Useless Information: Eppie and Popo

Quick, who are Esther Pauline Friedman and Pauline Esther Friedman? OK, never mind the “quick” part, take your time. So then, who are they? You don’t know, do you? Well, to tell you the truth I wouldn’t have known either.

I’ve been around the block a time or three and not much has truly surprised me along the way. Yet I still remember being fairly rocked when I found out years ago that Ann Landers and Dear Abby were sisters. And when I heard that they were twins, well knock me down with a feather Heather, was I stunned!

Now it’s only because I just read the research that I am able to tell you that Esther Pauline was Ann Landers and Pauline Esther was Abigail Van Buren, or Dear Abby. Ask me for the same information tomorrow and all you’ll get out of me is a blank stare and a confused “Huh?” And why these two lovely young ladies would want to change their names from Friedman to Landers and Van Buren is a real mystery to me, a mystery that may never be solved. Ahem.

Now wouldn’t you guess that the Dear Abby column has been around longer than the Ann Landers one? Well my ignorant little friend, as you are in so many things, you would be wrong. The Ann Landers column began in 1955 when Esther Pauline (or was it Pauline Esther?) won a contest to write the column. Dear Abby was started the following year.

As children Pauline and Esther (or was that Esther and Pauline?) were very close, and they even got married in a joint ceremony in 1939. Unfortunately because of the cut-throat competition in the high-stakes game of newspaper advice columnism (Yeah, I made up that word. Sue me.) the sisters grew apart over the years, and up to just a few years before the death of Pauline (Ann Landers) in 2002 the sisters were not even speaking to each other. It has been reported that they patched things up before Pauline died, but since Esther (That’s Dear Abby—stay with me here.) was suffering from Alzheimer’s it is difficult to confirm.

Despite her infirmity on July 4th Esther Pauline (Abby.) will celebrate her 88th birthday. Today the Dear Abby column is written by her daughter and is the most read column in the world. (And how thrilling must it be to get more than ten readers a day? I can only imagine.) The Ann Landers column was discontinued upon the death of Pauline (Ann Landers?) in 2002, in accordance with her wishes.

It’s a remarkable achievement that twin sisters could both find such success writing separate advice columns, but I must admit that I still find it difficult to accept that Dear Abby and Ann Landers were sisters. And twin sisters at that. Something just doesn’t seem right to me, and it never has. I just can’t get rid of the nagging suspicion that I’ve been carrying around in my head for decades. You know, the one that keeps telling me that Dear Abby and Ann Landers were not twins, or even sisters, but were in fact one and the same person. And mark my words, one day I’ll be proven right.

Men: We're Just Born That Way

Okay, okay, so last night’s entry was a little, oh I don’t know, coarse? Hey, I didn’t design the damn car; I’m just passing along info here. How about if I make it up to you tonight? I’ll tell you a story that, although like last night’s article it gives a little insight into the curious workings of the male mind, is so cute it will wash clean any distasteful remnants of that horribly offensive Edsel piece. (And for those few who actually read the blog and know that it wasn’t nearly as odious as I’m making it out to be, please keep it to yourself. This is just a cheap writer’s trick (by a cheap writer!) to try and get folks to go back and read the thing.

My wife Spike is employed as a pre-school teacher, a profession that years ago I may have dismissed as glorified baby-sitting but have since grown to recognize as the craft that it is. Several years ago Spike became particularly attached to one student, as teachers and mothers tend to do despite their denials of favoritism, and he in turn became equally attached to her.

The kid’s name was Cameron and he was four years old. As teacher and student grew closer it became part of the daily ritual for Cameron to spend some time sitting on Spike’s lap. The sad truth was that Cameron’s parents were going through a divorce, and so it should surprise nobody that this poor kid was looking for some much needed attention and security.

Yes, Cameron was the teacher’s pet, and he knew of no greater delight in life than being with Spike and performing some little service for her, whether it be fetching a book or retrieving a pencil that she had dropped on the floor.

One day when the children had just finished playing outdoors and Spike was herding them back towards the classroom she realized she had left her sweater hanging on one of the pieces of playground equipment. Enter Jonathan, another of the many energetic four-year old students. Unable to leave the group of children, Spike asked Jonathan if he would run over and retrieve the sweater for her, which the obliging preschooler did without hesitation. He then rejoined his classmates as they filed back into the building.

It was less than thirty seconds later that Spike looked down to see Cameron, the teacher’s pet, first looking up at the sweater she held and then looking up at her. He had obviously been but a short distance away and had observed what I’m sure he would later refer to as “the sweater incident.” Cameron continued to look up at his favorite teacher with what I can only assume was as accusing a stare as a four-year old could muster. Finally he broke the silence and asked the question that was clearly troubling his preschool mind:

“Who was that?”

The Edsel

On September 4, 1957 the Ford Motor Company launched a new make of automobile. It was called the Edsel, a name that was, in just a few short years, destined to become synonymous with “failure.” (By the way, have you searched the word “failure” on Google? Isn’t that terrific?) Various excuses are often given for its relatively quick demise, and it is frequently stated that there was no one particular reason that the Edsel became such a historic flop. And while I’m no expert in the field of automotive sales (or in any other field for that matter) I would like to respectfully disagree. For you see, I truly believe that there was in fact one main reason for the failure of the Edsel.

