Useless Information: Michael McKean

If I asked you to identify the only person to appear as a musical guest, a host and a regular on Saturday Night Live, what name would you come up with? Well, unless you’re a complete dope you’d say “Michael McKean” because it’s right up there in the title. But how many of you know who he is?

I suspect that only a small percentage of people are familiar with this brilliant comic actor. If, however, I told you he played Lenny (of Lenny and Squiggy fame) on Laverne & Shirley, well then the lights would come on, yes? Sure, he was goofy and hilarious as Lenny, but I’m here to tell you that this guy has done so much more.

Fans of the classic mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap know that McKean also starred as the lead singer of the band, David St. Hubbins. And do you remember that early and innovative HBO series Dream On, another television classic? Maybe you recall Martin’s selfish, slippery Australian boss Gibby? Here’s another sidesplitting character created by Michael McKean.

Are you a fan of the Christopher Guest/Eugene Levy films? (Or as I like to think of them, The Funniest Movies Being Made Today.) There’s McKean again, contributing to all three films, and appearing, with his usual hilarious results, in Best in Show and A Mighty Wind. His song from the latter, A Kiss at the End of the Rainbow, was even nominated for an Academy Award in 2004.

One of the best and funniest spoofs of a television series ever made was 1995’s The Brady Bunch Movie. I still come across people who turn up their nose when I tell them not to miss this flick. They hated The Brady Bunch television show (who didn’t?) and so avoid the movie thinking it’s just some sappy remake. Wrong. And one of the many humorous performances in this movie was, of course, by McKean as the slimy real estate agent who lived next door to the Brady’s. Do not miss it!

At imdb.com the list of Michael McKean’s movies and television shows is approaching one hundred, and yet he seems to have very little name recognition. Well, that hardly seems fair, so I’ve taken it upon myself to do what I can to rectify this situation. And so by tomorrow night, if the average daily readership of this column holds true, there will be ten more people who will become familiar with one of our most talented comic actors. Sorry it’s just ten, Michael. Too bad they didn’t do a piece about you on Drudge.

Seen Any Good Movies Lately? #2

Regular readers (I really do live in a fantasy world, don’t I?) know that I’ve quit writing full movie reviews. First of all, I’m not qualified because I tend to like almost every movie I see, at least to some degree. I also don’t like criticizing other, more talented, people’s work (but I’ll do it!) And just the idea of writing about the director and his previous films and the actor and recapping the plot…well, it bores me senseless.

Still, I do have to see a lot of movies for my cable show plus I have six of these damn things to write every week, so why not kill two birds and throw out a little recap once in a while? No fuss, no muss, no depth. Just some quick little blurbs from one short attention spanner to another so that you don’t end up wasting your valuable movie dollar. Or ten. Sound like fun? Sure it does. Let’s begin.


DOMINO B-
The nonsensical phrase “based on a true story” should be illegal. That said, this is the tale of Domino Harvey, daughter of actor Lawrence Harvey. In the film Harvey dies in 1993, but he actually died in ’73. His daughter Domino doesn’t want to be a model anymore. She’s rough and tough and wants to be a bounty hunter. Not a horrible movie, although at one point it did everything except apologize outright for playing around with the truth. There’s even a shot of the real Domino at the end, and guess what? She sure don’t look like Keira Knightley. What a surprise.

A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE B-
What’s all the hubbub about this movie? The real critics just l-o-v-v-v-v-e it to pieces. To me, no big deal. The story was mildly interesting, but that’s about it. Ed Harris and William Hurt appear in it, which always helps a flick, but in the end I was left with a big “Huh?”

IN HER SHOES B+
Just the other day some yahoo from Texas was gushing over me because I had gone with my wife to see this supposed “chick flick.” “Mah husban’ won’t tayk me.” Jesus, when are we going to finally give that flat dusty shit-hole back to Mexico? Hey, I wanted to see this movie and I enjoyed it. You know, if you can get past that incredible mug, Cameron Diaz is a versatile actress. Remember her in Being John Malkovich? Of course you don’t. And what about one of my all-time favorites, Vanilla Sky? She was great in that. In Her Shoes is a very entertaining movie, and you may like it whether you have breasts or not.

TWO FOR THE MONEY B+
Now this one was a surprise. The story about sports betting in intriguing, and for a change all of the characters are three-dimensional. But there is one major reason for not missing this movie, and that, my friends, is Mr. Al Pacino. I’m dying to talk to someone who has seen it (don’t call me) so we can laugh about some of Pacino’s lines. Sure, much credit should go to the screenwriter, but really, who ever gives a damn about writers? Pacino makes these hilarious lines crackle, and I had to turn my face away from the screen at one point to stop my girlish giggling. Listen, the movie is not making a lot of money, so that that might hurt his chances, but I swear if Pacino doesn’t get an Oscar (little R with a circle around it) nomination I’m going to suspect those things are as crooked as the 2000 election. And Al, you’re a genius babe, but it’s time for a new hairpiece. You’re 65 and have the hairline of a newly born chimp.

JUST LIKE HEAVEN B
OK, maybe this one is a chick flick, but so what? Put me in a sundress and call me Nancy, because I liked it. It wasn’t quite as predictable as you might think from the promos, had some genuine laughs and was not sappy enough to actually make you yack into your popcorn box. Besides, even though Reese is at her best in darker roles (Election, Freeway) she seems to be able to light up just about any movie she appears in. (Except if it’s Little Nicky with that retard Adam Sandler.)


See what I mean about me being a lousy movie critic? I have all the letters from A to F to use and what do I do? If I really like a movie it gets a B+, and if I don’t particularly like one it gets a B-. I’m hopeless.

Movie Monster Quiz

More than several years ago, when we were about ten, my chum Lenny Z. declared that The Creature From The Black Lagoon was the best movie he’d ever seen. At the time I remember scoffing at the notion. (And the fact that I was scoffing at anything the age of ten should help you to understand why I turned out the way I did.) Search the title of this horror movie today and you’ll read such glowing praise that you’ll think you Googled Gone With The Wind by mistake. I should have listened to Lenny back then. After all, when the rest of us were constructing models of cars and airplanes (Remember those fantastic glue fumes? And only ten cents a tube!) his bedroom shelf held plastic replicas of Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man and of course the Creature himself. Itself.

Well, the truth is a lot of monsters have graced the silver screen over the years, from the American-made Creature who swam underwater in a cheap rubber suit to the Japanese legend Godzilla, who kicked apart tiny plastic models of downtown Tokyo. And we loved them all, didn’t we? But how much do you remember? Well let's find out--that’s what I’m here for. Try your hand at the Classic Movie Monster Quiz below and see if your personal favorite is mentioned. And when I say “classic” I mean just that. You’ll find none of that Alien or Freddy Krueger crap in my monster quiz!


1. In the 1941 film, what was the Wolf Man’s real name?
a. William O’Connor
b. Lawrence Talbot
c. Preston Parker
d. It was never given.

2. Who played Frankenstein in the 1931 classic film?
a. Colin Clive
b. Lon Chaney, Jr.
c. Victor Landis
d. Boris Karloff

3. Godzilla’s Japanese name is Gojira. What does it mean?
a. Half gorilla, half whale
b. Half dragon, half elephant
c. Half dinosaur, half emperor
d. Half lizard, half Karl Rove

4. In the 1932 film, what was the name of The Mummy?
a. Tut-ep-ho
b. Em-ho-ut
c. Im-ho-tep
d. Yur-a-ho

5. Gamera, who debuted in a 1965 Japanese film, is a giant, flying…?
a. Snake
b. Turtle
c. Alligator
d. Pterodactyl

6. In the 1931 film, Dracula has the power to change into a…?
a. Wolf.
b. Bat
c. Snake
d. Housedress

7. The Creature From the Black Lagoon is also known as…?
a. The Fish-Man
b. The Gill-Man
c. The Shark-Man
d. Karl Rove

8. Mothra, from the Japanese movie of the same name, is actually a giant flying…?
a. Wasp
b. Cockraoch
c. Moth
d. Ladybug

9. Which Hollywood screen legend starred in The Blob?
a. Clint Eastwood
b. Gene Hackman
c. Charles Bronson
d. Steve McQueen

10. Where did King Kong live?
a. Voodoo Island
b. Skull Island
c. Fog Island
d. Lost Island

OK, time’s up, pencils down! How’d you do?


ANSWERS:

1. LAWRENCE TALBOT. I even knew that one without looking it up.
2. Gotcha! COLIN CLIVE played Dr. Frankenstein. Boris Karloff played the monster.
3. HALF GORILLA, HALF WHALE. And what do you mean I shouldn’t kick Rove when he’s down? What better time?
4. IM-HO-TEP. One of the slowest-moving monsters of all time. Well, I guess Frankenstein (uh, I mean Frankenstein’s monster, wasn’t much of a sprinter either.)
5. Yup, Gamera was a giant, flying TURTLE. No kidding. I guess by the 1960’s they were running out of reptiles to use.
6. BAT. Easy one, even for you.
7. THE GILL-MAN. We used to tied a rope around my brothers ankle and stake the other end into the ground and play Gill-Man. Well screw you, we didn’t have Game-Boy.
8. MOTH. Aren’t you paying attention at all?
9. STEVE MCQUEEN. Look for Kirstie Alley in the remake. In the title role.
10. SKULL ISLAND. Hey how about a remake with a giant gorilla called Queen Kong who lives on Fire Island? My, it really is getting late.


