response to a terrorist attack where over 1,200 people were killed, including children.

That post wasn't political.

It wasn't divisive.

It was grief.

It was empathy.

It was a human response to human suffering.

But he was met with backlash.

People made harsh assumptions.

They flooded his comments and DMs.

They labeled him things he never said and never stood for.

So he blocked people.

Not out of guilt, but for peace.

When someone is being harassed, they have every right to protect themselves.

Here's what often gets ignored:

Between Oct. 7 and Jan. 7, there were 3,291 antisemitic incidents in the U.S.

That's a 361% increase from the same time the year before (ADL).

FBI reports show a 63% rise in anti-Jewish hate crimes since 2023.

That's what Andrew was responding to.

Not politics. Not policy. Just fear.

Grief. The heartbreak of rising hate, especially for his Jewish friends and colleagues. Many of his closest friends, like Josh Gad, are Jewish.

Of course he responded with compassion.

And still, people demanded more.

Louder words. Clearer sides.

But here's the thing:

Using fear, shame, and public pressure to force someone to speak? isn't activism.

It's not justice.

It's just another form of cruelty.

And while I understand this may seem harsh, this matters:

We don't know him.

He is not your best friend.

He is not your political opponent.

He is an actor you will likely never meet.

Why are we so quick to look for reasons to be angry at people we don't know?

Why do we assume the worst and proceed to attack both them and their fans?

Andrew Rannells is an actor.

That's his job. That's what he “owes" the public, his art, not his political analysis.

He's not a scholar.

Not a politician.

And not responsible for explaining geopolitics to an impressionable audience made up largely of teens.

If you care about these issues (and I hope you do!), keep learning.

Listen to diverse voices.

But don't expect your favorite performer to carry the emotional weight of the political state of the world on the internet.

Andrew's career has been rooted in kindness, representation, and joy.

He showed compassion in a moment of heartbreak he felt personally through his Jewish friends and colleagues.

And he deserved compassion in return.

Not the harassment he received.

We don't have to agree on everything.

But we can all agree on this:

Assuming the worst in strangers doesn't make the world better.

Chapter Two: The Building That Never Sleeps

Thirty Rockefeller Plaza was less a building and more a self-contained ecosystem. A vertical city. A maze of egos, caffeine addictions, and too many people pretending they didn’t just cry in the elevator.

It housed the weather. The news. Comedy, drama, and the nation’s most unpredictable cafeteria. It was also, somehow, home to an ice skating rink, a shoe repair kiosk, and more than a few emotional breakdowns disguised as smoke breaks.

Everyone in the building was either a character, playing one, or dating someone who was.

Dr. Charlotte DuBois worked on the 2nd floor at One Medical. Sharp, deeply caffeinated, and over everyone’s nonsense, she saw patients from every floor, from high-powered news anchors to unpaid interns with self-diagnosed stress tumors.

She was Marvin’s best friend, though she’d never say it that way. She called herself his “designated truth dispenser.” She also called him once a week with notes like: “Your blood pressure is up. You gotta get your shit together. Emotionally and physically.”

Charlotte was married to Cordelia, which meant their household contained both a medical degree and a slow cooker perpetually full of something bubbling a little too much..

They had eloped six years ago and hadn’t stopped bickering since.

Cordelia worked down in the NBCUniversal cafeteria, also known as The Pit. She’d taken the job “for the benefits” but stayed for the gossip. She saw everything. And she told no one, except Charlotte, usually over boxed wine.

Cordelia was Whizzer’s best friend, roommate during the roughest years, and currently the only reason he ate three meals. She considered herself his part-time therapist, unpaid assistant, and emergency contact. She never asked for thanks, just that he stop sleeping with people who she has to pretend not to recognize as she rang up their caesar salad.

Both women kept an eye on their respective boys. Not in a meddling way. Just… strategic surveillance.

The thing about 30 Rock is that no one ever really leaves. Not for more than 8 hours, and that’s lucky.

Whizzer, halfway through a costume fitting, ducked out early to “find better lighting.”

Marvin, headed to pick up a second coffee, chose a different route than usual to avoid an intern who thought the way he described barometric pressure was “so hot.”

They passed each other on the stairs. Whizzer didn’t notice. Marvin did. He always noticed.

Charlotte and Cordelia passed each other in the lobby an hour later.

“Your boy’s spiraling again,” Cordelia muttered, sipping a questionable smoothie.

“And yours is repressing,” Charlotte replied. “We really know how to pick them.”