In addition to hiring an advertising firm to come up with a name for the new creation, Ford also asked poet Marianne Moore for some suggestions. These included “Intelligent Whale,” “Utopian Turtletop” and “Mongoose Civique.” Obviously none of these were chosen (Don’t quit your day job, Marianne.)

In the end Ford followed the tried and true American tradition of kissing ass, and so named the new line of cars after the company’s former president and Henry Ford’s son, Edsel. Unfortunately the public thought it sounded like the name of a tractor. And yet is the name alone enough to destroy the success of a new product? I think not. After all “The Beatles” is a pretty corny name for a band when you think about it. And yet.

Additionally, and through no fault of the Ford Motor Company, the Edsel, though created during an economic boom, was released during a recession. This obviously hurt the sales of this rather large car with the poor fuel efficiency. You mean people knew about this stuff way back then? So that means that all of our current problems with the cost of, and reliance on, oil isn’t our fault. Blame it on those shortsighted knuckleheads of the 1950’s!

Another common complaint about the Edsel was not just that the automatic transmission shifted by the pressing of buttons, but that the buttons were placed right smack in the center of the steering wheel. And as every Real American knows, this is where the horn goes! There were actual cases of angry drivers attempting to honk their horns only to find, and somewhat abruptly I’m sure, that they had instead shifted gears.

By far the most prominent feature of the Edsel, and in my opinion the dominant reason for its colossal failure, was what is referred to as the “horse collar” grille. It was a popular quip at the time to say that the design of the grille made the car look like “a Mercury sucking on a lemon.”

But alas, there were other things that were being said about the look of the Edsel’s unique grille; nasty things, foul things, crude things that ensured that American car-buyers would stay away in droves. Sure, maybe around the family men were using that cute “lemon-sucking” line, but in private, among themselves, men had an entirely different perspective. And there was no denying the truth of it either: The grille on the new Edsel did indeed look remarkably similar to…the female genitalia.

Is there a greater symbol of a man’s virility, potency and prowess than his automobile? Do ladies anywhere except in Dreamland react the same way to a guy who drives up in a glossy Corvette as to one who arrives in a coughing Pinto? Of course not. And so it’s not difficult to imagine the scabrous and merciless verbal abuse that some poor slob must have suffered the first time he proudly pulled up in his brand new shiny 1958 Pussy Mobile. I can almost hear the cruel taunts as they waft their way over the decades.

The above observation regarding the unique look of the Edsel is not my own, although until I did the research tonight I had only heard it once in my life, many years ago. And yet when I first heard it a light went off. I believed immediately that making a car that featured a fairly accurate representation (although, hopefully, a larger one) of a female’s most private of areas was, and is, a recipe for absolute failure. And nothing over the years has caused me to change my mind.

And now you, Dear Reader, can easily come to the same conclusion yourself. Only two things are required. First, you need to look at a picture of the Edsel. (And not the 1960 model. By then the offending grille had already disappeared. Ha!) And second, you have to be familiar with the way that men think. Yes, all men.

I Remember Soupy

You all still remember Soupy Sales, don’t you? Sure you do. I got a chance tonight to watch some clips from his television program, and I have to tell you it was goofy and corny and I laughed through the whole thing.

These clips were from The New Soupy Sales Show, a program he did that greatly resembled his earlier classic show that began in 1953. In the newer show Soupy is an agile and energetic 52 years old and is obviously giving everything he’s got to make the jokes work. Unfortunately this show lasted only one season.

I have an old VHS tape that has two episodes of Sales’ original show, and have never found any others. It makes me wonder if they were recorded over or destroyed, as were so many classic shows of the ‘50’s and ‘60’s? I hope not. Here was a fresh freewheeling show that seems as original today as it must have when it began over fifty years ago.

Somehow Soupy Sales put together a non-stop show of gags, puppets, puns and skits, and moved between them with a high-speed yet effortless ease. He also was one of the first to break down the “fourth wall,” talking regularly with the unseen director and cameramen on the show. I remember as a teen watching the show one afternoon, and it was painfully obvious that the program has been timed wrong. Soupy calmly sat down at a table and asked the cameraman, “Did you see the game last night?” and they spent the closing minutes of the program discussing the previous day’s Mets game. Sure I was still a kid, but I recognized it then as one of the funniest most original moments I had ever seen on television, and I remember it to this day.

It’s a testament to the show that while watching tonight I could name all the characters, most of which I hadn’t seen in decades. There’s White Fang, the meanest doggy in the world, and Black Tooth, the nicest doggy in the world. And Pookie, the hip lion, who, although only a puppet, had more personality than many characters in live action shows. And the trademark routines still make me laugh; the mystery guest behind the door, the radio that spoke back, the clever use of vintage movie clips. And the brilliance of it all was you rarely saw the other characters on screen: White Fang and Black Tooth were represented by appropriately colored arms, while only the hands of the guests at the door were seen.

And through it all, there was Soupy Sales bouncing from one bit to the next. Some were funny, some were not, but all were given 100% of Soupy’s energy and attention. In fact, with the exception of Johnny Carson, I can think of no performer who could take a lousy piece of material and still have you laughing your ass off.

Soupy Sales was awarded his Hollywood Walk of Fame star in 2005 and turned 80 this past January, although I never heard anything about it on the news. It’s sad that there are so many people out there who have never heard of him or gotten a chance to see his wildly original show. Keep your eyes open and if you can find some copies go ahead and treat yourself. All I know is that forty years ago he made a kid watching TV in his basement laugh out loud and he did the same thing tonight to an AARP-eligible adult. Thanks, Soupy. Happy Birthday.