OK, did anybody get all ten right? Hey Lenny Z.-- how’d the “monster expert” do?

Old MacDonald HAD a Farm

Ee-eye-ee-eye-oh. You know I really don’t get this whole Farm Aid thing. Seriously, I’m not saying I’m against it, I just don’t understand it. The idea of artificially keeping the family farm alive just because it’s been around for such a long time and has such a deep-rooted tradition simply doesn’t make sense. It seems to me that if better, more efficient methods of agriculture have evolved then natural economic forces will and should decide what survives and what doesn’t.

And yet I know that Farm Aid must be a force for good. After all, it was created by Willie Nelson and Neil Young. Neil Young! If he supports Farm Aid then it must be something I’m in favor of. Even Ben and Jerry, when they’re not having open-heart surgery to scrape the ice cream deposits from their aortas, have been airing TV commercials supporting the cause.

I went to the Farm Aid website and read, albeit briefly and superficially, the points presented to support their position. Frankly I’m still not getting it. They claim that the family farm is necessary to ensure safe, healthy produce. This, I think, is an attempt to spread fear by conjuring up the evil specter of that most horrible of all institutions, the soulless corporation that, as we all know, will not hesitate to sprinkle the deadliest of poisons on your apples and cauliflower if it puts a few more pennies in their coffer. But the noble farmer would never think of doing such a thing. Why should he? Willie and Neil are mailing him your money every month!

Farm Aid also states that another of its goals is to fight farm factories. Listen, I’m against little kids in Shanghai sewing socks for nine cents an hour as much as the next guy, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. Like "terrorist" versus "freedom fighter", isn’t one man’s farm factory another man’s agricultural efficiency? And besides, my car was made in a factory. This computer I’m banging on was made in a factory. Should I be donating money to Car Aid to make sure that the next auto I buy is made by some inbred family in Arkansas? I think not.

There are economic forces at work here, folks. Maybe the family farm is disappearing because, like the sharecropper and the serfdom, its time has passed. It’s an anachronism that’s about to fade into history. You hear these bloated over-alled rednecks whining that this here farm has “been in mah family for fahve generations.” So what? Why does that give you an entitlement? The day of the family farm is over, Jethro—deal with it. Stop taking Willie’s welfare, go slop the cows and milk the chickens one last time and then get your corn-fed ass into town and find a real job.

And stop your bleating about how tragic it is that the farms are “disappearing.” They’re not going anywhere, Farmer Brown. You are. Your grandpappy’s land will still be producing crops for generations to come, except now it will be managed by a huge corporation. (Hey, maybe they’ll give you an application!) Why do you think your business is so important that it must be artificially kept afloat by the contributions of others? I tell you what, let’s all chip in and open some buggy whip shops. Or how about sending me a few hundred thousand bucks so I can return to the family business? After all, we Stegmann’s have manufactured spats for five generations!

Listen, Gomer, I’m not totally without sympathy for your plight. Here’s what we do. If we’re going to pretend that the American farmer is some sort of vanishing species, like the Chinese giant panda or the election winning Democrat, then we should treat them that way. Let’s save a few of these family farms, perhaps one in each state, and put a pair of farmers on each one. A breeding pair. Then, while the rest of the country is farming using 21st Century methodology we’d still have these places, with their horsies and piggies and Maw and Paw and real country butter by gum, to serve as living museums that we could visit anytime we wanted. Like Amish country.

Mister T

Even though I’m married I do my own laundry. What, did you find that statement sexist? Well, perhaps it is, but let me ask you this: What is more sexist, that statement or the average husband who actually lets, no, expects his wife do all his laundry for him, hmmm? Yeah, I thought so.

This isn’t about that nonsense anyway. So I did a load of laundry today, and I must admit it had been a while. In fact I was a bit worried that the dingy clothes that were overflowing from the plastic basket might not all fit in one load. (Whoa, I just flashed back on my first grade teacher being amused—well, actually she was laughing at me, now that I think about it—because I came running into the classroom to tell her that the garbage bin was “over-floating.” Ha-ha, very funny. Hope you had a real good time at my expense, you bitch.) And the prospect of doing two loads in one day was obviously out of the question.

Happily all the clothes did fit into the washing machine. Eventually. An hour or so later I dumped the clean clothes onto the bed and noticed that there seemed to be quite a few t-shirts in the pile. I guess it really had been a while since my last load. Before hanging them up I looked into my closet out of curiosity to see how many other t-shirts were there. Fourteen! There were fourteen t-shirts hanging in my closet and another big pile of them on my bed. I counted them too. Fourteen, again! And this raised the obvious question inside my head: Why the hell does one person need to own 28 t-shirts?

And so the research began. Standing by my closet categorizing my t-shirts with a note pad in my hand, trying not to acknowledge what my life has been reduced to, I arrived at some interesting conclusions. First off, out of the 28 t-shirts that I own, all 28 have some sort of writing on the front. No blanks. So not only have I whored out my blog to greedy, soulless advertisers, I’ve sold out my manly-type chest as well.

Actually, most of the t-shirts were from places I had visited. There were representatives from Fiji, Australia, Palm Springs, Paris, Plattsburgh, NY (my college town), Cannes, Tahiti, The Bahamas, Taos, Hawaii, Greece, Florida, Arizona and of course Half Moon Bay. Some people won’t wear a t-shirt imprinted with the name of the town in which they live. I do, although I certainly understood their point of view when I lived in Hayward. (That’s some SF Bay Area humor for you local readers.)

Not surprisingly only three of my t-shirts were sports related. There’s one from Bay Meadows Race Track, one from a rodeo I went to, and one from the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. And if you’ve ever seen the Devil Rays play you know that calling them “sports related” is a stretch in the best of times.

There are two shirts that have the names of roads on the chest. One I purchased in the weird little town of Rachel, Nevada on one of my legendary solo road trips. Rachel is very close to Area 54, and the road leading into it is named The Extraterrestrial Highway. Which is what is written on the front of my t-shirt, accompanied by a drawing of an alien. I must confess that I bought the other “road” t-shirt over the Internet, but I actually did drive on this road in New Mexico, spending a fair amount of time searching for a shop that sold a t-shirt featuring its name: Route 666. No luck. I had figured that every store would be selling them, but apparently the religious nuts down there are a little touchy about that particular highway designation. In fact last I heard they were planning on changing that satanic number to something more benign. The Jesusbahn has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

The colors of my t-shirts actually offered more variety than I expected. I knew that they were mostly blue or black, but I was surprised to find quite a few grays, a couple of greens, a white or two and of course an orange one with a pumpkin on it from Half Moon Bay. No reds, though. Strangely, black was the most common color, but blue is the color I wear most often.

Which brings me to the bench-sitters. There are quite a few t-shirts in my closet that have rarely or never been worn. And yes most, but not all, are black. There are two reasons why I haven’t worn these nearly-new shirts. (Well, three if you count being too chicken to wear the Route 666 and the See You In Hell ones.) For only one or two of these shirts, and I think it’s just the ones I brought back from Australia six years ago, it’s because they just don’t fit right; the collar is too tight across the throat. As for the other dozen or so shirts that I don’t wear, well I think we all know the reason. And no, you may not have them. Someday I will go on a diet or contract a wasting disease and then they’ll fit just fine.

And then there are the favorites, my top tier t-shirts. These babies make up the front line. They’re the pride of the fleet and are always the first ones out of the closet after a load of laundry is done. And although I like what each has printed on the front, that’s not the quality that has moved them to the top of the heap. The Extraterrestrial Highway shirt is on this list. So is one from the ghost town of Oatman, Arizona that features a goofy-looking cartoon mule on it. A recent purchase that immediately broke into this honored group features a bloated Homer Simpson sitting in a chair holding a beer with the words Department of Unathletics over his head. And finally one of the Plattsburgh shirts rounds out our final four.

So if it’s not the message or the color of these shirts, what characteristic do they share that allows them to be elevated to their glorified position? Fit. Or lack thereof. They’re all loose and flowing. When I move with one of these 100% cotton (another factor) shirts billowing around me I feel lithe and free and fifty pounds lighter. They must be some shirts, huh?

I don’t want any of my shirts to feel left out (which should give you some keen insight into my current mental state) so in closing I’d just like to mention the t-shirt that a friend brought me from Hawaii. It fits neatly into at least two categories in that it is black and it has a destination on the front. It would also fit into the “too embarrassed to wear it” group because it advertises the Bad Ass Brewing Company, except that I do wear it. And it is unique among all 28 of my t-shirts in that it is the only one of the family that has long sleeves. Ain’t that something?