—

By noon, Marvin sat alone with a Cobb salad and his laptop, reviewing weekend temperature models.

By 12:01, Whizzer strolled in like the room owed him something.

They didn’t speak. But they sat two tables apart.

Cordelia saw them from behind the counter. Texted Charlotte.

—

Cordelia: your weather guy & my manwhore are in the same room

Charlotte: thunder’s coming

—

Chapter One: Meet-Cute Adjacent

Marvin Gardens woke at 5:30 a.m., as dictated by both muscle memory and dread. Three things happened, in order: he silenced the alarm, stared at the ceiling, and thought about whether Jason had left his math homework in the living room again.

Coffee was already waiting. A cold brew he prepped nightly, out of both efficiency and the knowledge that if he had to interact with a French press before sunrise, he’d commit a crime.

By 6:45, he was spooning artificial dye-loaded cereal into Jason’s bowl, skimming weather alerts from his phone, and asking questions like “Did you brush your teeth?” and answering ones like “Do Pokémon eat breakfast?”

At 7:58, Marvin kissed his son’s head, dropped him at school, and walked into 30 Rockefeller Plaza wearing a slate blue suit and an expression just north of “please don’t talk to me.”

The weather segment at 8:30 went fine. It always did. He was dryly funny in a way that got him Twitter “clout” from moms who couldn’t tell he was gay, or maybe they did and didn’t care, and meteorology students.

“Temperatures climbing faster than my therapist’s hourly rate,” he joked, and got a chuckle from the anchor.

Afterward, he met with Charlotte at One Medical. The oddly located office of his best friend on the second floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. She told him to lower his sodium and consider “letting people in.” He told her he’d try, which was a lie.

Then it was back to his desk, where he quietly ate a banana with a fork. Not because he was quirky. Because he didn’t want to get his tie dirty.

—

Whizzer Brown arrived at Thirty Rockefeller Plaza like he always did: immaculate, barely on time, and pretending he hadn’t spent the night with a new writer whose name he never asked.

He wore a vintage SNL crewneck from the Dana Carvey era and carried a cup of ice and what could be estimated to be around six shots of espresso. His hair looked like it had been done by angels. He smelled like Le Labo and very expensive denial.

“Morning, sunshine.” Cordelia, his sickeningly optimistic best friend, said from behind the cafeteria counter.

Whizzer grinned. “How’s the food today?”

“Still barely legal.”

“Perfect.” He winked. She handed him a breakfast sandwich that was more Styrofoam than egg.

Whizzer was beloved at SNL by fans, the new star with a smirk that could disarm critics and a sense of timing that made him look effortless. He wasn’t.

He read every note. Memorized every script. Rewrote jokes in his head that he’d never get the chance to pitch. He slept with people who didn’t matter and avoided calls from the ones who might.

Cordelia once told him he lived like a man five minutes ahead of a nervous breakdown. He told her that was generous.

He loitered in the halls today, killing time. He didn’t like being in the writers’ room too long. Too many people he’d kissed. Too many ideas he didn’t write but would have to sell anyway.

—

Marvin left Charlotte’s office, one hand holding a disposable coffee cup filled with oatmeal, the other holding a folder of both weather briefings and doctor’s pamphlets in hand: “Coping with Stress for Dummies”

He rounded the corner with a grimace. Whizzer turned into the same hallway, humming something jazz-adjacent under his breath.

They collided, not dramatically, but awkwardly enough. Marvin’s oatmeal dropped. Whizzer’s espresso hit the floor.

“Damn it,” Whizzer muttered, stepping back just as Marvin crouched down.

They looked up at the same time.

“Oh,” Whizzer said, offering a practiced smile. “You’re the weatherman.”

“Meteorologist,” Marvin corrected flatly.

Whizzer picked up the folder. “Whizzer Brown. SNL.” He extended the papers. “I do impressions of celebrities and I’m currently wearing your breakfast.”

Marvin blinked as he wiped espresso off himself.  “It’s fine. I didn’t like that tie anyway.”

He said as if he hadn’t been forking a banana that morning to keep it safe.

“You’ve got one of those faces that looks like it proofreads emails for fun,” Whizzer said, re-adjusting himself.

Marvin cleared his throat. “Thanks. I think.”

“Never mind,” Whizzer grinned, already stepping back, folder handed off. “You’re too serious. I like it.”

Marvin watched him disappear down the hallway, his crewneck tugged slightly to the left, just enough to show the faint outline of a bruise someone else had left tthere.

Whizzer didn’t look back. Marvin didn’t either.

But something shifted.