Like Pillow with a Z

By now you should all know that when I come across something fun my only concern is to pass it on to you, my loyal readers. Yes, both of you. (Ha, I never get tired of that one.) And so tonight I’d like to share with you a web site called Zillow.com.

And don’t go getting all puffed up if you are already familiar with the site. “Oh I’ve known about Zillow for years.” Nobody cares. Why don’t you go hide in the basement and play Dungeons and Dragons with those loser friends of yours? We’ll see you back here tomorrow.

Man, I’m glad those geeks are gone. I mean, I appreciate that they read me and all, but sometimes…Anyway, on Zillow.com you can punch in an address and get both a satellite photo of the property plus the current market value of the house. It’s a great tool for those of you in real estate or for people who are so damned nosy they want to see what the houses of their friends or relatives are worth. And for you terrorists, here’s an essential tool that you simply can not afford to be without.

At first the satellite photo freaked me out a bit. I know it’s probably nothing to worry about, but I can’t get the image of Rumsfeld and Cheney watching me walking around the house in my underwear. “You have nothing to worry about if you’re doing nothing wrong,” says the voice that comes from behind my walls, and I immediately feel better. Still, I’m learning to keep my shades drawn, which is sure to frustrate the feds but be a great relief to my neighbors.

Just for grins and because I’m tired of living the free life, I just typed in the address 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. Zillow says there is no house at that address, but if you arrow down just a bit you can see what appears to be a bird’s eye view of the White House! With a tennis court and a pool! (Remember, George, be sure to always go swimming immediately after a huge meal.)

Which reminds me, that arrow feature is really cool. You can move the satellite photo north, south, east and west and it kind of gives you the sensation of flying! (Assuming that you are as pharmaceutically enhanced as I am.) Since I live just a few blocks from the Pacific (Sure, I’m bragging now, but we’ll see if I change my tune when the tsunami hits.) I pressed the West arrow and flew down to the beach and then out over the ocean. I kept clicking the button and wondered how long it would take before I made it to Japan. Suddenly I realized that each click was only sending me about 200 feet further out and it might take a while before I actually reached Asia. So I immediately started clicking East and headed home, because I just don’t have that kind of time. (Well, actually I do have that kind of time but I’d rather spend it on an activity of value, like playing that new on-line shuffleboard game I just discovered.)

Now, don’t go swearing by the house values that you’ll find on Zillow. They’re a good gauge of a neighborhood’s real estate prices, but right now they seem to be a little high. Perhaps there is a slight time lag, as prices have declined a bit of late. Still I was happy to see that, according to Zillow, the value of my house has increased about six grand since the last time I checked.

Two weeks ago my house and my neighbor's, exact duplicates (redundant, I know), were given the same value. Now mine is six thousand higher while my neighbor’s has remained the same. How can this be? The best I can figure is that the powers above have seen that I finally cut the lawn last week, while my neighbor now has a six stinky cats running around the house and peeing on the carpets. Satellites: is there anything they don’t know?

Son Of The Seinfeld Minor Character Quiz

Did you enjoy that quiz on the minor characters of Seinfeld that I wrote just for you last week? Tough noogies, I did, and isn’t that what really matters? In fact I enjoyed it so much I’ve decided to come up with another one. And if you don’t like it you can just go to one of those nudie web sites that you think are so damn much fun. Go on—scoot!

No wait! I didn’t mean that! I know you’ve got a hundred web sites on your favorites list that are a lot more fun than taking another Seinfeld quiz, but how about giving me a break here? Please stay a little while longer. Take a look at the quiz and maybe you’ll like it. Don’t leave me—I GOT NOWHERE ELSE TO GO!

My, that was dramatic, eh? What movie is that line from, anyway? Well, it must have worked because you’re still here. You sap. OK, shut up and take the quiz.


1. What was the name of the horse to whom Kramer fed Beefarino?
a. Smuckers
b. Rusty
c. Snoopy
d. Prickly Pete

2. What does Bookman the library cop say they call people who don’t return overdue books after twenty-five years?
a. Delinquent
b. Communists
c. Book owners
d. Criminals

3. What was the pool boy’s name who wanted to hang out with Jerry?
a. Ramon
b. Ping
c. Edward
d. Boston Bob

4. Who thought that Jerry was a “very bad man” ?
a. Babu
b. Mr. Pitt
c. Lomez
d. Jerry’s mother

5. The Soup Nazi is a native of which country?
a. Germany
b. Austria
c. Afghanistan
d. Bolivia

6. Who referred to himself in the third person, an affectation later picked up by George?
a. Mel Torme
b. Jimmy
c. David Puddy
d. Mr. Lippman

7. What is Jerry’s mother’s first name? (Yes, on the show, goofball!)
a. Helen
b. Mulva
c. Susan
d. Estelle

8. Who had a prior conviction for his “crime of passion” ?
a. Frank Costanza
b. Uncle Leo
c. Jackie Chiles
d. Larry the Cook