So there you have it, an intimate look at my t-shirts. And while you may question the stability of an adult who spends two hours of his dwindling life reporting on the status of his stinky old t-shirts, I would remind you that you’re the one who just wasted a chunk of your day reading about them.

Chinese Puzzle

A year or so back, having accurately anticipated the impending collapse of the American Empire, I was attempting to figure out which country would ascend to become the next superpower. Of course I know damn little about these things, but my guess was the Chinese, and I think for more reasons than just the fact that there are so many of them.

I then did some reading on the subject and there seemed to be a general consensus that Europe, and not China, would be the next lucky contestant to play the world domination game. Shortly after that, when the Euro was kicking serious ass and the EU seemed as solid as Brad and Jennifer’s marriage, I figured the experts had been right. Now I’m not so sure. I’m back to thinking China.

And I suspect that Rumsfeld and his pack of evil flying monkeys are thinking China too. That’s why they’re over there meeting with them and ever so politely suggesting that the Chinese should come clean and tell everybody just how much they are now spending on their military. It’s the sporting thing to do. Before their recent military build-up China was the world’s #2 country in military spending. They’ll most likely remain #2 for quite some time as the #1 country, the United States, has a military budget that is ten times that of China’s. Still, any military build-up at all seems to be enough to make the current administration, and surely those to follow as well, a tad antsy. Yet it hardly seems like the same Rumsfeld who boldly marched into Iraq. With China he seems downright meek. I wonder why that is? Oh right, those pesky 2½ million Chinese soldiers.

What’s a bit uncomfortable to me is the launching of manned space flights by China. They are creating much national pride with their space program and it feels funny that the United States has been relegated to the role of mere observer. I’m old enough to recall the early space flights by American astronauts and it just seems like some sort of sacrilege that another country is now leading the way into space while we’re bogged down by our dependency on oil and the bloody conflicts we initiate in order to obtain it, our battle to protect the social fabric from being torn by the horror of gay marriage and our vigilance in making sure we never, ever again are forced to witness an exposed female breast during the Super Bowl.

China itself has a growing dependency on oil, but they also seem capable of learning from the mistakes of the U.S. China is already attempting to break that dependency in the decades ahead through the use of nuclear power. Still, with their growing military might China may just be approaching the day when they’ll achieve total control of the South China Sea, and all that juicy oil. They’ll call it a liberation or some such, but we’ll know what they’re after. After all, we’re not idiots.

So who knows what historic changes are in store for you young folks in the coming century. Will you be watching on TV as Chinese astronauts (they’re actually called “taikonauts”) become the first men to land on Mars? Will China “un-annex” the Hawaiian Islands from the U.S so that you’ll now need a passport to vacation there? Will a gazillion Chinese soldiers “liberate” the U.S. from a harsh dictator, meanwhile freely helping themselves to our natural bounty of oranges, corn and curly fries? Hell if I know, but it’s sure going to be interesting.

Which brings to mind the expression, “May you live in interesting times.” It’s never been made clear to me whether the saying is intended to be a curse or a blessing. It’s probably both. (One thing that is clear is that it is not a Chinese proverb, as you’ve been led to believe. I don’t know where that particular untruth started. Karl Rove maybe?) The truth is every person who has lived has done so in “interesting times.” It’s some kind of mass ego massage for people who are currently alive to believe that there is something special about their times. There isn’t.

Still, whether it’s in a fairy tale or on the geo-political scene, it’s always an attention grabber when a sleeping giant finally awakens from his slumber. So eighty years from now when you youngsters finally join up with me in Heaven you be sure to fill me in on how it went with China. I’m guessing not so good.

College Cult Classics

One of the best things about belonging to NetFlix (beside only having to go to my mailbox to pick up movies) is ordering films that I haven’t seen in decades but still recall with great fondness. Recently I was able to revisit three movies that I will always associate with each other, and with my long ago college days. I remember each as a brilliant satire from my youth, and I’m sure if you research them they will all be classified as “cult classics.” As for the brilliant part--I’m no longer so sure.

Some of you grayer folks might recall the titles if not the actual films. The three movies, all made in the mid 1970’s, were Kentucky Fried Movie, Flesh Gordon and Groove Tube. Seen any of them? I didn’t think so. But let me tell you in their day these flicks were considered cutting edge satire, and hilarious as well.

First, when I watched them last week it became obvious that these movies were made by a bunch of people who were stoned, and that they were intended to be viewed by people with likewise diminished capacities. And I can assure the filmmakers that thirty years ago they were, at least in my row of the theater. Also, as I watched these movies I suddenly realized that the main reason for their creation was so the filmmakers could get young women to take off their clothes. My god, I remembered Flesh Gordon as being funny, but I didn’t remember it as soft-core porn. Hell, I saw more topless women in these three films than a mammography tech sees in a month. A busy month. And that’s fine with me.

Flesh Gordon, as its name implies, is a raunchy satire of the popular 1930’s science fiction serial. Kentucky Fried Movie and Groove Tube are both satires that present skits mocking television and film. Groove Tube is also notable for the first screen appearance of Chevy Chase, while Kentucky Fried Movie was written by the same team that would later create the movie Airplane!, one of the most imitated comedies in history. What is also unique about Kentucky Fried Movie is that, although I remember it fondly as one of the cinematic highlights of my college years, my research on the Web informs me that it was made in 1977, two years after I had graduated college. Like I said, it was a very hazy time.

I have to admit that when I watched these movies last week I couldn’t deny that I was seeing them through a different set of eyes. Blurrier ones, to be sure, but also remember that I first saw them (two of them, anyway) as a senior in college. Now I was watching them as a senior in AARP. And you know what? Despite the time you see under this post it’s actually 1:00 in the morning. I spent nine straight hours in an edit suite today creating a T.V. commercial and tomorrow morning I have to jump out of bed and start pounding on the documentary script I’ve been hired to complete. You know, the Beatles had a lot of great songs, but even they had a few clunkers. Mr. Moonlight, for example. Well, as I’ve mentioned before, my third book is going to be a collection of the best 88 articles chosen from this site, and it’s a sure bet that this particular bit of literary flotsam won’t be among them. Fuck it. Who cares? I’m tired. Just chalk this one up as one of my Mr. Moonlights and I’ll catch you tomorrow after I’ve had some sleep. ‘Night.

I Booed Roy Campanella

I couldn’t have been more than five years old. Dad had taken me to a ballgame, although I don’t recall at which ballpark. I do remember that it was an “exhibition game,” because it was a phrase I had never heard before and was having trouble understanding the concept. The novelty of this particular game was that the Yankees were playing the Dodgers. In those days the only time a National League team would play against an American League team was in the World Series, unless, of course, they had one of these exhibition games. Whatever that meant.

Now I may have been just a kid but there was one thing I knew for sure: I was a Yankee fan. Hey, I was five years old, give me a break. When I was a child I thought as a child, and all that. (I eventually grew up, started to think straight and switched to the Mets.) Now Dad, he was a Dodger fan, and although the team had left Brooklyn the year before I guess he still needed someone to root for while awaiting the creation of the Mets, which was four years away.

I remember that it was cold that night, but I wasn’t going to let that dampen my enthusiasm. I clapped and cheered as each Yankee was introduced, and I booed with an equivalent energy for every Dodger. And then they introduced Roy Campanella and I booed him. Yes, in 1958 I booed Roy Campanella.

A little background. Roy Campanella began his major league career in 1948 as the first black catcher in history. He played ten seasons with the Brooklyn Dodgers and was voted the National League’s Most Valuable Player in three of those years. He played in five World Series and was selected for the All-Star team in eight of his ten seasons. In January of 1958 he was in a car crash that ended his career in baseball. In fact he never walked again and spent the remainder of his life in a wheelchair.

Well, hell, I didn’t know that! I had never even heard of him. I was five years old, for Christ sake! And so when he was introduced I booed him as I would have any other Dodger. My actions, I imagine, painted quite a pretty picture to those fans who were lucky enough to be seated near me. These same fans were giving Campanella a standing ovation, which was another problem. How was I expected to know the guy was in a wheelchair when I couldn’t even see him? After all, I was only about three feet tall at the time.

Finally my Dad, who must have been mortified, and rightfully so, said something to me. I don’t remember his words, but it might have been something along the lines of, “He’s in a wheelchair.” I do, however, remember my reply. I also remember that it was not delivered with malice, but only as an attempt to cover up both my horrible error and my extreme embarrassment.

“So what? He’s still a Dodger.”

Roy Campanella was elected to Baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1969 and his #39 was retired by the Dodgers in 1972. He died in 1993, having spent nearly half his life in a wheelchair. And I, dopey little kid that I was, had booed him. I had booed Roy Campanella just three months after his crippling accident. Jesus, I hope he didn’t hear me.

Should I Be Insulted?

