Now, Peter, as you're all set to have Variety conquer China, Fishbowl wanted to shoot you a quick note of congratulations, and to invite you to come back to New York where you belong. At first blush, you might find the thought ludicrous and shoot us one of your famous, perfectly horizontal non-smiles (see picture) that terrify overseas staffers who don't know why sphinxes smile. But we're serious:

Even if you've been our West for a decade and a half (in this last iteration), play tennis with Peter Guber and love mentoring new hires over lunch at Le Dome (such as ourselves, when we worked for you,) we know nobody who exemplifies New York-ness better than you. Your blazers are right out of J. Press, even if you buy them at Armani. As virtually the only editor with real contacts in the Hollywood hierarchy, you're uncomfortable with touching, and with displays of affection in a land of huggers. Despite attempts at being chummy with guys like Ovitz, and polite to Alan Horn, you'd still rather kick those guys in the teeth when the bell rings; you just can't help it. You've survived Amy Wallace and defied critics who can't believe you're still sitting in that glass-encased Wilshire office. That kind of survival isn't very Hollywood, it's pure Gotham fuck you-ness. And even as your column has become modernized and toned down a bit, your temper is still famously intact. So, c'mon, m'boy. Next year, you'll have presided over God knows how many mastheads over there, and we're sure your bud Si Newhouse will give you a book to run if you asked - you've talked about it often enough. Don't worry, you can still do your TV show. There's a ticket at the JetBlue counter in your name.