9. Which character appeared in the fewest episodes?
a. David Puddy
b. Mr. Wilhelm
c. Mr. Lippman
d. Kenny Bania

10. Who refers to her breasts as “real and spectacular” ?
a. Donna Chang
b. Melissa
c. Sidra
d. Cheryl Fong

ANSWERS

1. Well, it was RUSTY of course, that famed and gaseous equine from the streets of New York! Smuckers was the dog with the cough and Snoopy and Prickly Pete were fictitious horses that George once claimed to own.
2. CRIMINALS. Mr. Bookman was played by Philip Baker Hall, who has been in so many TV shows and movies that IMDB ran out of numbers!
3. RAMON. He was played by Carlos Jacott who I just happened to spot making an appearance on tonight’s rather amusing episode of Desperate Housewives. Seinfeld characters: they’re everywhere!
4. BABU. Jerry not only causes the hapless Pakistani to lose his restaurant, but to be deported as well!
5. The Soup Nazi is from AFGHANISTAN. “You people have a little pet name for everybody” says Jackie Chiles in the final episode.
6. JIMMY thinks you’re cute! Jimmy can’t jump! Jimmy’s going to get you, Kramer!
7. Jerry’s mother’s name is HELEN and was played by Liz Sheridan. And get this: Did you know she once lived with and was engaged to James Dean? Well, that’s what I’m here for!
8. None other than that shoplifting, “hello!” greeting, eyebrow losing UNCLE LEO.
9. KENNY BANIA, the inept stand-up comic, appeared in only six episodes. Puddy, Wilhelm and Lippman each appeared in eleven.
10. SIDRA And speaking of Desperate Housewives, Sidra was played by Teri Hatcher, who has sadly admitted in a recent interview that her “spectacular” assets ain’t what they used to be. Time and tide, time and tide…

EXTRA CREDIT: Who is “a little sloppy” ? See you in “Comments” !

Luca Brasi Sleeps With The Fishes

Will somebody tell me how a person can get to be 42 years old without ever seeing The Godfather? Any of them! Well, somehow Spike managed to accomplish this dubious feat, but, as in so many things, I again came to the rescue to right a horrible wrong. All it took was a plate of lasagna, a glass of wine and The Godfather DVD from NetFlix and Spike was back on track.

Movies are so subjective, as my Public Access co-host Queenie is forever pointing out, but I’d have a serious problem with any list that purported to select the Top Ten American movies of all time and didn’t include both The Godfather and The Godfather: Part II. In fact the minute The Godfather ended tonight I was ready to jam The Godfather: Part II into the player. But since it runs over three hours and I know how anxiously you all await these posts I decided to postpone the viewing until tomorrow night. And as for The Godfather: Part III—well there are some movies that should never have been made. Personally I’d rather get a root canal from a germ encrusted dentist with Parkinson’s than sit through this one again.

Through the years I’ve picked up some interesting tidbits about this classic film and aren’t you just dying to hear all about it? Frinstance, how old do you think Marlon Brando was when he made this movie? Well, I first saw The Godfather when it was released in 1972 and I was still a teenager. So of course I saw Brando as an old man. Now that I’m looking back over my shoulder from the wrong side of fifty it amazes me that Brando was just 48 years old when he made this film.

Remember the famous horse’s head scene? I had heard years ago that Coppola had used a real horse head in order to shock actor John Marley and get a more authentic reaction out of him. I haven’t been able to confirm whether an enhanced reaction or simply a more realistic look was the motivation, but that head you see on those blood-stained silk sheets is quite real. Coppola actually took a lot of heat from the animal rights folks, although he always claimed that no horse was killed for the scene and the head had actually come from a dog food factory. And now you know the rest of the disgusting story, whether you wanted to or not.

Here’s some fodder for a great trivia question that I actually picked up on Howard the other day and was able to confirm on IMDB. (Do you have any idea what I’m talking about with my dopey coded jargon here?) Actor John Cazale, who played the “weak and stupid” Fredo, appeared in only five feature films before his early death from cancer at the age of 42. What’s amazing is that all five of these films were nominated for a Best Picture Oscar! No other actor with more than one film appearance has ever appeared in only movies nominated for Best Picture. He might have led a short life but the man sure knew how to pick scripts!

Now you’d have to be as dense as Fredo to not see that the Johnny Fontane character bears more than a slight resemblance to Frank Sinatra. In fact Sinatra himself tried to get the character cut from the movie, and when singer Al Martino was offered the role he was warned that he probably would never play Las Vegas again. Martino accepted the part anyway, and today at the age of 78 is still performing in Las Vegas. Still, after the movie was released Martino wasn’t hired to play Las Vegas for decades. For some reason.

And finally, you know that baby who was being baptized in The Godfather? The one who Michael became the godfather of just a short time before he rushed off to kill the baby’s father? Well, despite the fact that it was supposed to be a boy the baby was actually played by Sophia Coppola, Francis Ford’s infant daughter. Eighteen years later she had a major role in her dad’s The Godfather: Part III. Many people more cruel than I would argue that she gave a much stronger performance in the original film.

A Herd of Turtles

It’s hard to believe that I’ve written 225 of these things without doing a single one about my little green pal Ellsworth. Well I think it’s time to remedy that situation right now. And Ellsworth if you read this I hope you don’t assume that you’re the 226th most important thing in my life.

It all started about four years ago when I was visiting my brother at his condo in Florida. No, check that. It actually started over forty years ago when I had two little turtles as pets. I even remember their names: Pixie and Dixie. Yes, sad to say those names are proof that I was no more creative as a child than I am right now.