I took a walk through town today and as I often do I stopped by the local bookstore to take a gander at the discount book cart that’s outside their shop. I wasn’t browsing; I was looking for something quite specific, namely copies of my first book. They weren’t there but they will be someday. I’m sure of it.

Let’s go back a bit. When I first moved to this town I brought a few copies of my book to this small bookstore to see if they would be interested in selling them on consignment. This being a friendly little Mayberry kind of town they agreed, and two of my books were immediately placed on the shelf in the humor section. (Because they’re so damned funny.) I was a little surprised with the 60% cut the shop would take, which seemed excessive. After all, the book would sell for $20 and after the bookstore took its share I’d get $8. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if each book hadn’t cost me $21 to print. Hey, if I knew anything about business I’d still be a stockbroker.

In truth I didn’t much care about the huge percentage being taken by the bookstore. I wasn’t doing this to make money; I was doing it for fun. I was doing it for ego. I was doing it to impress chicks. I mean, really ladies, if we were walking down the street and we just happened to enter a bookstore that had a book with my name on it sitting on the shelf—well, you’d be impressed, wouldn’t you? Well, of course you would. That’s just how you are. You wouldn’t even need to know that I spent $21 to get back eight, would you?

So almost every time I walked into town I’d visit this shop and make sure my books were sitting in the humor section where they belonged. (Because they’re so damned funny.) And they always were. That is until one Monday when I walked in and noticed they were gone! Both of them! I remember that it was a Monday because it was the day after a weekend festival had been held in town and so the bookstore, and all the other local businesses, had seen a tremendous spike in their sales.

I walked up to the counter and asked the owner where my books had gone. He told me if they weren’t there then they must have been sold over the weekend. Sold? My books? Two people who were not related to me had each bought a copy of my book? Not a chance.

Still, I didn’t argue with the man as he wrote me a check for sixteen dollars. Not a bad return on my $42, I thought. I could even use this unexpected windfall to go on a spree. Why, I could even treat myself to the movies. That is, provided I went alone. And got the small size popcorn.

I had barely returned home when the phone rang. It was, of course, the bookstore owner. He was sorry but he had made a mistake. Somebody had removed my books from the shelf and put them in the back room. And would I please come back and return the check? I could almost feel him sweating. Apparently sixteen bucks is a chunk of change for these independent bookstore owners.

And so I returned to the store, gave him his check and asked for my books to be put back on the shelf. I left the shop not feeling too bad. After all, I never believed that the books had been sold in the first place, plus I still had a place to try to impress unsuspecting chicks. And so the books were unceremoniously returned to their shelf in the humor section (Because they’re so damned funny.) and there they would remain gathering dust.

For another three months. It was at this point that I paid one of my regular visits to the store and noticed that the books were again missing! Now, if I hadn’t believed that my books had been sold even when I was told they were, why would I think that they had been sold this time? Really, who’s going to spend $20 on my goofy 153-page book when for a few bucks more you can get a ten-pounder from Grisham or Steel or Rice. Or Harry effin’ Potter!

So I was ready to argue with the clerk when she told me that the books must have been sold. Except she never told me that. She didn’t know where the books were, but she would check with the owner. (I figured that since I had returned his $16 he was probably taking some time off enjoying his newfound wealth.) A few days later the mystery, which for me hadn’t been a mystery at all, was solved. To my non-surprise the books had again found their way to the back room, and the owner was wondering if I could come and pick them up. Uh, sure.

I arrived the next day, approached the same clerk and gave her my best sales pitch. I told her to keep the books. For free. I was giving them to the store if they would just put them back on the shelf. If and when they sold the books all the money would be theirs. I drive a hard bargain, huh? Listen, I told you I’m no businessman.

And so, pleased with my hard fought negotiations and happy that my books were again placed in the humor section (Because they’re so damn--, yeah, whatever.) of my local bookstore, I bid the clerk a cheery Good Day! and headed for home.

I returned to my habit of visiting my books on a regular basis and, while I would never see any money from their sale, I took some satisfaction from knowing that I still had a place to bring all those theoretical chicks. And then one horrible day it happened. My books were again gone.

I didn’t speak to the owner. I didn’t speak to the clerk. The truth hit me as if it were a cold dead flounder slapped across my face. For not only was the store owner unwilling to keep my books on his shelf even for 60% of the proceeds, he wouldn’t even put them on the shelf for all of the proceeds! My god, what had I written here, Mein Kampf? I looked forlornly at the shelf in the humor section. It was half full. There was plenty of space.

And then I knew. The owner of the bookstore, this businessman, this man of letters would rather keep nothing on the shelf than my book. He’d prefer that the shelf in his bookstore held air rather than a copy of my book. Air! How did I feel about that? Some of you may recall a character on the old Bob Newhart Show named Mr. Herd, who was failing at his new job. It turned out his job was handing out free silver dollars to people on the street. That’s how I felt. Just like Mr. Herd.

So one of these days, maybe in a week or a month or a year, someone at that little bookstore is going to discover two dust-covered copies of a strange little book in the back room. They’ll ask the owner what they are and he’ll shrug, wipe them off and put them outside on his discount cart. And shortly after that I’ll come strolling by and see them out there, the books that I had written and couldn’t even give away for free. And then I’ll wonder: Should I be insulted?

Standing Up, and When

It must have been a touching scene on that August day just six years ago when the elderly black woman named Mrs. Robinson embraced the elderly white woman named Mrs. Reese. The women were attending the funeral of Mrs. Reese’s husband Harold, who had died at the age of 81. They were now both widows.

Go back now more than a half-century to May 14, 1947. Mrs. Reese’s husband Harold, or Pee Wee as he is better known, is playing shortstop for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Mrs. Robinson’s husband, Jackie, is playing second base. The Dodgers are playing the Reds at Crosley Field in Cincinnati. It is the first road trip of the new season for the Dodgers. It is the first road trip ever for a black man in the major leagues.

Each time Robinson was introduced he was abused with wave after wave of boos, jeers and heckles. The harassment continued to worsen until it progressed to the point where the game had to be stopped. When he had signed with the Brooklyn Dodgers Jackie Robinson had some idea of the hatred he would be forced to endure. Even before he had joined the team a petition was circulated among the players threatening a boycott if Robinson was allowed to play. One of the players who refused to sign was shortstop and team captain Pee Wee Reese.

This same Pee Wee Reese now left his shortstop position and walked over to Jackie Robinson standing near second base. Most people don’t remember that Reese played in over 2,000 games in his 16 major league seasons and went to the World Series seven times. They may not recall that he also made the All Star team ten times and was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

What people remember most about Pee Wee Reese was the day that he stood in the middle of that yelling, jeering, ugly crowd at that long ago baseball game in Cincinnati and put his arm around Jackie Robinson’s shoulder, and with that one gesture single-handedly reduced that screaming, hateful mob to absolute silence. “How absurd not to let Robinson play just because of the color of his skin!” we all loudly proclaim from the comfort and safety afforded by 58 years. But Pee Wee Reese, he stood up in 1947. He stood up when it needed to be done.

It must have been a touching scene on that August day just six years ago when the elderly black woman named Mrs. Robinson embraced the elderly white woman named Mrs. Reese. The women were attending the funeral of Mrs. Reese’s husband Harold, who had died at the age of 81. They were now both widows.

Three Card Monte: Popes

Whew, I’m exhausted! I know, let’s take a break from ragging on Bush and Yoko for a bit and play another fun round of that semi-popular game that’s apparently not sweeping the nation, Three Card Monte! You remember how the game is played, right? Two of the below stories about popes from the past are true and one was totally fabricated by your favorite heathen, me. See if you can pick out the fake one. And don’t let it throw you if anything you read seems particularly outrageous. Popes weren’t always lovable grandfatherly-types who use 21st Century technology to spread their 14th Century beliefs, you know.

STORY A

Pope Clement II isn’t but should be named as the patron saint of transsexuals. It was in 1155, two years after being elected pope, that Clement II underwent what is believed to be the first documented attempt at a sex-change operation. And believe me, it really hurts to have to type in that word “attempt.” Unfortunately, medical procedures in the Twelfth Century were not at the level of sophistication that we enjoy today, and the results of the primitive surgery left, to Pope Clement’s way of thinking, a bit to be desired. So to speak. Sadly, Pope Clement II served as pope only another six months after his botched operation before being hounded from office by a council of rather embarrassed Church leaders. He returned to his family home, where he was cared for until his death ten years later, becoming one of the few men who have found a place for themselves in the histories of both the Church and of Medicine.

STORY B

Pope Alexander VI is remembered for the many mistresses he had both before he became pope in 1492 and after, and he is known to have fathered at least ten children. One of his mistresses lived with him when he was pope, despite the fact that she was both married and sixteen years old. Along with his son, Alexander shared the sexual favors of one of his daughters, and historians still argue about whether her resulting child belonged to her father or her brother. And even though the son may have impregnated his own sister, he was still a good son to his father the pope. To prove it he once threw a party for his papal pappy which included fifty prostitutes who danced naked around the pope’s table. So what did your son get you last Christmas?

STORY C

In January in the year 897 Pope Stephen VI ordered that the body of his predecessor Pope Formosus, which had been buried for almost a year, be exhumed. The body of the dead pope was then dressed in the robes of office, sat upright in the papal chair and tried for offenses against Church law. It should come as no surprise that when this macabre show was finished Pope Stephen found the dead pope (who, incidentally, hadn’t uttered a single word on his own behalf) guilty. The body was then stripped of its robes and three of its fingers were cut off. But the fun was just beginning. The body of Pope Formosus was then dragged through the streets of Rome and unceremoniously dumped into the Tiber River.


OK, Chump, which one did I make up? Answers in the Comments tomorrow! (And, by the way, I choose the order randomly with slips of paper, so don’t even try to get inside my head. You wouldn’t like it there, believe me.)

Dear Yoko...

Dear Yoko,

How are you? I was surprised to hear from you. I was even more surprised to hear that twenty-five years after the death of your husband and thirty-five years after the break-up of the Beatles you are still publicly ridiculing Paul McCartney.

And what a delightful story you told about your late husband; how sometimes John Lennon would wake up in the night wondering why so many people did cover versions of McCartney songs and so few covered his own. You told him it was because he was such a good songwriter and such a good singer that people were afraid to record his songs. By all accounts your husband was a very perceptive and intelligent man. Did he actually buy that fairy tale?

You know Yoko, when you look back at the very best songs of the Beatles, the anthems, you may find that a sizable majority of them were written by McCartney. Let It Be, Hey Jude, Yesterday…they were all Paul. Oh, by the way, did you know that Yesterday has been covered by more than 3,000 artists, more than any other song in history? It sure is a lucky thing that John didn’t write it, because then people would have been too afraid to record it. And did you know that at one time Wings (the band McCartney was in while John stayed at home baking cookies) was number three, after Elvis and the Beatles, on the list of recording artists with the most Top Ten hits? Isn’t that something?

And here’s some more Beatles trivia for you, Yoko. You were there, so you already know that John, Paul, George and Ringo were in the Beatles. But do you know who wasn’t in the Beatles? You! That’s a pretty tricky question because sometimes, especially if one watches the film Let It Be, it’s kind of hard to tell. There are probably kids out there today who think that the Beatles had a female lead singer! Unless, of course, they’ve actually heard you sing.

And did I see that you are now coming out with John Lennon jewelry? I guess you have bills to pay just like the rest of us, but jewelry, for Christ’s sake? Is there a reason why you are attempting to turn a rock icon into Joan Rivers? And how fortunate that John was cremated and so he now doesn’t have a grave in which to spin.

If John were alive today I wonder how you and he would have weathered this past quarter-century as a couple. Do you think you’d still be together? Really? I mean, being with a woman seven years your senior is fine when you’re in your 20’s and 30’s, but when she turns 72? Not so much. Sure John would also be no spring chicken if he were alive today. In fact he’d be 65. But do you know what else he’d be? John Lennon. And I have to believe that would still be an awfully powerful pedigree to flash in front of the young ladies. Why, he could trade you in for two 36-year-olds. Better, he could get four 18-year-olds and still be on the proper side of legal!

Listen, Yoke, (May I call you ‘Yoke”?) the Beatles were the shining stars in the lives of many of us aging hippies. Arguing over whether Paul or John was more talented is like arguing over how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Does it really matter? Be happy knowing that your husband made up one-half of the greatest song-writing team of the 20th Century, and that when angels do dance on the head of a pin, they’re probably dancing to the music of the Beatles.

Love,

Leonard

The Magic Bullet Theory

“34, please.”
Every night at just around 9:00 it’s the same damn thing. “34, please.”
That’s my wife Spike reminding me that it’s time once again to switch over to QVC, which is on channel 34, so that she can find out what piece of crap is being offered as the day’s “Special Value.”

Spike can watch QVC for hours. Hell, I’m even getting to know some of the personalities on that channel. How she can sit there as these women yammer about some collection of junk hour after hour is beyond me. It’s not like it’s some detective mystery where you have to stick around in order find out how it’s going to end. You already know the ending—they’re going to ask you to buy something.

OK, I exaggerated a bit there. Spike doesn’t usually spend more than half an hour at a time watching QVC. I was also going to say that a QVC box arrives at our home every day, but that too would be an exaggeration. It’s not every day.

And besides, we all have our shopping weaknesses. For me there is nothing more deadly than that “one-click” feature they have on Amazon. If I want a book or a DVD I just need to go on Amazon, find it, hit the one-click button and it’s on its way to my home. Talk about instant gratification! The only thing quicker would be if I clicked the button and the book appeared instantly in my living room. And I’m sure that advancement is coming in my lifetime.

The point is I almost never buy anything from television shopping networks or infomercials. A book is one thing, but if I’m buying anything with more than one moving part I’d just as soon go down to the mall, see it in person, touch it and get to know it a little. (Yes, we’re still talking about inanimate objects here.) That’s why I was so surprised when I ordered The Magic Bullet after watching their ad on TV. It seemed so unlike me.

Have you seen the infomercial for The Magic Bullet? It runs about thirty minutes and it’s what got me interested in the product in the first place, which is, after all, the whole point of having an infomercial. It was actually the infomercial that sucked me in. I often found myself watching it, not to learn more about The Magic Bullet itself, but for its entertainment value!

The ad stars a man and a woman, the man speaking with some sort of British/Australian accent while the woman flits around the kitchen in her low-cut but not slutty sundress. And the two of them are creating the most amazing variety of food from this tiny appliance called the Magic Bullet. But what really kept me interested was the cast of supporting characters sitting around the kitchen. There’s the friendly guy who likes to eat, his teasing wife and my favorite, a woman in curlers and a housedress with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The folks who produced this ad didn’t just people it with their friends and neighbors. They hired actors to portray a variety of funny, entertaining characters. It’s almost like watching a sitcom. A lousy one, to be sure, but still…

So after I found myself landing on this thing more and more while channel surfing I really began to get into The Magic Bullet itself. I mean these people are making an incredible assortment of food and drinks in just about no time at all. Within a short period of time I see this space age wonder make Alfredo sauce, nachos, chicken salad, iced coffee drinks, guacamole, pancakes, asparagus soup, margaritas…and all within just a few seconds! Plus it comes with attachments, so it’s not just a chopper or a mixer. Add one attachment and it’s a juicer! Add another and it’s a full-size blender! By the time I finished watching The Magic Bullet infomercial for the fifth time I was sure of two things: One, the actress who played the lady with the dangling cigarette was hilarious, and Two, I wanted a Magic Bullet.

And so I got one. It comes in a box that’s big enough to bury four cats. (Or one half of an animal rights activist.) And it’s all there—everything you see on TV. It also includes a cook booklet that contains recipes for everything you’ve seen the chick in the low-cut sundress make on TV and a lot more. The only thing it doesn’t come with is an explanation of why they chose to name their product after the projectile that killed President Kennedy. Or perhaps nobody but me has noticed?

The two main questions that need to be addressed are “Does it work?” and “Do I use it?” In regard to whether the Magic Bullet works like it does on TV I’d have to say yes, with reservations. A big selling point in the infomercial is how fast you can create foods and drinks. Everything is called “Ten-second this” and “Five-second that.” From my experience it takes much longer to create these recipes in real life than it does on TV. I made the chicken salad today. On TV it just takes a few presses on The Magic Bullet and voila! you’re done. It took me a few minutes of serious grinding, but there at the end I had some tasty chicken salad. The same goes for ice. Spike and I, maniacs that we are, had the urge for our monthly drink the other night and, while it took a few minutes to make the crushed ice treat, they did come out perfect. So my point is The Magic Bullet does work, but not in the time that they advertise. And who cares? Not me. What am I going to do with that extra twenty seconds anyway? Write another stupid blog for people not to read?

I see that I’ve already answered the second question. Yes, I use The Magic Bullet. I made that chicken salad today. I made those daiquiris the other night. I’ve made a delicious broccoli soup and my first ever Alfredo sauce. And ask my pal Peachpit how much she and her friend enjoyed those icy Mudslides my Magic Bullet whipped up on her last visit.

And you know, I’m not even the kind of guy who is into gadgets at all. I still remember using those old folding rulers, so a tape measure is pretty much as high on the technology scale as I want to go. But I do like my Magic Bullet. In fact I’d like to whip up a refreshing frozen concoction for myself right now, but as an electronic device it does make a fair amount of noise so I’ll pass. After all, it’s late and it would be selfish of me to awaken Spike from the visions of QVC Special Values that are surely now dancing in her head.

A Tale of Two Chick Flicks

First off, there probably are examples of actual “chick flicks” out there, movies that are designed to appeal only to women, just as there are movies that have men as their target audience. Still there are a lot of movies that are branded “chick flicks” not because they will appeal only to women, but simply because they are about women. I’ve recently seen Cameron Diaz’s frustration as she does the talk circuit to promote her new film In Her Shoes and tries to dispel any talk that this is a film for women only. “It’s directed by a man!” she pleads.

You know what? Buy me a dress—I loved Enchanted April, the ultimate chick flick. So, how about if instead of dividing movies into guy flicks and chick flicks we divided them another way. How about if we classify them as either good films or bad films?

Whenever I let Spike anywhere near the NetFlix selection list I know that our mailbox will soon be stuffed by a steady stream of romantic films. Well, what the hey, you can’t watch Columbo re-runs every night, right? So this Saturday night in place of our usually wild bacchanalian revels (Are you buying this?) we decided to stay home and watch her latest mushy selection, a monstrosity starring Denise Richards called I Do (But I Don’t.)

Before we even got to the opening credits I knew we were in trouble, because there right in the beginning was the logo that told us this was a movie made by Lifetime Television. Rut-roh. That ominous bit of info immediately told me two things: First, that this movie would have the budget of your average Tupperware party and second, the action would take place in a bizarre fantasy world, inhabited by bizarre fantasy characters, that exists only in the minds of the people who make movies for Lifetime Television.

So it starts out when Denise Richards, a wedding planner by trade, has tossed out her husband because he has cheated on her. In fact I don’t think the guy actually did the horizontal bop with anybody else, but he was thinking about it or planning to or something like that. Which on Lifetime is the same as cheating but without the sticky mess.

Now of course the suddenly single Denise has a problem, because how will somebody who looks like Denise Richards ever be able to attract another man? But lo! A miracle happens and she meets up with a guy who my wife assures me is good looking. It’s not that I’m so insecure in my sexuality that I can’t admit that another guy is good looking, but I just didn’t see it. Oh, this character was played by Dean Cain. Wasn’t he Superman or something? How come he looked more like George Lopez?

So Cain plays a fireman (of course) who’s good-looking, brave, in shape but not overly bright. He can’t be smarter than the female lead. This is Lifetime, dammit! And he talks about how he often rescues (I swear to you) “kitties” and “doggies.” (Is that what you women want in a guy, really? Good-looking, stupid and with the vocabulary of a pre-schooler? Because I can, if necessary, speak in monosyllabic baby words and even drool on myself if that’s what it takes to unhook a few bra straps.) The only problem is Denise thinks that Dean is the groom in the wedding that she is currently planning. And yet the guy keeps coming on to her, and despite her high moral standards, she lets him.

OK, if you’re watching this movie you know within the first three minutes that there’s a mix-up and the groom is actually Dean’s brother. However the filmmaker, and damn his black soul, takes forty-five agonizing minutes before Denise realizes that it’s all been one big misunderstanding. And oh, what a glorious relief when she finally does!

So now they’re all lovey-dovey because Denise has found the man-child of her dreams. He hits all the right buttons (get your mind out of the gutter) including the cliché dinner served on the roof of an apartment building all lit by candles and twinkle lights. You chicks really are too much.

So everything is resolved, but alas the movie is only half over. So now the filmmakers have to try to kick-start this thing like a rusty old motorcycle. Their solution is to have a busybody inform Denise that she saw someone boinking the bride and she thinks it was “the groom’s brother.” Now we’re back to square one. Men! She just knew she couldn’t trust them! And so we’re dragged through another forty-five minutes of agony until Denise finally discovers what a chimp could have figured out in two minutes: Yes, there was a third brother, and he’s the culprit. Good Christ! I swear if I ever see Spike logged onto NetFlix again I’ll put corn flakes in her pantyhose.

And so it was with some trepidation that I went with Spike today to see another one of her picks, the afore-mentioned In Her Shoes. OK, to be honest I wanted to see it too. I like Cameron Diaz. She was hilarious as the quintessential girly-girl in the underrated The Sweetest Thing and chillingly real in one of my favorite movies, Vanilla Sky. Don’t miss that one.

So I wasn’t surprised by how much I enjoyed this movie. Besides the fun of watching the varied moods personified by Diaz, from bitchy to funny to touching, there were also compelling characters played by Toni Collette and Shirley MacLain, and a witty and intelligent script peopled with other fun characters. Even the aging father part is written with warmth and depth in this movie, as opposed to his counterpart in I Do (But I Don’t) who is a cardboard cutout, completely de-balled by Lifetime so that he can only utter an occasional “Yes, Dear.”

So I’m here to do all I can to help Cameron Diaz in her uphill battle to not have this very entertaining movie dismissed as a chick flick and thereby unfairly eliminating half of the potential audience. In Her Shoes is a movie that can be enjoyed by everybody. There.

And so it is my fervent hope that perhaps someday, should an overwhelming and uncontrollable urge suddenly strike Cameron Diaz to seek out an over-fed, middle-aged blogger with little money and even fewer prospects for an afternoon of unspeakable delight, she’ll not forget exactly who came through for her during her time of greatest need.

Eraserhead

I spoke to a hot young blonde aerobics instructor for about three minutes today, which is dangerously close to my tolerance limit for speaking to hot blonde aerobics instructors. Anyway, during the brief conversation she mentioned that she had never seen a single episode of The Honeymooners. I registered the appropriate surprise, but really I shouldn’t have been. After all, Jackie Gleason’s comedy classic had already been off the air twenty-five year at the time this girl was born. Plus it seems that there aren’t as many re-runs of The Honeymooners as there are of other classic TV shows.

You know what was a pretty good movie? Total Recall. Yeah, I know, how could it be both a good movie and star Arnold Schwarzenegger? Actually the script for Total Recall had been bouncing around Hollywood for about a decade, and was originally supposed to star Richard Dreyfus. It was a pretty clever script but it took the drawing power of Schwarzenegger to make this expensively made flick profitable.

You might “recall” that in the movie Arnold is too cheap to pay for a real vacation so he goes to a company that will implant in his already confused Republican brain memories of a vacation he never actually took. That’s a pretty cool idea, don’t you think? The concept was reversed years later with the wonderfully titled but otherwise disappointing Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In this one Jim Carrey goes to a company to have certain memories erased from his brain. (Of course it involves a woman. What else?)

I told the aerobics instructor that she was very fortunate to have never seen The Honeymooners. Imagine, she can now watch all 39 episodes, and each one will be for the first time. I’m incredibly jealous of this. I’ve seen each episode a gazillion times, and know every line that is about to be spoken. It’s a remarkable tribute to this series that even though I know each joke before it’s spoken, they will still make me laugh out loud when delivered.

OK, here’s my point and thanks for waiting. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could erase certain bits of knowledge or experience from your memory banks (or savings & loans) just so that you could enjoy them as you did the very first time, fresh and new?

Well, you can’t. But tonight I’m going to give you all a little advice. I’m going to list a few of my favorites and if you’re lucky enough to not be familiar with one or more of them consider yourself fortunate, because that means there’s an untapped treat just waiting for you—all you have to do is open the box.


THE HONEYMOONERS
Well, of course. One of the two greatest television comedies ever created. If you have never met Ralph, Norton, Alice or Trixie, well get off your ass, walk across the room and introduce yourself. You won’t be sorry. My childhood friend Lenny once laughed so hard that he pulled a stomach muscle and almost had to miss a race that he was scheduled to run in the next day. ‘Nuf said.

SEINFELD
First of all, if you own a TV and you have at least one working eyeball then it’s impossible for you not to have seen Seinfeld. But just in case you haven’t there’s a whole comedic world waiting for you. This is the other of the two greatest television comedies (screw Lucy) and Lenny still considers me a traitor for even suggesting that Seinfeld, and not The Honeymooners, is the best of all time.

THE BEATLES
I know, fossil that I am, I’ve repeatedly ranted against youngsters who discover the Beatles. “Find your own music, you punks, the Beatles belong to us!” I proclaimed while shaking my aluminum walker at the sky. First, if you’ve never heard of the Beatles then you’re also not reading this, because you obviously live in a mud hut deep in the heart of the Congo. Second, if you only have a vague awareness of who they were, you’re in for a treat. Start listening to what we used to call their “albums” (ignore those bullshit collections) in chronological order and you’ll be taking a mind-blowing ride through the finest era in rock music history.

THE FLASHMAN BOOKS
Ah ha, haven’t heard of this one, huh? If you enjoy reading, history and especially hilarious and brilliant writing, then get on Amazon right now and start ordering these classics written by George MacDonald Fraser. Start with the first one, Flashman. I was turned on to these books by my pal K.C. a few years back, and I have since tried to pass the favor on to others with little success. Nobody I know who has read one has gone on to read a second. It’s their loss. If you connect with this wonderful series of books, you are in for years of delightful reading. The Flashman books are the first memory I’d erase so I could start at the beginning and read them all again. That’s why you’re lucky. There are twelve of these comic gems out there just waiting to be discovered by you.

I’ll probably think of other shows, books and music you should get to know before you shuffle off this mortal plane, but for now these are enough to get you started. You’re welcome.

# 100

First off, let me congratulate myself for getting to this point, my 100th blog. I have to tell you I’m fairly impressed. Those who truly know me will tell you that there are many, many positive attributes that I don’t possess, and discipline is certainly one of them. And yet if one wants to write one must be disciplined. Even after all these years it is still Dorothy Parker who summed it up best when she said, “I hate writing. I love having written.” And I have written, six nights a week for about four months to get to this 100th blog.

Another valuable bit of information I picked up along the way comes from writer Somerset Maugham, and apparently he borrowed it from Charles Darwin. You’d agree that neither of these intellectual giants could be considered slackers and yet both of these men decided that they would work but three hours a day. But when they worked, they worked. How many people who are paid for eight hours of work are giving their employers their money’s worth?

Having recently left a typical corporate sweatshop (and lacking the afore-mentioned discipline) it was only natural that the idea of working only three hours a day would appeal to me. And so I have, and what do I have to show for it? Exactly 100 written articles that I estimate average about 1,000 words each. That’s 100,000 words written in just a few months! Now I’m no Stephen King or Danielle Steel, but I am just now beginning to get an inkling as to how they can produce so much in one lifetime. It’s not a secret: They sit their literary asses down and write. Regularly. It’s their job.

19th Century novelist Anthony Trollope began writing each day at 5:30 a.m. and worked until 11:00 a.m. That’s only five and a half hours a day, and yet by the time he took the big sleep he had written forty-seven novels and an additional sixteen non-fiction books as well. Balzac’s nocturnal writing habits were closer to my own, as he wrote from midnight until dawn nearly every day of his life and was able to produce a million words a year and write 90 novels! This motherfucker wrote 90 novels and I’m peeing my pants in glee because I wrote 100 blogs? Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

Of course the value of one’s writing should not be measured by the pound. I’ve written 100,000 words and the Gettysburg address is only 186 words. Does that mean my work is 538 times better? Probably. No, of course it doesn’t. Just as it’s not 77 times better than the Declaration of Independence or 1500 times better than The Lord’s Prayer. Now if we say my 100,000 words are about 1/2 as good as Moby-Dick we might be on the right track. Change it to 1/100th as good and we’re really getting close. And yet I’m still impressed that I’ve written something half as long as Moby-Dick, which is, after all, one long-ass piece of classic literature.

My goal when I started this blog (And I really don’t like the word blog, just as I didn’t like the word “pot” in my smoking days. It was “grass” and I write “columns” or “articles.” Strictly speaking a blog is supposed to be a “web log,” that is a report on the writer’s daily activities. How much do you care about what I do every day? Just a tiny bit more than I care about what you do every day, I suspect.) was to write 120 articles on various subjects from which I could select the 88 best for my third book called A Year on Planet Mercury. My first book was made up of 54 articles winnowed from a collection of 77, an amount that I was also amazed that I had achieved. My second book will be composed of 42 articles which have been selected from a group of, well, 42. (A little thin there, eh?) And now here I sit, already at blog #100, with my goal in sight. And will I keep writing this column after I reach that arbitrary total of 120? Balzac certainly would have. Besides, what else have I got to do?

You might wonder why I bother to produce these books in the first place, and then sell them to you for 20% less than it costs me to publish them. I like books. And I like seeing books that I have written, that have my name on the cover. I like knowing they’ll be gathering dust in bookshelves and basements and garage sales long after I’m gone. If I can write a funny line today that will induce someone fifty years from now to spit out their morning coffee then I shall not have lived in vain!

It was Socrates or Plato or Aristotle who said every man should do four things in his life: father a son, build a house, plant a tree and write a book. Well, my life isn’t over yet, but the closest I’ve come to having a son is discovering a few months ago that my turtle Elspeth is actually a male. And I certainly haven’t built any houses, unless Plato (I looked it up) considered paying a mortgage the same as building a house, which I doubt very much. I know I’ve planted trees, but when I attempted to identify one that has not already been cut down I realized I was, and excuse the pun, stumped. And then there are the books.

Do you know how I’m going to feel on my deathbed if I know that there or three or four or five books floating around out there with my name on them? Horrible! How do you think I’m going to feel? I’m dying, for Christ’s sake! Still, that old poof Plato knew what he was talking about because, like having a son, planting a tree or building a house, if you write a book you’re leaving something behind that makes the world a better place. You’re leaving a reminder that you were once here.

And it’s also very satisfying to wake up in the morning and, as your head clears, remember that you had written something the night before, something that you had liked. For example, tomorrow morning I’ll remember this article. I’ll remember the humor and the insight and the sense of accomplishment. But mostly, I’ll remember that this article has a word count of 1,094. Woo-hoo! Moby-Dick here I come!

I'm Not an Asshole. Not Really.

At least I don’t think I am. Sure there are a couple or three people that I’ve crossed paths with along the way who might consider me just a short putt from total asshole-hood, but I don’t worry about what they think. Why should I? They’re assholes.

We all know who the real assholes are. You see them angrily honking their horns at slow moving pedestrians or yelling at waitresses when they get an order wrong. They’re around us all the time and when we see one in action we always think, “Wow, what an asshole.”

The trouble with being judged an asshole is that once you’re labeled one it’s almost impossible to remove the stigma. I’ve been scanning my memory to recall some of my personal greatest assholes of all time. I remember once when we were going to the movies my girlfriend parked the car in a rather cramped lot. As we were getting out of the car some guy was yelling from his car that he couldn’t get out because of how she had parked. “He can get out,” she said and, ignoring the bellowing man, we walked on to the theater. After the movie we returned to her car to discover that the man who was supposedly trapped had managed to get his car out of its space. He had also managed to smash a rather large chocolate chip cookie all over our car’s windshield. Now, my girlfriend might have been a tad rude by not giving the guy more space, but the guy? He was an asshole.

Years ago when I lived in San Diego my only means of transportation was a tiny 50cc moped. Born to be mild, that’s me. Once I had to take this chopper for servicing at the moped dealer about five miles away. When the owner of the shop finished the work and gave me the bill I found I was about four dollars short. This guy had always been very friendly so I figured it wasn’t a big deal. I told him I’d ride home and return with the money. No, he said he wasn’t going to give me the bike until the bill was paid in full. We argued for quite a while. I offered to leave my driver’s license, wallet, whatever he wanted. No luck.

Now kiddies, this was in the days before ATM’s and he didn’t accept credit cards. (Or maybe I didn’t even have one back then. Who remembers?) Finally I left in frustration and walked across the street to a place where I often find solace—a bookstore. I approached the clerk at the counter and explained my situation. And even though I sounded like some beggar with a finely honed and thoroughly made-up story, the guy gave me four bucks. I got my moped, putted home and returned to the bookstore with the clerk’s money. Now remember, this was twenty-five years ago, and yet to this day, and for the rest of my life, I will remember the overall wonderfulness of that bookstore clerk who trusted enough to lend me what was then more than an hour’s pay. As for the moped shop owner, I never went back there again and I will always remember him as a first-class asshole.

So imagine how I felt a few years ago when I went to pick up my work shirts from the cleaners. Now laundry folks are, as you know, much like doctors and presidents. They absolutely never admit to having made a mistake. When the young Asian girl brought out my shirt I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It had rips and tears all over it and looked like something that should have been hanging in Stanley Kowalski’s closet. And of course the laundry employee was quick to point out, (say it with me) “It’s not our fault.”

I never lose it. I keep everything inside. Ask anybody. It’s very unhealthy and frankly I don’t know how I’ve made it this far without some sort of internal explosion. But on this day at the cleaners things were different. It wasn’t the loss of the shirt that bothered me so much, but rather that the case against the cleaners was so painfully obvious, so clear cut that the absurd idea that she was denying any responsibility catapulted me into a sputtering rage. (Or at least my watered-down version of one.) I had brought in a perfectly good, near-new shirt and she was now returning it in shreds and tatters and it wasn’t their fault?

“Look at this shirt!” I yelled. (Well, said loudly.) I turned to the customer next to me. “Look at this? Do you think I brought the shirt in like this?” To his everlasting disgrace he didn’t even answer me. For some reason he just didn’t want to get involved with the crazed lunatic who was yelling and waving around a white shirt that appeared to have been sliced into strips.

“You washed it with too much bleach or something,” the girl attempted.
“How can I wash it with too much bleach? I don’t even wash my shirts. You do!” And with that I angrily scribbled a check and stormed out of the tiny shop.

It didn’t take long for me to calm down. Or more accurately, to internalize the volcanic anger that is scheduled to explode inside me at a later date. And then I remembered. I had worn that work shirt to the dentist recently and somehow the sadistic ghoul had splattered a small amount of blood on it. I had then soaked the shirt in the bathroom sink for a good half hour hoping to get rid of the stain. Yes, in bleach.

For the next year every time I went into that laundry I turned it on with everything I had. I beamed the 1000-watt smile and I always chirped a cheery, “Good morning!” I talked about the fine weather. I paid my bill happily and always left with a friendly, “Have a nice day!” And yet we both knew that my gushing performances were of no use. For as long as I was a customer there, no, for as long as she lived, the girl at the laundry would think of me in much the same way as I still think of that moped repairman from long ago. She’ll return my good mornings, she’ll smile politely and she’ll agree that yes, it certainly is a beautiful day. And yet every time she remembers the episode with the shirt I know that she’ll be thinking, “Wow, what an asshole.”

The Alcohol Quiz

A few columns back I presented The Yummy Candy Quiz, a fun little test that I thought contained some pretty simple questions. Sweet Lorraine thought otherwise. “Why don’t you do a test about something I know, like alcohol?” she slurred.

OK, it’s hard to say for sure whether she actually slurred or not, since her request reached me by e-mail. And it is the stated goal of this site to please as many of you readers as possible, regardless of whether you are a teetotaler (go ahead smart-ass—check the spelling) or a relapsed twelve-stepper who has not only fallen off the wagon but has been run over by it. Repeatedly. So go ahead and take The Alcohol Quiz and find out where on the scale you stand. Assuming, of course, that you can stand at all.

1. Which type of alcohol is used in drinks?
a. Methyl Alcohol
b. Ethyl Alcohol
c. Propyl Alcohol
d. Butyl Alcohol

2. Which is not an ingredient in a Zombie?
a. Rum
b. Sweet and Sour Mix
c. Orange Juice
d. Coconut Cream

3. When did the earliest known brewing of alcoholic drinks occur?
a. 7000 BCE in China
b. 2000 BCE in Iran
c. 200 A.D. in Rome
d. 1974 in Lorraine’s house

4. A beverage that is 100 Proof contains about what percentage of alcohol?
a. 10%
b. 50%
c. 100%
d. 200%

5. Place these beverages in order of increasing alcohol content.
a. Wine, Beer, Tequila, Vodka
b. Beer, Wine, Tequila, Vodka
c. Wine, Beer, Vodka, Tequila
d. Beer, Vodka, Wine, Tequila

6. At official toasts why won’t President Bush even sip his drink?
a. He dislikes the taste of alcohol.
b. The Bible condemns the consumption of alcohol.
c. He only drinks crude oil.
d. He’s an alcoholic.

7. What is Grey Goose?
a. A popular Wine
b. A popular Vodka
c. A popular liqueur
d. A popular ass-pinch at the old age home

8. What is Gin distilled from?
a. Berries
b. Grain
c. Grapes
d. Potatoes

9. Which “beer fact” is false?
a. George Washington owned a brewery.
b. The oldest known recipe is for beer.
c. Ancient Egyptians greeted each other with the phrase, “Bread and Beer!”
d. Beer was first brought to England by King Arthur.

10. Which city has the highest rate of alcoholism in the U.S.?
a. Topeka, Kansas
b. Reno, Nevada
c. Jacksonville, Florida
d. Crawford, Texas


ANSWERS:

1. ETHYL ALCOHOL. The other three kinds will kill you, or at least make you go blind. Then again that’s what they told us about masturbation.
2. COCONUT CREAM. But it sure sounds good, huh?
3. 7000 BCE, IN CHINA. And if you picked 200 A.D. you’re a big dummy. Wasn’t Noah a drunk? Didn’t Jesus drink wine? Oh, and BCE is the secular version of B.C. It stands for Before the Common Era. It’s fun to use because it really pisses off the Christians.
4. 50%. And I know you didn't pick 200%. How can something be 200% alcohol? Giving 200% only exists in the minds of football coaches and sales managers.
5. BEER, WINE, TEQUILA, VODKA. Yeah, I would have put Tequila on top too, but it turns out it has just a little less alcohol than other distilled drinks.
6. HE’S AN ALCOHOLIC. Apparently our president is a grown man who can’t control what he puts in his own body. Now excuse me while I go get another dish of ice cream.
7. A POPULAR VODKA. Right, K.C. ?
8.GRAIN. Gin is, however, flavored with juniper berries. Did I trick you here?
9. LEGEND SAYS BEER WAS FIRST BROUGHT TO ENGLAND BY KING ARTHUR. I made that up. Pretty obvious too, I think.
10. RENO, NEVADA, The Biggest Little Drunken City in the World!

SCORING:

0-3 Correct: Be careful! Don’t spill your cocoa on your shawl, Grandma.
4-7 Correct: Oh maybe I’ll just take a sip of yours.
8-9 Correct: Hell yeah I’m driving! I’m too damn drunk to walk!
10 Correct: Hi Lorraine. How are you?

Which Couple Is Married?

COUPLE A

“This is a beautiful restaurant,” she says and means it. She’s very impressed. The place is dimly but perfectly lit and she sees rich burnished wood in every direction that she turns her newly-coiffed head.
“Is that a new hair style?” he asks.
“Yes, do you like it?” She’s pleased that he noticed.
“You should always wear it like that. It brings out your beautiful face.”
She scoffs at the compliment, but inside she feels like a giddy schoolgirl. It seems like it’s been so long since a man has noticed…anything.
“And what’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
“It’s called Fiji.”
“It’s intoxicating. Ah good, our food is here.”

“This place is so romantic, and right on the water,” she says. “How did you hear about it?”
“I’ve been passing it for years. I’ve just been saving it to take somebody special.”
Again she feels the giddiness rising inside her. “Can I try one of your scallops?” she ventures.
“Of course, take this big one. Here. Let me feed it to you.”

“Please, just let me pay half. Or at least leave the tip. It’s expensive here.”
“Absolutely not. The cost of a meal is a small price to pay for the pleasure of enjoying your company for two hours. I’d say it’s one of the best bargains I’ve ever had!” he laughs.
“Well, thank you. That was delicious.”
“It makes me happy to see you happy. Would you like to come over to my place and watch a movie?”
And although her answer was yes it was a movie to which neither one of them would pay much attention.


COUPLE B

“Too bad it’s not our birthday. We’d get a free meal.”
“Do they still do that?” she asks.
“How should I know? What’s wrong with your hair?”
“What do you mean? I just got it cut.”
“Is it supposed to look like that? And what’s that smell?”
“It’s my new perfume. It’s called Lake Erie. Do you like it?” she asks hopefully.
“Huh? Yeah, yeah. What, did you spill it on yourself?”

“I can’t believe we’re eating here again,” he said.
“Well, at least this time we got a booth.”
“Yes, and the food doesn’t cost too much.”
“Can I try one of your fried shrimp?” she ventures.
“C’mon,” he barks. “They only gave me five. Eat your own food.”

“I’m going to put it on the credit card,” he says pulling out his wallet. “Your half is eleven dollars.”
“I’ll just pay if we go to Blockbuster.”
“Big deal, that’s only six bucks. I guess I lose again.”
“Okay, okay here’s ten bucks. I’ll owe you one.”
“So you want to go home and watch a movie or what?”
And her answer was yes and so that’s exactly what they did.


ANSWER

The man and woman in COUPLE B have been dating each other for quite some time but are not, and hopefully never will be, married. The man and woman in COUPLE A are definitely married, but not, of course, to each other.

Useless Information: Timothy the Tortoise

I’ll get the sad part out of the way first. In case you missed it in the papers (and it was in the papers) Timothy the Tortoise passed away last year. He was buried near where he died, at Powderham Castle, and was assumed to be England’s oldest resident. Timothy was 160 years old.

Timothy was discovered on a Portuguese vessel in 1854 by Captain John Courtenay Everard of the Royal Navy. He was believed to be about ten years old at the time. (The turtle, not the captain.) Timothy served as the mascot for several British ships, saw duty during the Crimean War, and was finally given permanent shore leave in 1892. From then until his death in 2004 Timothy led the good life in the royally capable hands of the Earl of Devon as well as several generations of his family.

By all accounts Timothy was as bright and resourceful a reptile as you could ever hope to meet. As mentioned above, our Timothy was no stranger to battle, so when he first felt the vibrations of bombs exploding near his home during World War II Timothy leaped, well, crawled into action. He hid himself under a handy set of steps that was nearby and proceeded to build himself his very own private air raid shelter. Is your kid smart enough to do that? Then why is he still eating crayons?

From then Timothy led a relatively uneventful life, content to peacefully roam the grounds of the castle and occasionally seek out the company of his human friends when in need of a kind word or a ripe strawberry. During his later years Timothy wore a tag that read, “I am very old-please do not pick me up.” And no, Guys, I don’t know where you can get one of these for your drunken wife.

Sadly, Timothy left behind no offspring. There was an attempt to mate Timothy in 1926, but the amorous encounter was a resounding failure. At least part of the reason for Timmy’s lack of interest became obvious a short time later when it was learned that Timothy was actually a female. Had been all along, apparently. Still, even after this shocking discovery, Timothy’s owners decided not to change his name. Hopefully they did change his mating partner.