The Carrie Diaries

By: Chris Hunt

Holy crap, that was close, I thought I was freaking dead, barbecued by a shoulder-launched missile on the streets of Islamabad, but all I got was a cranberry-juice stain on my forehead, and then Saul and I were pinned down by snipers from, I don’t know, the Taliban or the ISI or Netflix marketing, and I’ll tell you something else I didn’t know, for about the 80th time in four seasons of Homeland, I had a bad feeling but couldn’t figure out what the bogeys were really up to, and neither could my new Deep Throat, the hot young Pakistani general with the house out of a South Asian Pottery Barn catalogue, where ISI goons dumped me one night in a straitjacket, which felt kind of good, actually, like Temple Grandin’s hug box, and then I curled up in the hot young general’s lap and made out with him, only I thought he was Brody, in fact he was Brody, same blood-orange hair, bunched-up teeth and so-so American accent (not as good as Quinn’s but way better than McNulty’s on The Wire or Noah’s on The Affair—wait a minute, that’s the same guy—hey, am I the only American actor left on cable TV?), only he couldn’t have been Brody, because Brody was snuffed by the Iranians, but at the time I didn’t know my Clozapine had been replaced with 25-i (twice as potent as LSD!) by the US ambassador’s husband, that creepy Duck from Mad Men who got Peggy Olson to give it up to him in a hotel room, but he won’t be getting any trim for a donkey’s age now that he’s been busted for passing secrets to the CIA station chief who was beaten to death by a Pakistani mob (can you believe that was the same guy who killed as Hemingway in Midnight in Paris?!) and to sneaky-hot Tasneem, my evil twin in Pakistani intelligence, and I’ll bet the Duckman wishes he’d hanged himself in the holding cell after he made that Sydney Carton speech to his wife, only he didn’t because he has balls the size of Raisinets, and worse, he told Cersei Lannister—sorry, I mean Tasneem—about the tunnel into the US embassy, so the hawk-beaked Taliban, Haqqani, led a small army into the building, terminated a few Americans and got the master list of CIA assets from that posturing blowhard Lockhart, who turned out to be soft-hearted or lily-livered or both, but at least Haqqani was winged by Quinn, who went all Rambo and chased out the badasses practically by himself, and now Quinn and I are alone in Pakistan—maybe we’ll finally hook up!—after the USA pulled out and I had to say goodbye to Saul, my father-from-another-grandmother, sweet Saul who comforted the bomb-vest boy in the middle of the night by reciting a recipe for chicken soup in college Urdu, wise Saul who told me, “You’re the smartest and dumbest fuckin’ person I ever met,” which coincidentally I’ve also heard from my yoga instructor, my hair colorist and my DC neighbor’s pit bull, Idi Amin, with whom I have long talks about the Warren Commission, Bush v. Gore and Smiley’s People when I forget to take my meds—which reminds me, have you noticed that they took Saul’s quote out of the opening credits this season and added those tiny men in white uniforms scurrying over the mountains like the little people running under the door in Mulholland Drive or the freaked-out sperm in Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask), and I’m skulking about in a head scarf looking more paranoid than Glenn Beck, thinking that maybe, considering my work and sex life and their collateral damage—poor, naive Ayan, shot in the head by his uncle after I deflowered him!—maybe I am a time-warp melding of Carrie Bradshaw and Carrie White, as Stephen Hawking has theorized (memo to Showtime: Eddie Redmayne and Benedict Cumberbatch as gay British spies in Kabul?), but I know I could’ve made everything right if I just had found enough magic markers in Islamabad to color all the field reports and newspaper clippings and pin them on the wall and connect the dots, I could’ve saved the world and gone home to take care of that ginger baby with the big head, can she really be Brody’s daughter or did I have a moment with Michael Fassbender, now he would make a great terrorist, maybe next season he could weaponize Ebola and Lupita Nyong’o could play a Liberian nurse trying to stop him from importing it to Amer... wait, that’s what those little men in white are doing, they’re in hazmat suits and they’re sneaking vials of virus across the border, and Michael Fassbender and Lupita Nyong’o are having a laugh at the back of the set, pretending to reenact the whipping scenes in 12 Years a Slave, and meanwhile Mr. Big is back in Napa, having tired of my clubbing and shoe shopping, and that cute Tommy Ross with the curly blond surfer hair is dead at the high school prom, whacked telekinetically, and what is it Hillary Clinton says in the new credits, “You can’t keep snakes in your backyard and expect them only to bite your neighbors” (duh!), so maybe Showtime is trying to kill me, and if it didn’t succeed with the missile it will just try again, because a limo full of lawyers specializing in contract termination just pulled up to CBS headquarters, and I saw the Homeland show runner wink at Tasneem, and as I melted into the streets of Islamabad I couldn’t help but wonder: am I’m under contract to a cable network, can the cable network take out a contract on me?

LOGISTICS: Homeland, official website

Chris Hunt, the former editor of Sports Illustrated Latino, actually liked Season 3 of Homeland.