You remember those pet turtles that were all the rage for a while, don’t you? You usually got one or two of them, along with a molded plastic bowl with a ramp that led up to an exotic plastic palm tree under which they could relax. Talk to anybody who owned one of these creatures and they tell you that their turtles died in a few weeks or months. After learning what these turtles actually require to lead a healthy life I now know it’s a miracle that any of the ones from the 1960’s lived more than thirty minutes.

Fast forward four decades. I’d been feeling nostalgic for the old turtle days of my childhood, and then saw that my brother had bought two of the little critters and was keeping them in a small fish tank on his porch. It was obvious that we had been raised in the same household, because he too was an adult who had wanted some pet turtles and had gotten them, and now I wanted some too!

“So, do you like having these turtles? Are they a lot of work?” I had asked my brother.
“No, they’re certainly low-maintenance pets,” he answered.

Low maintenance! Now that’s what I wanted to hear. And upon my return to California I found a web site that was selling baby turtles for $7 each and I ordered two. A few weeks later a small container the size and shape of a Styrofoam hamburger box arrived in the mail, and in it were not two, but three baby turtles, each about the size of a quarter. I never did figure out why they had sent me three of the little buggers, but I assumed it was either in case one died in transit (It’s not easy being mailed—try it some time.) or they were up to their asses in baby turtles and so were being especially “generous.”

First mistake: Ordering pet turtles before educating self as to what they really require as opposed to just acting on what my brother told me. After many hours on the Internet I became an expert on the turtle, or more specifically, the red-eared slider. First off, I found out that they are an aquatic turtle, which explains why all those little ‘60’s turtles had trouble surviving in the 1/100th of an inch of water that was usually provided for them. In addition to an aquarium they also would need a filter, a heater, a basking area, a heat lamp and an additional UVB light to simulate sunlight. Also they needed to be fed a diet that varied each day and provided the proper balance of proteins and fat. Hell, I don’t even do that for myself! It soon became obvious that these $7 turtles were about to cost me hundreds of dollars.

“Hey, I thought you said these things were low maintenance?” I challenged my brother over the phone.
“Oh, I just threw mine into the pond out back.”

Which is yet another thing the turtle web sites tell you not to do. And so I began the complicated and expensive task of creating the perfect home for my infant turtles. Or finding one. Because there was one thing of which I was sure: I didn’t want three of the damn things. That’s another thing I learned. Turtles are not like dogs: you don’t need to get two to keep each other company. They don’t care. To them another turtle is the same as having a rock to climb on and nothing more.

I got lucky a few months later when a co-worker who was foolish enough to express an interest in taking one of my turtles. Before he knew what hit him he was the proud owner of what I had observed to be the fastest growing of the three turtles. You should have seen this poor bastard’s face as this monster grew out of a ten-gallon tank and then out of a twenty-gallon tank almost overnight. Sucker.

My herd of turtles was further reduced a few weeks later when I left them in a bucket in the yard so that they might enjoy the sunshine. I was only gone a few minutes (I swear!) and when I returned Flashy was missing! (I had named them Flashy and Elspeth after the lead characters in the Flashman books, a series of novels that I have told you to read on numerous occasions.) I spent hours looking for that damn turtle, even going so far as to flood a section of the patio in the hopes that the water would draw him out of hiding. I never did find Flashy but was gladdened by the knowledge that he is now enjoying his life up in Turtle Heaven as he spends each day playing happily with Pixie and Dixie. Hey, my parents told me about this forty years ago, so it must be true.

And so now there is just Ellsworth, who has been with me for nearly four years. I see so many people saddened over and over again as they watch their short life-spanned dogs and cats go from youth to euthanasia in the blink of an eye. With Ellsworth I take comfort in owning a pet that may very well outlive me. Oh, if you’ve been reading carefully (And I don’t really care if you do. I’m actually shocked that anybody is reading this at all.) you will have noticed that somewhere along the way Elspeth became Ellsworth. It’s very difficult to “sex” a turtle until he becomes older, and it wasn’t until he was about three that we were forced to face the fact that Elspeth was a boy turtle since the evidence was now staring us in the face. Depending on which way we held him, of course.

It’s been a lot of work raising Ellsworth, but it’s also been a lot of fun, more fun than I ever would imagine a turtle would be. He’s fun to watch and fun to play with. And while he may not be as cuddly or pet-able as your average dog or cat he is not without lovable attributes of his own. No, I won’t be playing fetch with my pet turtle, and I certainly don’t have the time to take him for long walks. But can your Fluffy or Rover hold his breath underwater for a full twenty minutes? No, I didn’t think so.

The Reunion Concert: A Review

It’s a long and winding tale that explains how I, who have never been able to secure good seats for anything, ended up sitting in the fifth row at what was easily the most anticipated musical performance of the last hundred years, and perhaps ever. I’ll save the details for another article and simply say that my premium seat was due to an unlikely combination of extreme good luck and the draining of a great deal of cash from my saving account.

As most everyone on the planet knows the performance was held last night at the newly restored and gloriously refurbished Louisiana Superdome in New Orleans. I arrived early, as I tend to do for most things, and was required to wait two hours until I and the other lucky ticket-holders were permitted to enter the arena.

I spent the next hour and a half staring at the famous instruments that waited on the stage, including McCartney’s famous Hoffner violin bass and Ringo’s historic drum set still sporting The Beatles name and the Ludwig logo on the bass drum, perhaps the most fortuitous advertising that any musical instrument company has ever had. And as I sat I thought about the many paths and many years I had traversed from the first time I heard a Beatles record in 1964 until this long, long-awaited reunion concert 42 years later.

Finally the lights went down and, as is the case at most rock concerts, the crowd roared in anticipation. Only the instruments, shiny classics that there were, were illuminated and they remained that way for the next fifteen minutes. Many in the audience, I’m sure, thought that there was some reason for the delay--perhaps a last minute technical adjustment or even an ego-based discussion of the set list. I knew better. Whoever had planned this historic concert knew that many of the people in attendance had waited 36 years for this moment and for each minute the audience was made to squirm in anticipation while staring at the inanimate stage the excitement level went up ten-fold.

After about fifteen minutes I myself felt as if I was going to burst when there was finally some movement on the stage. Ringo Starr had come out, waved to the crowd and without a word taken his familiar seat behind the drums. Thirty seconds later, after Paul McCartney, John Lennon and George Harrison had wordlessly strolled out, plugged in their guitars and taken their vintage positions, Starr launched into the short three-beat intro and the vibrant energy of “She Loves You” struck out into the nearly delirious crowd.

And like the magicians they always had been, the Beatles now turned back the clock. While I never really forgot that I was watching four men each of whom was well into his ‘60’s, there were times when it became nearly impossible to separate this quartet from the brash young men who had charmed the world half a lifetime ago. Certainly the still thin Harrison at times appeared to be a bit stooped and fragile, and under the bright lights it was fairly obvious that McCartney had dyed his hair while Lennon was losing his. But when I closed my eyes and listened to the cheering, the screaming and the raw vocals and instrumentation of “Twist and Shout” I felt as if I could have just as easily been sitting in the fifth row at the Ed Sullivan Show.

The Beatles played nearly non-stop for over an hour before taking their first break. Between sharp and energetic performances of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” “A Hard Day’s Night” “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” “I Feel Fine,” “Ticket to Ride,” “Day Tripper” “And I Love Her,” “Twist and Shout” “Please, Please Me” and “All My Loving” each made brief comments to the crowd. John Lennon drew the biggest laugh when at the conclusion of the opening number “She Loves You” he deadpanned to the audience “So, have you been waiting long?”

The second set lasted well over an hour and began after a fifteen-minute intermission, during which I would estimate that no more than five people left their seats. This middle part of the concert showcased the four Beatles individually, each performing several songs taken from both their Beatle and solo careers while being backed by the other three. Harrison began by strumming the chords to his 1970 classic “My Sweet Lord,” followed immediately by his Beatles song “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

Harrison was followed by McCartney who performed several songs from his Wings era as well as a beautifully realized version of “Yesterday” which, unlike the record, featured instrumental contributions from all the Beatles. The highlight of Lennon’s showcase was perhaps his most famous song “Imagine,” which was made even more majestic by gloriously delicate harmonies contributed by McCartney. One of the surprises of the evening was my realization of the number of hits that Ringo had released over the years. He performed four of them last night and six songs in total, more songs than any of the others.

The second intermission was the longer of the two, as the time was necessary to reorganize the stage to accommodate the many additions required for the third set. When the Beatles returned it was obvious by the added jungle of complicated-looking instruments, keyboards and other electronics, as well as a string section and several female singers and other assorted musicians, that the Beatles would be performing the very music that they had claimed was the reason they stopped touring in 1966: The music had gotten too complicated to perform live.

McCartney was the first to speak. “This is the actual instrument that we used when we recorded this next song. It’s called a Mellotron. There’s a little history lesson for you kiddies.” Lennon followed with the quip “I hope you all remembered to take your acid” and then began the third set by playing the opening notes to his “Strawberry Fields Forever.” A short time later Harrison caused a deafening roar with the phrase, “Here’s a brand new Beatle song for you,” and then played the opening chords to their new release “On Any Given Day.”

As the third and final set continued I was torn between the anticipation of a classic Beatle song finale and the very real yet impossible hope that this night would never end. And as I sat mesmerized and near tears through wondrous versions of “Penny Lane,” “Sergeant Pepper” “For No One” and the familiar yet somehow seemingly new medley from Abbey Road I realized the end was drawing near.

If the Beatles had reunited for this concert twenty or even ten years ago I’m not sure that they all would have agreed to end with what many consider to be the Beatles’ best song, as if such a thing could actually be identified. Still, this was not twenty or even ten years ago and these were no longer bickering young men in their twenties. And so when McCartney sat down at the piano and sang the words, “Hey Jude…” I knew this would be the last song of the evening. And so ten minutes later, the last five of which had been an audience sing-along of the famous “na-na-na-naaah” refrain, the Beatles walked off the stage as quietly as they had entered it nearly five hours earlier.

The Beatles did not do an encore last night, and very few people at the arena were expecting that they would. The last song and their exit had had an unmistakable finality to it, although more than half of us remained in our seats for at least another half hour after the Beatles had left. We were stunned, drained, exhausted and totally spent. When the house lights came on we were fully aware that the Beatles had left the stage and that they would not be coming back.

And we didn’t know if we would ever see them again.

-------------------------------------------------

The Beatles Reunion Concert
Louisiana Super Dome
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
March 21, 2006

Attendance: 94,667
Time: Four Hours Forty-Seven Minutes

THE PLAY LIST

Set One

She Loves You
Can’t Buy Me Love
A Hard Day’s Night
I Want to Hold Your Hand
I Feel Fine
Twist and Shout
Ticket to Ride
Day Tripper
And I Love Her
Please Please Me
All My Loving

Set Two

My Sweet Lord
While My Guitar Gently Weeps
Something
All Things Must Pass
Band on the Run
Maybe I’m Amazed
Jet
Helter Skelter
Yesterday
Help!
Revolution
I’m a Loser
Come Together
Imagine
It Don’t Come Easy
Photograph
You’re Sixteen
The No-No Song
Yellow Submarine
Boys

Set Three

Strawberry Fields Forever
Penny Lane
On Any Given Day
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
A Little Help From My Friends
A Day in the Life
For No One
In My Life
Free As A Bird
You Never Give Me Your Money
Sun King
Mean Mr. Mustard
Polythene Pam
She Came In Through The Bathroom Window
Golden Slumbers
Carry That Weight
The End
Let It Be
Rain
Cry Baby Cry
I Am The Walrus
Get Back
Hey Jude

...And Nothing But The Tooth

There are stockbrokers who will recommend that you sell a stock simply so that they can generate a commission for themselves. There are doctors who will prescribe a certain treatment or medication just to enhance their fee. Real estate agents, magazine salesmen, health store clerks—they all have one fatal flaw: they are human. And because of that some of them are unable to remain entirely objective, especially during those times when by simply uttering an opinion they are able to further line their pockets.

And that’s why when Spike came home from her dentist saying that he had recommended that she see a periodontist my bullshit detector went off like a fire alarm in Hell. First off, Spike is one of those unique people who was blessed with good teeth. You hear stories of these types all the time—kids on some South Sea island that grow up munching on sugar cane and yet never have even a hint of tooth decay. (Rickets, polio and scurvy, yes, but not tooth decay.)

Spike had not been to the dentist in over ten years, and yet he had failed to find even the hint of a cavity. He had, however, measured the “pockets” of her gums and told her she needed to see a periodontist.

“Of course he told you that,” I said in my adorably cynical way. “How else is he going to make money? He probably gets a ten percent kickback from every sap he sends over there.”
“But he said if I don’t do it I might lose my teeth!” Spike whined.
“Sure. What better way to scare you into going?”

My Mom, when told of the situation, agreed that this was probably some kind of dental scam, which goes a long way in explaining why my Mom and I not only have similarly suspicious minds but a total of about three healthy teeth between us. Spike, once again letting common sense win out over the opinions of her incredibly insightful mate, decided to go to the periodontist.

A few weeks later it was my turn to visit this same dentist. I wanted to bet Spike $100 that he would recommend that I too should see a periodontist.

“I’ll even bet you another fifty that he uses the words ‘or you’ll lose your teeth’,” I boasted, but Spike wasn’t going for it. If nothing else she’s learned during our years together, and painfully at times, to become a more selective bettor.

Yesterday I found myself sitting in the dreaded dental chair as the dentist described the damage. It turned out I had two small cavities and could use a couple of crowns besides. This came as no surprise to me—my mouth already contains more crowns than the Tower of London and I figured at some point I might as well go ahead and, like some rabid baseball card collector, complete the set. Besides I like crowns. I laugh a lot and when I open my mouth I want people to see nice even rows of shiny white, albeit fake, teeth rather than feel as if they’re looking into the entrance of a deteriorating Nevada silver mine.

“OK, let’s check your gums,” said the dentist.
“Uh-oh, here it comes,” I thought.

So he spends the next few minutes poking my gums with this pointy metal thing and then gives me the word.
“These seem fine. Your gums are in a lot better shape than your wife’s.”

Huh?

And for the rest of the visit the dentist never mentioned the word “periodontist.” Nope, not even once. I strained my brain trying to figure out why. After all, I had come to this exam convinced that this guy had some sort of devious dental quid pro quo going with the shady periodontist and now all the evidence suggested that no such scam existed. And if it didn’t exist, the only rational conclusion that I could come to was that I had been wro…wronnnn…wrrrrronn—well, not right. And how could that possibly be?

My case against this dentist was completely destroyed a short time later when he spotted the gap in my mouth from which a tooth had been pulled two years earlier.

“Had a tooth pulled, eh?” he said. “You’re probably better off leaving it like that, if it’s not giving you any trouble. With a bridge you’d have to file down two perfectly healthy teeth to make it fit.”

My head was spinning. I’ve often suspected that many a dentist upon examining me for the first time looked into my devastated mouth and heard in his head “ka-ching-a new boat!” Now here was this guy staring at the biggest advertisement for some expensive bridgework that you ever saw and he was recommending that I leave it the way it was! Where had this guy come from?

This dentist has a very small office and as far as I could tell only one employee. And unless he changes the way he practices his business it’s very unlikely that his operation will be expanding anytime soon. When I got home that night I related the story of my visit to Spike and told her she should feel relieved. If this gentleman, my new dentist, had told her that she should go to a periodontist, then by god there's no doubt that she should go to a periodontist.

Key Words

I thought it might be interesting to take some time to explore the history of the key. Then I did a little research on the subject and realized I was dead wrong. Besides, I couldn’t find any information about the history of keys, but ended up reading several scraps of info on the history of locks, which I suppose is just about the same thing. And by the way, do you know which came first? If you have an opinion on this, please do us all a favor and keep it to yourself.

What amazes me, well interests me and mildly at that, is that a device that has been around for so long is still in such common usage today. Oh sure, more and more hotels are using those plastic electronic cards that work after about ten tries instead of traditional metal keys, but it doesn’t look like keys will be leaving us anytime soon. Even that little Japanese clown car I bought last year will let me unlock the doors from twenty feet away simply by pressing a button, but I still prefer to use the key.

It’s not that I’m slow to change or embrace new ideas (even though I am slow to change and embrace new ideas) but I just can’t stand hearing that goddam “chirp” everywhere I go. Isn’t the world already noisy enough without the endless cacophony being added to by fat-asses who are too lazy to turn a key?

To prove that locks and keys are truly antique devices we only have to note that they are frequently mentioned in the Bible. Then again, God is also mentioned in the Bible and we all know that he doesn’t actually exist, so you never really can tell. Happily, at least for the former, there is some hard evidence.

The Romans made their locks and keys out of metal, and samples have been found all over the damn place. Archeologists have long pondered the mystery of why so many more Roman keys than Roman locks have been found scattered throughout the former empire, despite their smaller size and greater likelihood of total decay. None of these eggheads bothered to check with me, but the answer is a simple one. Just ask yourself, have you ever lost your locks? (Go ahead, smart-ass, insert your bald joke here.)

The Ancient Egyptians, advanced in so many things, such as building incredible pyramids and mummifying those annoying cats, created an early version of a deadbolt lock, featuring a bar that could only be slid once the properly sized key was inserted. It makes sense that a civilization that was sitting on all that gold would lead the way in the creation of quality locks. Now they could keep all those treasures safely locked up in the house, and, as an added bonus, keep those damn cats locked outside.

Search the web and you can find some samples of keys from the Middle Ages, including specimens from the 15th and 16th Centuries that are such works of art that they were often more prized for their beauty than for any utilitarian purpose. Still, I’ve always been partial to the large and crudely made dungeon keys that can still be seen in many museums. Yeah, that was the life. I’ve always suspected that I would have made a damn fine dungeon-master. Just think, I arrive at work one morning to discover that a new shipment of captured Nubian slave girls has arrived, and it is my job to take them down to the bowels of the castle, sort them and…uh, where was I?

Oh yeah, locks and keys. For some reason I’ve suddenly lost interest in the topic. OK, let me just mention the keyless lock, which was either invented by the Chinese or the Dutch. Nobody seems to really know. Or care. Still, there is a reference in a 17th Century play of a lock that opens up with the word A.M.E.N. That wouldn’t have been your choice for a four-letter combination, would it? Well, those medieval maniacs would have burned you alive for that little stunt, you sick twist.

Speaking of which, do you think a dungeon-master was free to do his job in the way he saw fit, or was he micro-managed at every turn by some bloated and drunken overseer? And benefits-do you think a professional dungeon-master got pretty good benefits? Aside from the obvious ones, I mean.

Ah well, what’s the use? I just searched Craig’s List and there is not a single opening for a dungeon-master. Anywhere. Sigh. Oh, let’s just finish this thing up. And then over the next 500 years locks and keys were built better and better until they became the useful and necessary masterpieces with which we are so familiar today. The End.

The Seinfeld Minor Character Quiz

Did you enjoy that piece about Seinfeld that I posted last week? “What piece?” you ask in that incredibly annoying way of yours. You know, you should keep in mind that reading this blog is a lot like taking vitamins: if you miss even a single day, uh, it doesn’t really matter.

Regardless, as I mentioned in that article that you so flippantly chose to ignore, one of the reasons for the success of Seinfeld was the coterie of hilarious minor characters. From Mr. Pitt to Jackie Chiles to The Soup Nazi, here was a group of misfits, oddballs and quirky fringe-dwellers, each of whom never failed to make me laugh. In fact one of my favorite hobbies is spotting the actors who played these characters in other television and movie roles, which should give you an indication of both my loyalty to the show and the current state of my social life.

Ah, but enough whining. I’m here to show all you true Seinfeld fans a good time, yes? And so please allow me to present my very first Seinfeld Minor Character Quiz! (That’s a hint/warning that there may well be others on similar nights when I don’t feel like thinking too much.)

And by the way, here’s how the grading goes: 1-9 Right: You’re not a true Seinfeld fan. 10 Right: You are a true Seinfeld fan. Yup, standards for admission are tough here. This isn’t the Army, you know.

1. What was Kenny Bania’s profession?
a. Proctologist
b. Comic
c. Restaurant Owner
d. Car salesman

2. Who had a homosexual affair with writer John Cheever?
a. Lloyd Braun
b. Jerry’s cousin Jeffrey
c. Poppie
d. Mr. Ross

3. Who argued that “The Moops” was a misprint?
a. Jack Klompus
b. Kramer’s mother
c. The Bubble Boy
d. Ping

4. Which was not one of Kramer’s “unseen” friends?
a. Bob Sacamano
b. Lomez
c. Jay Reimenschneider
d. Jake Jarmel

5. Which is not true of Sue Ellen Mischke?
a. She had a secret crush on Jerry
b. She didn’t like to wear bras
c. She was the heiress to the Oh Henry! candy bar fortune
d. She planned to marry one of Elaine’s ex-boyfriends


6. Who did Kramer think that Sal Bass really was?
a. Saddam Hussein
b. Salman Rushdie
c. Keith Hernandez .
d. Placido Domingo

7. Which actress did not play herself on Seinfeld?
a. Raquel Welch
b. Courteney Cox
c. Bette Midler
d. Marisa Tomei

8. What did Kramer name his rooster?
a. