Batman Begins--B+

I was about ten years old, had just come back from the dentist and was in extreme pain, due to the fact that a sadistic maniac had performed a root canal on me and had not used an anesthetic! To this day I wonder what this lunatic was thinking. He had given some excuse at the time, but I don't remember what it was. Actually I don't think I ever understood his reasoning. Maybe this monster had huffed a bit too much of the nitrous and thought he was extracting valuable information for the Reich.

So I'm home in my bedroom, whimpering from extreme pain, and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. (Funny, the pain eventually went away but here it is decades later and I am still feeling sorry for myself.) And slowly from this pain grew rebellion.

I don't remember my parents ever restricting my reading habits very much, but for some reason I had hidden a comic book in the garage. I think maybe we were going through a very short-lived, "No comic books in this house" phase. Well, I was in pain, damn it, and so, bolstered by the delicious self-righteous indignation of the truly wronged, I marched out to the garage and retrieved my treasured comic. I remember that I had hidden it under the gasoline-smelling rag that we kept by the lawn mower, and that it was a Batman.

Did you read comics when you were a kid? I think you can tell a lot about adults based on which comic characters they preferred as kids. (Not really, of course, but that's my premise and I'm sticking to it.) For example, my favorite super hero was Superman, followed closely by Batman in the Number Two slot. There were few of the second-tier types that I enjoyed, like the Green Lantern, (Is he black now? How does something like that happen?) the Justice League, and a few others farther back in the pack. It's like a woman I used to work with years ago told me when I showed her the new GT Mustang I had bought: It's just like you--adventurous but traditional. (And I'd like to believe that's still true. The only thing I'm not anymore is a Ford-buyer.)

So what comics did you like? How about Archie? I liked those. There's a real sexual undercurrent running through Riverdale, with the priapic Archie and Reggie always trying to score with an endless parade of beautiful high school girls. (And Jughead sublimating his ambiguous sexual inclinations by constantly eating.) When you were a kid did you ever trace the outline of Betty and Veronica and then draw in their private bits so that you had a picture of them naked? You didn't? Yeah, me neither.

Or maybe you were one of those people who liked the Harvey Comics cast of characters. You know, Richie Rich, Baby Huey, Wendy the Good Little Witch, Little Dot. Were these the comics you preferred? Because if they were shouldn't you be off working on your float rather than reading this? The Gay Pride Parade is just a few weeks away, you know.

And speaking of Harvey Comics, was there ever anybody, living or dead, more annoying than that fucking Casper? "I just want a friend." Didn't he remind you of every drippy-nosed, whiny little kid you ever knew who just wouldn't leave you alone? You wanted to strangle him. In fact, I suspect that's how Casper actually became a ghost in the first place.

But Batman, he was cool. And so is Batman Begins. Wasn't it just a short time ago that we were all praising Tim Burton for finally getting Batman right? What? That was sixteen years ago, you say? How can that be? I must have nodded off there for a bit. Ah, what does it matter? Is there not room in our lifetimes for more than one excellent Batman movie? Sure there is. So enjoy the new Batman movie with my blessing, and hey, Casper fans? Enjoy your parade.

(Write Me a) Check Engine Light

So I had to walk all the way into town (well over 1/4 of a mile) today to pick up Spike's car. She brought it in to the mechanic's this morning because the car told her to. Well, it didn't actually speak to her, but that frightening little red "Check Engine" light popped on, so of course she had to get it checked out. Otherwise, as you well know, it's more likely than not that the engine would have exploded before she got even halfway to work, leaving the car a blackened, burnt-out shell. With very little resale value.

What is with this "Check Engine" light, anyway? It's not that I'm a naturally suspicious person, but I have observed lawyers, doctors, and stockbrokers in action for years. Yeah, and mechanics.

Yes, doctors. OK, I'm going to type this story and then decide later if I should delete it or let you read it. Frankly, it's none of your business, and just a tad embarrassing. Still, it happened a very long time ago which hopefully will dimish the mortification, at least a bit.

Many years ago, as I said, I found that I was losing hair on a part of my body where I especially didn't want to lose any hair. That's about as specific as I want to be, I think. Let's just say I had hair there since I was eleven or twelve, and had grown quite, if not fond, certainly accustomed to it. I spent a few weeks fretting over the situation until finally I decided that I was too young to go bald, especially there, and decided to visit a doctor.

I don't know if the doctor ever told me exactly what was causing my curious affliction. Actually, I'm pretty sure he didn't. What I do remember is that once a week the kindly old doctor would shine some kind of space-age light on the area for about 30 seconds and then take my twenty dollar bill. This went on for some time, until one visit when I timidly suggested that the light didn't really seem to be doing anything. He replied, "I'm afraid if we stop it might spread to other areas."

Other areas! The son-of-a-bitch was implying that if I didn't keep up with his little light show that I might end up going completely bald! On my head! I don't remember why the visits stopped, (perhaps his boat was paid off) but I think he muttered something like, "The hair should grow back now." And of course it eventually did. It wasn't until years later that I realized this old coot may have been churning me ("Churning" is an expression used in the financial field to describe the practice of buying and selling a client's stock simply to generate a commission.) and that the hair probably would have grown back on its own anyway.

So forgive me if I can't help but suspect that the "Check Engine" light is little more than a fiendishly clever scheme created by some Karl Rovian genius in the auto industry to get you to rush your car into the nearest dealership the second it comes on. Or else. A similar tactic is used by dentists who offer you a free check-up. Has anybody ever finished one of those and heard the dentist say, "Nothing wrong here, your teeth are perfect. No charge. Have a nice day."

Well, at this point, having both recently relocated and changed health plans, I don't have a regular physician or dentist. What I do have is something much more valuable: a mechanic that is so friendly and so honest that sometimes I feel like my car is being service by Goober's Garage in Mayberry. (The total bill for the last three times I've brought in my car was about $150. Whoever heard of such a thing? Plus they have free candy.)

So when I picked up my wife's car and they said they couldn't find anything wrong with it and there was no charge, well it didn't do much to support my satanic automotive industry conspiracy theory. Until I realized, "Of course! Here is the exception that proves the rule!" (Whatever that means.)

Actually I'm writing this because I want to help you, my loyal reader(s) fight back! Next time that pesky light comes on don't go dragging your little dolly to the dealership like some sissy so they can hold you up for hundreds, or even thousands, of dollars. (Yes, thousands. Why do you think the damn light doesn't say "Check Tires" or "Check Cigarette Lighter." It says Check Engine for a reason: to scare you and prepare you!) Instead, simply order my brand new Len's Check Engine Light Repair Kit. For only $19.95, the price of a gallon of gas--oh, wait, that's next year, I'll send you a personally sized strip of electrician tape, and the red-eyed demon on your dashboard will never bother you again! (Buy two or three as gifts!)

Ah, maybe I'm all wet about this. Maybe having all the components in a modern automobile carefully monitored by the latest computer technology is the latest and most wonderful advancement in the history of auto safety. Maybe I'm again exhibiting the same backward-thinking attitude toward new technology as I showed when I was first exposed to the computer. And the ATM machine. I won't use this; for it's new and I fear it.

Or perhaps, instead of blindly ranting here in the middle of the night about something on which I have little or no knowledge, I should educate myself by checking with an authority that I trust. That's it; tomorrow I'll get all the information I can on the "Check Engine" light from our own federal government. At least then I can be sure that I'm being told the truth!

And hey, before you go running off, please remember that my little hair loss problem was fully resolved a long time ago and today, in that department anyway, I remain as normal as anybody. Normaler, even.

Useless Information: Bobo Holloman

With your kind permission I'd like to once again return to major league baseball for tonight's Useless Information entry. Happily in this installment nobody gets killed by a pitch. It's an odd tale all the same, for it is the story of yet another major league ballplayer who accomplished a feat that is unique in all of baseball history, and yet remains mostly forgotten, buried under a century of dusty diamond lore.

Bobo Holloman was a relief pitcher when he began his major league career in April, 1953 with the Cleveland Browns. His earliest outings were, quite frankly, quite horrible. One wag of the time said that he gave up more hits to the opponents than when he was pitching batting practice to his own team. While this claim may or may not have been true, it is known that by the beginning of May Bobo found himself sitting atop an ERA of nearly 9.0. (For you non-baseball types, that means he gave up almost nine runs for every nine innings pitched. I'll make it even clearer for you: he stank.)

But Bobo was a big lovable guy with a great sense of humor, and he used his popularity to badger the Browns into turning him into a starting pitcher, where he felt he could really shine. (All agreed that Bobo had no shortage of self-confidence, and some were quick to point out that it was sadly misplaced.) The team finally relented and on May 6, 1953 rookie Bobo Holloman became a starting pitcher for the first time in his major league career.

Reports vary about what happened on that day. Some say Bobo was hit pretty hard, but wherever a ball was hit a Browns fielder was already there waiting for it. Others say there were a lot of spectacular plays that saved the game that day or that the heavy humid air kept at least a few potential home runs in the park. Ultimately the only thing that matters is what is in the record book, and it shows on that day 29-year-old rookie Bobo Holloman became the only modern player to pitch a no-hitter in his first major league start.

You didn't think I was going to leave you on that high note, did you? I guess you don't know this column very well. After his historic performance Bobo became an overnight celebrity, but by his next outing Bobo had tuned back into, well, Bobo. He didn't even manage to complete three full innings in either of his next two starts. He then got his second career win, but followed that up with three straight losses.

On June 21st Bobo won his third game, which would turn out to be the last victory of his major league career. On July 2 Bobo was knocked out of the game by the Tigers in the first inning. On July 23, with a record of three wins and seven losses, an ERA of 5.23 and a total of 65 major league inning pitched, Bobo was sent down to the minors, never to return to the show.

To this day Bobo Holloman remains the only modern player to pitch a no-hitter in his first start. He also got his only two career hits that day, as well as his only three RBI's. He has been called, "The Worst Pitcher to Ever Throw a No-Hitter," and the quaint tale of his three month career is periodically rediscovered, dusted off and brought into the light for the amusement of we sniggering baseball fans. Then again, unlike Bobo, I've never pitched a no-hitter in a major league baseball game. Have you?

The Honeymooners--B-

This is a true story: Several years back my boyhood chum Lenny was visiting for a day or so. He brought with him a tape which contained a dozen or so episodes of The Honeymooners, the classic televsion comedy that we had watched almost every night as teenagers. And even though we both knew just about every episode word-for-word, we were out of control with laughter throughout much of the night. So much so, in fact, that Lenny, who was scheduled to run in a triathalon the next day, actually pulled a muscle in his stomach.

So when someone decides that they are going to remake a classic televison comedy that is arguably the best of all time (sorry, Lucy fans, but that chick's show is w-a-a-a-y overrated) for the big screen, these are the type of rabid fans that they have to convince.

I didn't go to see The Honeymooners movie thinking of it as sacrilege, determined to hate it no matter what. I was more curious as to what they would do with those incredible 1950's characters. Would they capture the spirit of the original program? Would they recognize the nature of Ralph Kramden--his sweetness, his temper and the futility and joy of his life?

I'm happy to report that for the most part they did. The people who made this movie knew what they were up against--an army of aging baby boomers such as myself who practically worship the hapless everyman named Ralph Kramden as a god. We know him inside out and we know what he would do and what he would never do.

Knowing this, the writers cleverly toyed with us at the beginning of the film, as we see Ralph attempting to pick up some woman as he drives his bus along Madison Avenue. Immediately we're outraged. Ralph would never do that! He's many things but mostly he's a loyal husband deeply in love with his wife. How dare they! And then the movie pulls the rug out from under us: This is a flashback to 1999 showing how Ralph met Alice! A short time later Ralph is explaining his latest can't miss get-rich-quick scheme, a Y2K kit that everybody will need after all the computers break down at the stroke of midnight in the year 2000. Yes, that's our Ralph all right.

The actors in The Honeymooners did a very smart thing by not trying to imitate the actors from the original series. Attempting to become Jackie Gleason or Art Carney would have been cinematic suicide. Instead Cedric the Entertainer, who plays Ralph, (he'd never seen a Honeymooners episode before he signed on to do this movie) captures the loud, short-fused but ultimately good-hearted bus driver in his own style. Mike Epps wanders even further, and with less success, from the slow-witted but lovable Ed Norton as portrayed by Emmy winner Art Carney. It's a surprisingly smooth adaptation, transforming Kramden and Norton into two black men from the 'hood, but really, didn't Ralph and Ed live in "the 'hood" of their day?

Respecting and capturing the essence of the original characters is one thing, but making them funny is something else. There are some laughs in The Honeymooners, perhaps even more than in your average Hollywood comedy, but ultimately without the classic pedigree of its characters this would just another middle-of-the-road movie. It's entertaining, funny in some spots and warm in others. It's a pleasant enough way to pass a couple of hours, but it's not THE Honeymooners.

I came home after the movie and immediately popped in a VHS tape of a the classic Christmas episode. For twenty-two minutes, all alone in my living room, I laughed out loud, got teary-eyed and marveled at the magical combination of writing and acting that long ago came together to create this, the near-perfect situation comedy that was The Honeymooners.

Unsubscribably Delicious !

Today someone sent me a request to remove their name from my blog e-mail list. Can you imagine? I don't even know how this fellow, who apparently works over at KPIX, got on the list. (Although the other day I couldn't remember having picked up my mail or the name of the street on which I live, so I've got a pretty fair guess how his name appeared on the list.) Well, I suppose this guy would rather just turn off his brain and watch the re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond that KPIX runs about thirty times a day than enjoy the boundless knowledge and snappy patter that burst forth from this column every single day.

Oh, who am I kidding? Who wouldn't rather watch Raymond than read this mindless tripe? I'd certainly rather be watching Raymond than sitting here writing it. Or watching Yes, Dear. Or Cheaters. Or the Magic Bullet infomercial. But not Nancy Grace. Ew! (But don't you go getting any ideas about leaving. You're stuck to this blog for life, chum, so get used to it.)

Well, of course I immediately removed my KPIX buddy from the e-mail list. It is becoming a problem, is it not, that people and companies can now use technology to intrude, often daily and anonymously, into your personal life? And sometimes, though not often, you're completely helpless to stop them. For example, a while back we were getting a bunch of telephone calls. I knew that they were solicitations because the caller i.d. always read "Out Of Area," which usually means it's a cold call. (Fun Fact: I first got caller i.d. years ago, when it was still a novelty. I wanted to see if, as I suspected, all my ex-girlfriends were calling me. They weren't.)

When I did pick up one of these cold calls and said hello the response was always the same: there was a delay and then someone asked for my wife. Well, my wife works all day because, Lord knows, somebody has to, but when I asked the caller if I could take a message he refused to identify himself or his company. (No, it wasn't one of her old boyfriends, thank you very much. I can tell when it's a cold call. So shut up.)

These calls were coming in eight to ten times a day, which, you'll agree, can be more annoying than a Pauly Shore/Adam Sandler double feature. Star 69 didn't work either, so I took to trying different tactics to see if I could discourage the young man on the other end. (It was not her boyfriend!)

I'd pick up the phone and then just put it down and see how long he'd hang on. Or I'd put it by the radio and give him a dose of Howard. I whistled a song that I made up on the spot. (Incidentally, do you assume when you see some simpleton walking down the street whistling out loud that you may well be hearing the sound of the wind rushing through his ears? Yeah, me too.) On occasion I'd even talk to the cold caller like I was retarded or couldn't speak English. Well, whether it was due to my masterful plan or simply because our number finally dropped off their auto-dialer I don't know, but the calls from "Out of Area" have at last stopped.

Oddly enough, at the very same time that I was dealing with this telephone harrassment I was also going through its cyberspace equivalent on my computer. I was receiving an endless amount of e-mails from a company trying to sell me some of their crappy software. They did have an "unsubscribe" box, and I had entered my e-mail address about ten times over a two-month period when I realized it simply wasn't going to work. And the software sales pitches kept coming.

I took to replying directly to the e-mails with such gems as: "Please take me off your list! Tenth request!" And still no reponse. I even dirtied up my language a little, I'm not proud to say, but again no results. Actually, the only clue that I ever had that there was indeed a human being at the other end was when one of their frequent e-mails arrived bearing the title, "I'm sure it will come off soon." Were these geeks mocking me? Now the gloves were coming off! (Which, incidentally, made it much easier to use the keyboard.)

And so I continued to respond to their software e-mails, but now I was no longer using mere words. Years ago I remember being absolutely amazed upon discovering that you could copy, paste and e-mail nearly any picture that you found on the Internet. This gift of technology, long simply a form of entertainment for me, would now become my weapon of choice.

I am not going to describe the photos that I sent to that badgering software company. Believe, if you want, that they were simply your basic, run-of-the-mill Internet porn shots. I assure you, they were more, so much more. I also am not going to tell you the name of the repulsive website that served as my most reliable source, my secret stash of the most repugnant pictures ever collected by Man.

I withhold this information because I realize that my blog goes into people's homes and I certainly don't want to be accused of being an enabler to some twisted, bleary-eyed porn addict, or worse, a corrupter of innocent, wide-eyed children. And most importantly, I don't want my Mom to yell at me again. Let's just say that I'm delighted to report to you that I needed to send only five or six of these repellent photos before the e-mails from that overly zealous software company abruptly and permanently stopped.

Please don't misunderstand. If I answer the phone and somebody tries to sell me something I'll politely tell them I'm not interested. And then hang up. If I don't want to receive advertising e-mails from a specific company I'll click on their unsubscribe button. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred that's the end of it. But once in a while you just can't get rid of someone. Or some thing. And that, my friends, is when it's time to kick it up a notch. It's show time! Have fun with it! Get creative!

So does anybody else out there have a favorite tactic for dealing with similar situations? I'd love to hear about it. Just don't e-mail me more than once, OK? You wouldn't like the pictures.

Uslss Information: rnst Vincnt Wright

No, that title up there is not yet another example of my sloppy editing skills. It's actually a rather cute variation on the name of the subject of this, the latest entry in our Useless Information series. So now, of course, your curiosity is piqued and you're leaning forward in wild anticipation. Admit it, right now you're wondering just who was this Ernest Vincent Wright fellow, why is his name typed above in such an odd manner, and is there any of that Nestle's dark chocolate left in the kitchen or did those damn kids eat it all?

Well, unfortunately I can't assist with any issues concerning your dismally poor eating habits, but I will let you know that what Mr. Wright accomplished was so incredible, so unique, so downright amazing that to this day he remains...virtually unknown!

Since I know that at this moment you're burning with curiosity (Or are you still rummaging around looking for that chocolate, and if so, what is that burning? Better get it checked out.) I'll let you know that in 1939 Ernest Vincent Wright published a novel titled Gadsby that was over 50,000 words long. "So what?" you ask between chews, as a disgusting mix of chocolate and saliva drips from your chin. Well, I'll tell you so what. It turns out that Wright wrote his book, all forty-three chapters of it, without ever once using the letter "e" ! How about that? Heh? Heh? Wait, come back!

Wright did use the letter "e" in the introduction to his book, in which he explained some of the difficulties he faced in this literary challenge. First, the past tense of almost all verbs ends in "ed." Also, you can forget about using any number between six and thirty. As Wright himself explained, this was a big problem when introducing any characters who were young women: "What young woman wants to have it known that she is over thirty?" Oh, calm down, you whiner. This was written in 1939, so Mr. Wright wasn't yet able to appreciate the delightful restrictions of political correctness that we so enjoy today.

The first question that most likely popped into your head (after "I wonder if there's any Dr. Pepper in the fridge to wash down all this chocolate?") was why would Wright waste, I mean, devote his time to such a daunting task? The reason, he claims in his intro, is that he got tired of hearing so many people claim that it couldn't be done! (Do you think this guy ever had sex? Nah, me neither.)

OK, I don't care what you say, I think that writing an entire book without using the letter "e" is pretty amazing. Why, I've got all 26 letters at my disposal and still can't seem to get my second book together. (Why, yes, the first one is available at www.LeonardStegmann.com. Thank you so much for asking.) So tonight, before your very eyes, I'm going to attempt (since I can't seem to find any chocolate in my house) to construct my own paragraph without the use of the letter "e." OK, ready? Silence, please. Here I go:

Today was a grat day. I got up around ight o'clock and had a nic brakfast of bacon and ggs. Aftr showring I dcidd to tak a walk to...Ah, I'm just funnin' with you! Here I go for real:

Today was similar to many days. I got up and took a bath. (Ha!) As it was almost noon I had brunch. The sun was shining so I got into my car and took a spin. That was a lot of fun, but by two o'clock it was cloudy and soon I was visiting a local bookshop. I bought two books, a carob candy bar and a Mr. Pibb to wash it down. "What I want now is a nap!" I thought. And soon I was snoring.

Christ, that's enough of that! It's making my head hurt. Well, I think I've proved my point, whatever it might have been, and am hoping that you've now developed a new respect for Ernest Wright. Because, my dear friends, we may not have a cure for heart disease or cancer, we may not have much control over natural disasters, and it seems very unlikely that we'll be eliminating violence towards each other anytime soon. But by golly, we've got a 50,000 word book that doesn't contain a single "e," and for this, Mr. Ernest Vincent Wright, we salute you!

The Giggles

I got "the giggles" the other day. I hate calling it the giggles--it's such an epicine phrase. (Can you hear the Roget's being opened from where you are?) Yet something had struck me as so funny that I began laughing out of control and was unable to stop. I would estimate that this has happened to me maybe ten times in my life, although when I try to remember specific events the number is much smaller. And of the handful of times I do remember getting the giggles I rarely identify exactly what triggered them. I do recall what set off my most recent fit, but I won't reveal that until the end of the blog. I don't want you to click off in disgust. Not yet, anyway.

I'm sure modern science can provide us with some convoluted and windy explanations as to why we get the giggles. They'll tell us that it is some sort of release of tension, which would explain why the giggles often occur in places like churches, funerals, schools and other somber atmospheres. Other windbags may explain that it is some vestigial remnant of our ancestor's "fight or flight response," for which we no longer have any use.

I'm here to tell you that modern science doesn't know a damn thing. Since the beginning of recorded history "experts" have led us to believe that we now have all the answers to everything, case closed. In truth we're sitting on this rock in the middle of a void so huge we can't even imagine it, and we don't know jack. We don't know why we sleep, we don't know why we yawn and we don't know why we dream and we don't know why we're here. And we sure as hell don't know why we get the giggles.

Though I know I'm forgetting other episodes, my earliest memory of getting the giggles was when I was swapping jokes with my friend Kenny during our seventh grade Social Studies class. Whispering jokes during class used to be one of my favorite activities, which may explain why I write blogs in the middle of the night, as opposed, say, to seeing patients or trying cases all day. I don't remember what Kenny said that made me laugh so hard. In all liklihood, knowing the high regard in which I hold myself, I may have been laughing at my own joke. What made this case of the giggles unique in my life experience was that right in the middle of my giggling fit I exhaled sharply, expelling a long rope of, well, snot, which for some time continued to dangle like a shoelace from my nostril. This unexpected circumstance, of course, made Kenny laugh even harder. I wish I could remember what the joke was.

Another time I had gone to see Jerry Seinfeld perform. I've seen many of the great comedians, and usually am drawn to the ones with an edge: Carlin, Pryor, Kinison--those types. Yet nobody has ever made me laugh as hard as Seinfeld did that night. My face literally froze up, no sound came out of my open mouth. I was seriously concerned for my health and contemplated running up the aisle to get away from the onslaught. Ironically, Seinfeld himself addressed the giggles in his classic TV show, when Elaine got them while at a friend's piano recital. And she actually did escape up the aisle!

Until this week, the last time I had the giggles was when I was watching a DVD of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and one of the robot's comments (you have to know the show to understand what I'm talking about) started me going. Nope, I don't remember the comment, but Spike looked over at me as if I were having a breakdown. Which, in a way, I was.

OK, I'm now going to tell you what made me laugh so hard the other day. And keep in mind, with the giggles the standard response when you try to explain why you are laughing is, "What's so funny about that?" That's what makes the giggles so strange.

Detour: Sorry, but I suddenly remembered a time long ago when my girlfriend and I got the giggles together (Isn't that just better than sex? Depends on the girlfriend, I guess.) and I do remember what triggered it. We, along with another roommate, were watching a Bob Hope TV special (I told you it was long ago) and the current year's All-American football players were trotting out and introducing themselves. One player from Rice University came out wearing his jersey which featured his number on the chest with "Rice" written above it. I turned to my girlfriend and said, "And for five dollars more we'll put the name of your favorite vegetable on your shirt." We were howling out of control for the next ten or fifteen minutes while our roommate kept asking, "What's so funny? What's so funny?" until we were finally able to tell him him. Did you laugh when you heard the "vegetable" line? Neither did he. That's how the giggles works.

So Spike and I were watching this news story the other day about a child who had been born with a deformity. I know, sad, right? Especially when you think about how cruel children can be to classmates who look different. But this kid's deformity was that he was born without ears. I don't think I had ever heard of such a thing.

Suddenly I could not stop laughing, and I offer no rational explanation for this. I don't want you to think I'm a callous bastard (I am, of course, but I don't want you to think that) but the next part of this report showed this boy as he was being taken to be fitted for a prosthesis. (Well two, hopefully.) I was still convulsing with laughter when this poor kid climbed onto the bus, stuck his head out of the window and yelled excitedly to the camera,"I'm going to get my new ears!"

I almost fell off the couch.

Len & Spike Get The Crabs !

My wife Spike and I were strolling around the marina the other day. (Actually it was months ago but I, like a good deodorant, like to maintain the illusion of freshness.) Several of the fishing boats had live crabs for sale and we talked for a while about getting a couple. When Spike approached the fisherguy and found out they were only five dollars each we decided to buy them and treat ourselves to a nice crab dinner. (I've always been partial to things that are both romantic and cheap. Like me.)

I knew on the way home that I was already facing a dilemma. Years ago when I had cooked live crabs one simply tossed the unlucky, albeit tasty, crustaceans into a pot of boiling water. Back then people actually would tell you this was perfectly acceptable, because crabs, like prisoners of war, don't feel pain. ("A crab's nervous system is different from ours," someone who hadn't even passed junior high biology would explain to me.) So I always assumed that dropping into the boiling water was the same for them as taking a soak in a jacuzzi. Except 120 degrees hotter.

As I drove home I recalled hearing that boiling crabs and lobsters alive was now recognized as cruelty to animals. Duh. So when I got home I went to the source of all knowledge (and apparently quite a bit of porno) the Internet. (Sidebar: The other night I was writing about a paper airplane that wouldn't fly and I needed an example of a fat celebrity to finish this sentence: It was about as aerodynamic as_________. I thought of Oprah, but I didn't know her current weight situation, and I wasn't sure everybody would remember Raymond Burr. So I actually searched "fat celebrities" and found a list! A list of fat celebrities! And that, Kids, is how Aretha Franklin made it into the article.)

Well, sure as shootin' there was much info on kinder alternatives to boiling the crabs alive. In fact there seemed to be an entire movement aimed at the more humane killing of crabs and lobsters, a movement that apparently had already spread to many cooks and restaurants throughout the world. One method explained how to do a kind of crab lobotomy that would kill them instantly. It seemed a bit complicated and I still have a little trouble cutting my own toenails, so I figured this method wouldn't work well for me. I didn't cherish the thought of botching the operation and then having to take care of a live, mentally- challenged crab for the rest of my life.

Another website suggested putting the crabs in the freezer and it would be like they were falling asleep. Well, I'd actually heard of this method before as a way to kill diseased tropical fish. (OK, I've used it. There. Happy?) At about this point Spike was reading my mind. "You want to walk down to the ocean and set them free, don't you?" In truth I had been thinking that very thing, but it just seemed a little bit silly. And it was too cold out. So I avoided making this blog even sappier than it already is by putting the crabs in the freezer.

About an hour or so later I had a big pot of water boiling and I took the crabs out of the freezer and put them on the counter. As I watched one of them I thought I saw some movement. I stared at him for a while and then called Spike. "Yup, he moved," she confirmed. The son-of-a-bitch was still alive!

Now what? If I threw him into the pot he'd probably feel pretty good as he warmed up from his adventure in the freezer. But just for a few seconds. After that we'd be back to where we started. And it was then that I pondered some of the really big questions: What is the nature of life? What is our reponsibility to other species? And do other grown men act like this over a lousy dinner?

Who knows? I do know I picked up the crabs, threw them back into the freezer, poured the boiling water into the sink and cooked a frozen pizza. Which was delicious. And the next night I heated up a new pot of water, tossed in the crabs and soon we were feasting on fresh crabs. Except that they had been frozen. And which were, like the pizza, delicious.

Useless Information: Ray Chapman

Whew, I'm OK, I'm OK. Thanks for asking. It was touch and go there for a while, especially around 7:00 when Seinfeld comes on, but fortunately my colossal inner strength once again pulled me through.

At around 3:00 today my cable went out. The screen on my television was like a KKK rally; that is, nothing but white noise. (I could have used "Congress" there too, but nah, too easy. Or Edgar Winter! Ha!) Now since I have high-speed cable Internet access that means when the cable goes out, the on-line computer service goes out too. (Comcast used to give me all of it for free, but they discontinued that just because I quit my job with them. Are they being petty or what?) So for five hours today I was completely disconnected and forced to live with no Internet, no e-mail and no Kramer! I am not an animal!

Luckily we're up and running again, and just in time to bring you the next installment of Useless Information! Today, Guys and Gals, we take you into the world of professional baseball, and specifically into the career of a major league ball player who did something on the field that no other player has ever done.

Ray Chapman was a shortstop who played for the Cleveland Naps and the Cleveland Indians from 1912 to 1920. (The Naps were named after one of their star players whose first name was Napoleon. You thought they were named after a short, restful period of sleep, didnt you? God, why do I even bother?)

In 1918 Ray Chapman led the American League in runs scored and in walks. An expert bunter, Chapman is still sixth on the all-time list for sacrifice hits. He batted .300 three times in his career and in 1917 stole 52 bases, a Cleveland Indians club record that would stand until 1980. Yes, Ray Chapman was fast, but not quite fast enough.

On August 16th, 1920 the Cleveland Indians were in New York to play the Yankees. Ray Chapman came up to bat against pitcher Carl Mays. Chapman was crowding the plate, as he often did, when a pitch from Mays just missed the strike zone. What the pitch didn't miss, however, was Chapman's head. And twelve hours later in a New York hospital Ray Chapman became the first and only major league player ever to be killed by a pitch. I think trivia is so much fun, don't you?

Where's George?

Now don't let the title scare you--this has nothing to do with Bush. The George I'm referring to is George Washington, that grumpy-looking guy who stares up at us from every one of our dollar bills. And www.WheresGeorge.com is a fun little website for people with at least one of these dollars and w-a-a-a-y too much time on their hands. You know, like shut-ins, agorophobics and bloggers.

One day, oh say about six months ago, I noticed that one of the dollar bills I was holding had been rubber stamped in two places. The tiny red letters said, "This is a special registered dollar" and "www.wheresgeorge.com." Well, I'm not made of stone and these messages certainly piqued my curiosity, so I immediately stopped what I was doing, (which apparently was holding dollar bills) and logged onto the site.

The home page asks if you ever wonder where the dollar bills in your wallet have been, or where they'll travel to next. My immediate answer was, "No, I don't. Nobody does." I say that for the easy laugh, but it's a lie. I'll confess right now that I have wondered, and more than once, where my dollar bills might have been. As well as my fives and tens and twenties and even my hundreds. If I had any. Which I don't.

You don't even need a specially stamped dollar bill to play on Where's George. You simply go to the website and enter the serial number of as many dollar bills as you'd like. If the bill has been previously registered you'll see a history of where it's been and how far it has travelled. And if you're the first to enter that particular buck you can keep checking back to see where it has gone after leaving your sweaty paws. That is, assuming someone else with as much free time as you has gone to the site and registered that particular dollar. Hey, you can talk about birthday parties, concerts, Disneyland or orgies, but tracking a dollar bill that you once held in your hand? Now that's what I call fun!

And at Where's George our friends to the north can track their Canadian dollars by logging on to "Where's Willy," a reference I assume to whoever was lucky enough to get his mug pasted on the Canadian one dollar bill. Sure, it would be simple enough for me to get on line and find out the answer for you, but you probably care even less than I do, and besides it's almost time for The Daily Show. So let's keep moving along.

Well of course I logged my special dollar bill (Who wouldn't?) and found that it had first been registered by someone in the town of Pacifica, California. Wow! That's over eight miles from where I live! Amazing! (OK, so I could walk the damn thing back to its original owner if I wanted to. Stay with me on this, OK? It's all I got.)

Well, knowing me as you do, you must realize that I wasn't going to just go out and spend this dollar only to have it travel another measly eight miles. They have a "Most Travelled Dollars" list on Where's George, and by golly, I wanted to see my dollar on that list! So I held onto it until I went to France.

I figured I'd give it to some lucky French citizen who was A) computer literate and B) willing to touch something American. After five days in Paris I still hadn't found the right person, and we were leaving the next day for other parts of France. (I didn't want to just assume that they have computers throughout France, and not just in Paris.) So I folded the dollar bill into a crude paper airplane and launched it out of my hotel window, to land among the college students who were hurrying along the bustling Boulevard Saint-Michel below.

Except it never made it to the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Sadly, my folded dollar was about as aerodynamic as Aretha Franklin and it set down on a balcony just one floor below mine. At least I think it did--I never actually did see it land, nor did I ever see it again. Hopefully it was picked up by a student from the Sorbonne with a sense of adventure and too much time on his hands.

It's been two months now. I still check the website regularly and my dollar has not yet appeared. Of course my biggest fear is that it will eventually be found by an American tourist who'll cram it into his wallet, return to the U.S. and log onto WheresGeorge.com from his home computer...in Pacifica, California.

At The End of the Day

How clever! I bet nobody has ever made a pun out of Doris Day's surname before. Well, at least they haven't in the last forty years. Ah, so what? Do most of you even remember who Doris Day was? Or is, I should say, as she recently celebrated her 81st birthday. (Did you know that Doris Day and Marlon Brando were born on the same day? OK, smarty-pants, how about Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin? And you know who else were born on the same day? Malcolm Young of AC/DC and me! Keep reading, Folks, because the useless information just keeps coming!)

This all started when I read some articles about the life of Paul Lynde, who most of us remember as the center square on Hollywood Squares. Some of us also remember him as a character actor in several light comedies in the '60's, and of course, as my wife reminded me, as the hilarious Uncle Arthur on Bewitched. He always struck me as a funny, funny man who died too young. (I'm not going to get into the various juicy theories about exactly how he died. Do your own damn research once in a while, OK?) Anyway, I hadn't seen any of his work in a while so I decided to watch him again in an old movie.

So I went on-line to NetFlix (Great way to rent movies, by the way. You don't even have to leave your house. I mean, you can if you want to, but you don't have to.) and found a movie called The Glass Bottom Boat. I vaguely remembered the title and that it starred Doris Day. I thought it might be fun to watch one of these old sweet and innocent Doris Day comedies from the '60's. Boy was I wrong. It wasn't innocent and it sure as hell wasn't much fun. It was a horrible, horrible movie with a convoluted script that barely kept the movie dragging along and a disturbing, dirty-minded attitude towards sex.

Listen, I know it's probably no surprise to you that I have watched porn movies. (8mm, VHS, DVD--I've lived it all!) I've seen it in magazines. I even spent some time working in an adult book store somewhere in my dark, dark past.. Yet I tell you now it was only The Glass Bottom Boat, starring Doris Day, that made me feel unclean all over. I wanted to take a shower as soon as it ended.

Here's what I think the problem was: This movie was made in 1966. The youth culture had taken control, the sexual revolution was in full swing and the naked abandonment of Woodstock was just three years away. And Doris Day was 42 years old. I read somewhere that after playing the coy virgin for years and becoming one of America's top box-office draws, Doris Day's popularity began to slip. The Glass Bottom Boat was an obvious attempt by to climb back to the top, to get with the times.

And boy, was Doris trying to sell it in this flick. She bent over into provocative poses and stuck out her butt. And more than once, too. On a wild boat ride she made sure her breasts bounced like seismograph needles during a 8.0 earthquake. She talked rather suggestively to some of the men. (1966 suggestive, to be sure, but after all this was America's Sweetheart, and it kinda made my skin crawl.) She even wore a skimpy outfit in a fantasy scene that bared her belly-button! The very same belly-button that Barabara Eden was forced to conceal on I Dream of Jeannie! (Well not the same belly-button, but you know what I mean.)

What might have saved The Glass Bottom Boat (which was, by the way, originally titled The Spy in The Lace Panties. Ew! I feel the need to take another shower.) was the wonderful cast of supporting actors who were given far too little screen time: Paul Lynde (Hilarious in drag), Dom DeLuise (Stealing freely from Jerry Lewis.), Dick Martin (Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, anyone?) John McGiver (You'll know him if you see him.) and Alice Pearce (Gladys Kravitz from Bewitched.)

They sure knew how to pack comedies with a lot of funny people in the olden days. Nowadays you only get one, slightly amusing sidekick with your star. Of course back then they were probably working for twenty bucks a day and a free lunch so you could afford to hire a dozen of them. So maybe I'll rent another Paul Lynde movie from NetFlix. I think he actually did another film with Doris Day, and this one doesn't even have the word "panties" in the title.

"I'm Not An Animal Anymore."

The Tyson fight hadn't even started and already I was trying to come up with funny lines mocking myself for yet again wasting another fifty bucks to watch him on Pay-Per-View. I could have saved time and flushed a fifty-dollar bill directly down the toilet, I thought, or given it to my shredder-happy wife to play with. I could have even given it to the Democratic Party so they could afford to piss away some more elections.

Yes, I was pretty sure that once again ordering a Tyson fight was a waste of money. Most likely here was charade, as another third or fourth-tier palooka is propped up in order to squeeze out one more Tyson payday and to hopefully jumpstart a string of victories that might actually get him one last shot at a title. Or maybe the fight would end in some absurd and unsportsmanlike manner that would blacken even further Tyson's reputation as well as that of the sport itself. I couldn't have been more wrong. By the third round I still believed that Tyson was purposely trying to extend the fight to get himself some needed "ring time." By the sixth round I knew that I was seeing history.

The Mike Tyson I will be writing about is not Tyson the wife-beater, Tyson the ear-biter, Tyson the rapist or Tyson the animal. I write only about Tyson the Boxer, and some will have difficulty separating out this one aspect of the man while at the same time turning a blind eye to the rest of the package. I believe that to be a rational and understandable response. I have a similar problem with Bush.

I've watched and admired Tyson from very near the beginning of his professional boxing career. How dominant was Tyson from 1985 to 1990? How great the fear he instilled, the legend he created? So great that thousands and thousands of us, his fans, still were buying into his myth fifteen years after its demise, purchasing tickets to the fight or paying big to have it piped directly into our homes. The commentators, too, had undoubtably bought in, joking regularly about how much trouble opponent Kevin McBride was going to find himself. What does it say, just one day after the fight, that I had to look up McBride's name to write that last sentence but the name Tyson will continue to symbolize raw power, ferociousness and fear for decades to come?

We were all looking for the same thing--the Tyson Power that we remembered from so long ago. The devasting knockout punch, the super-human undercut that could lift a 220-pound man off his feet before sending him crashing to the canvas, unconscious and unremembered. We believed, wanted to believe, that this Tyson still existed, that he would resurrect to once-again rule boxing with two iron fists. That is what we wanted to see last night.

You can read re-caps of what happened in yesterday's fight in the paper or on-line. If you have little knowledge of boxing you may even be confused about Tyson quitting after the sixth round in a fight that, according to the judges, he was winning. Yes, he had been ahead in the early rounds, but the fight had turned and everybody watching, including Tyson himself, knew that he was not going to win.

Near the end of the sixth round Tyson, after having taken some powerful shots to the head, was pushed, almost eased down to a sitting position by the 271-pound McBride. He wasn't knocked down or slammed to the canvas. It was, if I may steal a line from Seinfeld, "like an old man getting into a nice warm bath." There was something peaceful about it, an acceptance from Tyson that seemed more appropriate to Kubler-Ross' stages of death than the ending of a boxing match. But something was dying, right before our eyes. And somehow, conversely, something was also being born. And what happened next made me realize that the scene I was witnessing was truly special, human and historic, and that my almost-fifty dollars had been well-spent.

Tyson struggled to his feet and lumbered over to his corner, sat on his stool and decided/realized at that moment that one of the most remarkable, turbulent and outright bizarre careers in boxing history had just come to an end. Yet the real surprise was not just the elegant eulogy for that career that was soon to follow, but that it was delivered by Tyson himself.

For the post-fight interview with Tyson was as honest and beautiful a speech as I've ever heard by an athlete at the close of his career. One could rank it with Lou Gehrig's "Luckiest Man" speech, allowing for the fact that this speaker was not dying, and that he was Mike Tyson. Quietly, and oddly at peace, Tyson said he was done. He no longer loved to box and did not want to further embarrass the sport. He wished he could give everybody their money back and all he really wanted to do was to go home and spend time with his children. He said he was not an animal anymore. His statements were thoughtful, poignant and brutally honest. And sad, when you pondered what he had once been and what many, including myself, had expected him to become: The Greatest Ever.

As he was walking towards the tunnel to return to the dressing room, his muscled back towards the camera, you could see some of the people looking down from stands. You felt they should be cheering this man, cheering his remarkable career, as they had just a short time earlier when he had emerged from that same tunnel. But nobody was cheering. Most likely they either had not heard or appreciated his interview in the ring, nor realized what they had just seen.

You wanted Tyson to walk faster, to get into the shelter of the tunnel before the inevitable happened. Suddenly the expected cup of soda hit Tyson from above. I haven't read, nor would it be accurate to report, that the "crowd" was bombarding him with garbage. It was only the act of one man, one insignificant jerk whose name we'll never know and whose feats we'll never applaud. A loser who had sat comfortably for hours in his seat watching the evening's bouts, including this last one which had featured an aging and empty boxer who hadn't measured up to this guy's expectations.

Tyson looked up into the crowd for a second, his back still to the camera, and then continued to walk, the shadow of his powerful body framed by the curve of the tunnel he entered. It's was a beautiful scene, and I wanted a still of it to frame and hang in my home. Know that's it's the last image we'll ever see of Tyson the Boxer.

Oh, I should mention that as Tyson entered that tunnel, walking away from his boxing career and into boxing history, he raised his hand straight over head and extended his middle finger, his final salute to the rude fan and probably to the entire world. When he had spoken minutes earlier he had been eloquent, honest and possessing of an assured self-knowledge for which we might all strive. But when I saw that raised middle finger I had to laugh. Twenty years had passed, he had come through it all and had, to the very end, remained Mike Tyson.

Yours, Mine and ...That's It.

Here's a question for you married folks. Is it weird that my wife and I still keep our money separate? Some background: We've been married for six years and been together for sixteen. (I'm not one to rush into things. Some things anyway. Ice-cream stores, yes. Marriage, not so much.)

Actually, it was my wife who originally voiced the idea of separate finances. "Most fights couples have are about money," she said. She's probably right. Well, money or sex anyway. But that's a topic for another blog, eh?

Years ago when we lived in sin we actually went so far as to keep a list of how much we spent on groceries. If I went shopping and spent $80 I would write that on a piece of paper we hung on the inside of a cabinet door. If she went the next week and spent $60 we'd subtract that and I'd still be $20 ahead. Today we're no longer that anal about the whole grocery shopping thing. (I suspect it's no longer an issue because I do all the shopping now. I think I better hire an agent.) but we do keep all of our money (such as it is) separate. "It works, doesn't it?" asks my wife. Yes, it seems to. It just doesn't seem that romantic.

Now Dr. Laura, well-known advice guru and menopausal radio quack, says that when couples won't combine their assets it usually means somebody is planning to make a break. That's a little disheartening, until you remember this woman also believes that dating couples, even in their 40's and 50's, shouldn't have "pre-marital" sex and that it's fine to eat animals because God told us it was OK. (Yeah, I eat them but for entirely different reasons. They taste good.)

What really made me think that separate accounts might be the right way to go was when my wife and I were talking the other day (Sometimes, not often, there's just nothing on TV.) and we realized that we've only had one fight about money and that was because there was a misunderstanding. To rectify the situation she was trying to give me some money and I refused to accept it. Isn't that just darling?

OK, hang on. Here's what go me thinking about this subject. I was putting a CD on the player today and I realized that, not only have we not combined our cash, we haven't even combined our CD collections! Sure, even I can see that might be a bit much, but to tell you the truth I have mine organized just the way I want them. And I sure don't want her gosh-darn (My Mommy yelled at me today for suing the F-Word in this blog.) Air Supply touching my Neil Young! Am I being irrational here?

Yes, handling our finances the way we do still sometimes seems odd to me, but once a year our tax lady assures us that we are not the only couple who come in and want everything broken down individually. And we do, of course, file as a married couple. We're quirky but not fucking insane. (Sorry, Mom.)

A Million Dollars, Baby!

Let's see, Stedmeir, Stefani, Stegle, Stevens--nope, no "Stegmann." The yearly list came out this week and once again my name is made conspicuous by its absence. "What list?" you probably didn't ask yourself. Why, it's the World Wealth Report, of course, and OK, it's not an actual list, but a report containing statistics on the world's newest millionaires.

According to this report released by Merrill Lynch (who are stockbrokers, so you know you can trust them) about 600,000 people entered the coveted millionaire's club in 2004, bringing the total number of millionaires to a staggering 8.3 million. Now this number is world-wide, but I'm assuming everything is being converted into U.S. dollars.

I mean, if some clown in Turkey has a million Turkish Lira, that would only be worth about goddammit I just went to my currency converter and they don't even have a quote for the Turkish Lira anymore. I checked it out a few months ago and I think a million of them were only worth about seven bucks or something. Seven bucks! What are they made out of, lint? I guess I could go on the web and see what happened to the lira but who gives a damn really? Besides, the joke is already ruined. I was going to use the Mexican Peso as a fallback, but it's actually worth almost a dime these days and frankly who needs all the angry e-mails? Not me. So thanks a lot, Turkey, you've been a big help. Again.

Ahem. Anyway, my point, and I do have one on occasion, is that being a millionaire isn't what it used to be. If it's true that every twenty-four months we're gaining a million new millionaires, what's the big deal? Hell, almost anybody in California who has a paid-off house and half a tank of gas is practically there.

You know what this millionaire thing reminds me of? Sainthood. A few years back I wrote an article on saints, and specifically about the number of dead, I mean "existencely-challenged," folks who were made saints during Pope John Paul's tenure alone. How many do you think--take a guess. Three? Five? A dozen? At the time I wrote my article John Paul II had created 464 new saints! And who knows how many more he added before he died! At the end he was probably handing out sainthoods to the guy who opened his car door or sold him a pack of gum! And it's the same with millionaires: Throw a stick out the window these days and you'll hit five of them.

No, it doesn't take much to be a millionaire anymore. Why, when I was a kid (here we go again) we had some neighbors who were doing very well, indeed. So well, in fact, that they chose to leave our white-trash neighborhood behind and move into a brand new home, no make that a brand-new mansion, that set them back a whopping $100,000! (Of course, if you're reading this in Arkansas you're saying, "Yeah, so?") Now those were the days that you could actually do some operating if you had a million dollars. (And while I'm thinking of it, this was the same period of time I used to cut the neighbor's lawn every week. I was paid $1 for the front and $1 for the back. So here's a quiz for you: How much would I have to give some dopey kid today to be paying him the 1968 equivalent? Well, I found the answer on a cost-of-living calculator, which, unlike the Turkish Lira calculator, actually worked. The answer: $5.50. So where are the kids who are willing to cut my lawn for $5.50? I think I remember some young punks coming around and offering to do it for $25, and that was about ten years ago! Damn it, it's my turn! Where is my cheap garden labor! Where is my lawn slave!)

So the lesson we learned today is if you're young enough and save your money you too may one day join the millionaire's club, although it might not mean much by then. I even tease my wife by telling her that someday when I'm gone she may actually become a millionaire, using my insurance money to splurge on Caribbean cruises and play find-the-porthole with the Jamaican cabin boy. She said it wouldn't matter if she had a million dollars if I wasn't around anymore. That made me feel pretty good, at least it did until later in the day when I caught her using a broom to practice the limbo. I'm pretty sure I heard her humming some old Bob Marley tunes, too.

Monster-In-Law--C+

Do you know I've co-hosted a Public Access movie review show for sixteen years? No, of course you don't. Nobody knows. Sixteen years! That's only a few years shy of Ebert. A third of my life! (Sorta.) Unbelieveable.

When I started I figured two, maybe three years and then off to Hollywood and the fame and fortune that surely awaited and that I so richly deserved. Ha! The closest I ever got to a fortune out of the damn show was the occasional free movie ticket, and even that didn't last very long. Fame? Well, I once signed an autograph for a guy who worked the fish counter at Lucky's. Ten free movies. One autograph. Sixteen years. Sigh.

Oh, don't listen to me. I enjoy doing the show. And really, what else have I got to do? Write this drivel? By a happy coincidence it's also been sixteen years since Jane Fonda last acted in a film. (I just looked it up and it's actually been only fifteen years, but work with me on this--I'm killing myself here trying to make this segue work.)

So the obvious question is why would a two-time Academy Award-winning actress come out of retirement to make...Monster-In-Law? Oh, did you think I was going to answer that question for you? How the hell should I know? Listen, all my blogs can't be about drinking absinthe, and all her movies can't be Coming Home. Not every Beatle song was "Hey Jude," you know. Even they had their "Mr. Moonlight." (If at any time you find my references becoming a little too obscure, especially among you younger folk, you be sure and let me know, OK?)

To tell you the truth, the scenes with Jane Fonda and Wanda Sykes are the best thing about Monster-In-Law. I know, that's faint praise, like being called the best player on the Devil Rays. But still, they have their moments. Fleeting, to be sure, but they're there.

Jennifer Lopez seems to be sliding fast, and, although I've never been a fan, I take no glee in this. Why do we, the public, do this to people? Wasn't it only a few years ago that she was being worshipped for having the #1 movie and the #1 album at the same time? Now she's reduced to appearing in a fairly lame movie with a script that puts her on the receiving end of more than several fat-ass jokes. Can her reality show be that far away?

Yes, I could have told J-Lo that fame is a fickle mistress. Like God, it giveth and it taketh away. Take it from me, I know. Did I ever tell you about the time I signed an autograph for the fish guy?

Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

I swore I wouldn't use that title. It's easy, trite and been done a million times. I'm sure it was hilarious the first time somebody said it, sometime around 1840 I suspect, but now it's just a tiresome phrase that doesn't even mean anything. And yet I couldn't resist. Yes, I'm a weak, weak man.

Since I first heard about absinthe, with its mysterious tales of hallucinogenic and poisonous properties, I thought, "Yum! That's for me!" And so I sit here tonight with an unopened bottle of the green liquor that I smuggled back from France just so I might share my first taste of the legendary liquid with you, my loyal readers.

Absinthe was invented in the late 18th Century by a Swiss fellow named Pierre Ordinaire. Pierre used wormword, a local herb, as his main ingredient, and marketed absinthe as a medicine. Of course he did. His concoction quickly grew in popularity and soon the nickname "The Green Fairy" was born. (Happily, referring to the absinthe and not to Pierre himself.)

Absinthe grew in popularity during the 19th Century, especially among the artsy types of Europe. Eventually the spoilsports came along, as they always will, and argued that the liquor was dangerous. One such, a French party-pooper named Dr. Valentin Magnan, conducted studies that found that absinthe affected the central nervous system and caused hallucinations, convulsions and insanity. This is all poppycock, of course. Absinthe was enjoyed in copious amounts by one of the world's great artists, Vincent van Gogh. And we all know what a stalwart of mental stability he was.

To serve absinthe one would usually pour some into a glass. A flat, slotted spoon was placed over the glass and a sugar cube then placed on the spoon. Cool water was dripped onto the sugar to sweeten and dillute the drink to taste.

Tonight, for your entertainment alone, I am going to first take a drink of the absinthe straight, and then try some with the sugar and water. By the way, it's damn near impossible to find a flat, slotted absinthe spoon these days, (not that I really looked) , so I'll just be using a regular one. In fact, I couldn't even find sugar cubes at Safeway, so again regular old sugar will have to do. So I'm now about to take my first taste of The Green Fairy. (Again, we're talking about the absinthe here, OK?) Are you with me? Great, here we go...(SFX: drumroll.)

Bleah! Cough syrup! Sure burns going down, too. Whew. That sip is the most alcohol I've had in at least a month. I'm not much of a drinker. (The glass in that staged photo over there contains only water.) I'd much prefer chocolate milk, but for the sake of our shared experience I will now proceed to add some sugar and water. Be back in a sec.

You know, that's not half bad! With the sugar and water mixed in it's rather tasty, kind of like an anise-flavored Kool-Aid, if you will. I think I'll just finish up this glass as I type.

OK, I know that sipping this 20th Centry tourist version of absinthe in my comfortable office is not quite the same as getting hammered in some loud 19th Century drinking parlor with Van Gogh or Poe drooling on my shoes. This modern stuff is tasty, but they no longer use wormwood, and the ingredients are carefully monitored by the government. So what kind of effect this will have on me is hard to say. Still, at least I got my first taste of the Green Goddess, a touch of whimsy from a different time and place. So for now I'll just pour myself another and bid you all a pleasant goodnight. For it's getting late and that is what the stuffed Spongebob Squarepants who just danced into the room told me I should do.

Bad Haircut--Day 6

One of the many, many things that Albert Einstein and I have in common is a dislike for getting haircuts. I can't speak for the 'ol Professor, but for me I know this scissor aversion goes back to my childhood, when Dad would regularly drag my brothers and I for our ritual shearing at the renowned Mr. Haircut. Twenty chairs, no waiting! (It bothered me even then that they didn't have a chair number 13. I didn't mind their dopey superstition so much, but, as there were actually only nineteen chairs, I resented the false advertising.)

OK, since I've opened up this can of worms I might as well give you all the details. First off Mr. Haircut didn't have "stylists". The twenty, I mean nineteen, men working there were not "follicle engineers." They were barbers. Barbers who charged seventy-five cents and spoke litttle, if any, English. (My most popular childhood quip was when I started to call the place Senor Haircut. Oh, did you think I just suddenly became a smart-ass a few months ago?)

Sad to say from my last visit to this haircut factory several decades ago to my $35 butchering last Tuesday, I suspect that I have received less than ten haircuts that I've actually liked. I always see these commercials where people are coming out of the salons flipping their bouncy hair and strutting around because of their new cut. Their whole outlook on life is changed. Me--more often than not after a haircut I want to go sit in my hallway closet for three or four weeks.

Well sure, my hair has something to do with it. No matter where I get it cut I'm not coming out with it bouncing and shining. Can't you tell from that tiny picture of me over there? I grew up in the sixties, when everybody had long, straight hair that hung in their eyes. Beatle hair. Mine was more like The Jackson 5. I even tried to iron it once or twice back then. Do you know what burning hair smells like? I do.

I wish I had a buck for every woman who has told me they wish they had my hair. I used to take it as a compliment. Now I tell them they're full of it. They'd be in tears within one day. Having a nice wave is one thing, looking like Little Orphan Annie is something else. Or as we used to say, "That chick looks like an explosion in a mattress factory."

But fine, there are movie stars with worse hair than mine. (I can't think of any right now, but there must be.) They still look good, because they get something that I never do: a good haircut. Wait, forget movie stars. I've watched the show Cops (Right, and you don't?) and seen drooling, semi-conscious meth freaks stumbling down the street, desparately trying to form coherent sentences as fast as their 73 IQ points will let them. And besides an impending off-camera beating from the police, do you know what these freaks all have in common? Yup--nicer haircuts than me.

Last Tuesday I went to get my hair cut. I really like the girl who cuts it. (And that's another thing. I've had guys say, "Go to my haircutter. She's nice. She's really cute. She's got huge breasts. " Well that's fine, but I'm not willing to trade half an hour of visual pleasure for a month and a half of looking like a victim in a weedwhacker attack.)

This is the third time I've gone to, oh, call her Jenny. The first time Jenny cut my hair I actually didn't hate it, which, as you'll recall, is a rarity in my experience. So the second time I confidently plopped down in the chair and let her loose without direction. Big mistake. "That's the shortest I've ever seen your hair," my wife pointed out helpfully. And yes, I went back again. I figured if I got a decent haircut like the first time she'd be 2 and 1, which is a .667 winning percentage--good enough for a team in most any sport to win their respective championship.

Plus I gave her directions, using all the key words. Keep it lo-o-o-n-n-n-g. Just a trim. Not too short. Is there something in the hair coloring fumes that affects these people's hearing? Halfway through I looked up into the mirror and saw that all was lost. I even wondered why I hadn't even heard the weedwhacker.

And here's the topper: When she was finished she looked at her work. To me I looked every bit the four year old who got gum stuck in his hair and tried to remedy the situation by himself. She asked if I wanted her to blow-dry it. ""No," I said. "Why bother," I thought. And then she said these classic words: "I dunno. It doesn't look right." Well you're the one who fucking cut it! I gave her a nice tip and a smile that said, "Have a nice life, I will never see you again" and left. On the street I caught my reflection in a shop window, sighed, and wondered if our guestroom TV would fit in the hallway closet.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants--B

You chicks crack me up. You love these "sisterhood" movies, don't you? And for the same reason that men love porn flicks: This is how you wish life really was. This is how you think the world should be.

I once had some drunken girl, whose name I've long forgotten, confess to me that the thing she was most jealous of regarding men was their ability to bond with each other. To joke with, insult, and even punch each other and still be friends. You girls utter a friend's name and the word "fat" in the same conversation and she won't even speak to you for six months.

Steel Magnolias, Mystic Pizza, Ya-Ya Sisterhood, you gals just love the idea of a universal sisterhood, don't cha? That glorious myth of female bonding. Hell, Thelma and Louise drove off a fucking cliff and you all cheered your goofy heads off! Yay! They won! Thelma and Louise won! Woo-hoo!

Although nobody knows the exact number, I've read that 70 or 85 or 110% of married men cheat, for which we, I mean they, are endlessly castigated by gaggles of grousing women gathered at "happy" hours across America. Well, Ladies, Dan Rather is gone now, so it falls to me to deliver this news flash: Guess who your guys are cheating with? Yup, your beloved "sisters" ! Ya-ya!

Ah, c'mon, don't be that way. I'm just funnin' around. Here, have some jewelry. There's that smile I love. Listen, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants is an entertaining, funny and warm movie. It is sure to be enjoyed by mothers, daughters, fathers and even grumpy old bloggers who really should be crawling off to bed. 'Night, Ladies.

Useless Information: Albert Brooks

Got my hands on a copy of what I believe to be Albert Brooks' second full-length movie, Modern Romance. I sent it off to my friend Joe because it has a lot of funny stuff about film editing. Joe, a professional editor himself, picked up right away that Albert was, in directing this film, a tad self-indulgent. I agreed that the film was a bit overlong and contained an excessive number of close-up shots of Albert. I said I thought it was ironic that Brooks played an editor in a picture that really could have used one. Still, it's hilarious, and my favorite by Albert "Nearly as funny as Woody but nowhere near as prolific" Brooks.

Which brings us to the point of this, our first Useless Information entry. My head has always been stuffed with useless information and until they invented Trivial Pursuit there was nothing to do with it, except corner people, begin with a "Did you know..?" and watch 'em cringe. Happily I now have a blog, and so can pass all this crap on to you.

Did you know (Did you cringe just then?) that Albert Brooks' real name is Albert Einstein? What a burden to put on a kid, huh? And do you remember a character who was a take-off on Evel Knievel named Super Dave Osborne? Well, he was played by Bob Einstein, who is Albert's brother! Albert's father was a comedian by the name of Harry Parke, who made a handful of movies in the 30's and 40's using the name Parkyarkarkus. (Park-your-carcass--get it? C'mon, try and keep up.)

Harry Parke seems to be one of those unfortunate souls who is better remembered for how he died than how he lived. On Novemeber 24th, 1958 Harry Parke had just finished his routine at the Friar's Club during a roast for Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. He returned to his seat and then slumped into the lap of Milton Berle. Berle shouted "Is there a doctor in the house?" which got some laughs. The only problem was that Berle was serious. And Parkyarkarkas was dead.

To put some icing on this morbid little irony cake, Berle told singer Tony Martin to sing a song to distract the crowd. The song Martin chose? "There's No Tomorrow."

So who's going to tell you this stuff if I dont?

Cinderella Man--B+

Hey, did I ever tell you kids about the time I didn't go out with Clint Eastwood's future wife? No? Well, gather 'round and hush while Grandpa weaves another of his famous tales about what might have been, but wasn't.

It doesn't seem like that many years have passed since Dina came to speak to the television production class I was taking at the local college in Fremont, California. At the time Dina was still only a modest success story, having previously taken the very same class in which I was now enrolled. Perhaps even sitting in the very same chair. Hubba-hubba. Anyway, a year had passed and she was was now employed as an on-air reporter at a television station down the coast in Monterey. She had returned to the TV class at the request of the instructor to give us the old "and you can do it, too" speech.

She's kinda cute, I thought to myself as she spoke. Perhaps I should give her a treat and ask her out. But I didn't. And that, kids, is the end of my participation in this wondrous tale. As for Dina, well she went on to meet Clint Eastwood, who did have the balls to ask her out. Apparently she said yes, they dated and eventually married. And that was how I personally took the term "out of my league" and made it my own, single-handedly catapulting it to a level previously unheard of in all of recorded history.

I like Clint Eastwood as an actor and as a director. I thought both Unforgiven and Mystic River were brilliant. Million Dollar Baby--not so much. I keep seeing poor shocked Scorsese sitting there on Oscar night. Not only did he have to suffer the sting of this latest Academy humiliation, but in the coming weeks some were calling Baby the greatest sports movie of all time! Hello? Raging Bull?

Well, turns out that not only is Million Dollar Baby not the greatest sports movie of all time, it's not even the greatest boxing movie of the last 24 months. Cinderella Man is.

Russell Crowe has been described as moody and difficult to work with. Or even an a-hole, if you believe everything you see on South Park. But boy is he a good actor. So is everybody else in this movie. Of course the movie has that shiny Ron Howard/Hollywood gloss to it, portraying James Braddock as a boxer who combines the punching power of a Mike Tyson with the unearthly goodness of a Mother Teresa. And it also unfairly demonizes boxer Max Baer, much to the consternation of his son Max Baer, Jr. (Who you most likely know better as the original and quintessential "Jethro Bodine.")

Still, this is a movie and it's meant to be entertainment and to make money so what are you gonna do? The depiction of the depression is realistic and intelligent, and the boxing scenes are sharp, exciting and as good as any I've seen. It would be a shame if Cinderella Man lost out on even one Academy Award because people are reluctant to support a "boxing movie" two years in a row. Hey, don't punish the better film just because it came out later. And believe me, I'm not just saying that because Clint stole my chick. I'd like to think I'm bigger than that.

Star Bores

So I went to see the new Star Wars movie. It was either that or Monster-in-Law, and I'm still not that sure I made the right choice. Will you accuse me of being difficult or contrarian if I tell you that I was bored numb?

What is it with these pictures? It must be me. It has to be. They're so damn popular--I must be missing something. From the beginning it was just as I expected. A big battle in space. Flashy effects. Frequent and endless light sabre fights. (How can such an advanced civilization still be using swords as their weapon of choice? Yeah, I know, they're knights or something, right? Jeez.) I tell you, by the time my nachos were finished I was ready to split. But I sat there, head in hand, and forced myself through the rest of it. And believe me, it was something of a chore.

You'd have to have lived your life underground or in Iowa to not be at least a little familiar with the characters of this frachise. I mean, I know that Yodel, or whatever the hell his name is, is that little guy with the big ears, Darth Vader is the bad guy and a Wookie is hairy and makes a funny noise when he's pissed off. I get that this is a prequel that is telling us how Darth Vader turned bad, although I'm still not sure it told us why. And I don't care. I really don't.

My pal Dr. Nick, a huge Star Wars fan, (he collects the little dolls and actually is in the film, hidden under a helmet in some scene) says I'm just old and jaded. Well, that's true of course, but Istill don't get the whole Star Wars attraction. And I keep trying. I'll probably see one of the next ones, and trust me, there will be more. Movie folks (or any folks) seldom turn down a chance to make a gazillion dollars.

Dr. Nick hasn't yet answered a couple of my questions, so maybe you can help me here. The movie reveals that Princess Leia (Is that how she spells it? Who cares.) and Luke Skywalker were twins. Separated at birth, as the saying goes. Is this new info or something we already knew? And does that mean they never did the horizontal bop together? Or is George Lucas a total degenerate? And what's up with that C3PO ? More than a hint of mint there, eh what?

Get this: I gave Star Wars (I keep forgetting the full title and am too lazy to look it up. Something to do with a Sith. What the hell is a "Sith" anyway?) a grade of B-. I have to be honest and admit I was ever so slightly pulled into the story at the end. But dig this: I gave The Longest Yard a B. Just an OK movie which I had expected to despise and didn't. (And remember, the only movie I ever walked out of in my life belonged to Mr. Sandler.) So yeah, you heard right. I gave The Longest Yard a higher grade than Star Wars. And I'm sticking to it. Partly because I was more entertained during The Longest Yard, but mostly because I know this will drive you Star Wars geeks battier than you already are. And screw Jar Jar Binks, too.

It's Finally Up!

...as the old man said after taking Viagra. OK, I think I got this blog thing figured out, although I still don't know how to get a photo over to my profile. Yeah, the one that's there is from my website and it worked because it's the only picture I know of that has a URL and look at me with all the fancy computer talk. How a person can spend endless hours on-line and still have the computer skills of a Cro-Magnon, and one of the dimmer ones at that, is a mystery. Ah, so what? It's getting late, The Daily Show begins in minutes, and I'll have plenty of time to deal with this thing tomorrow. G'night.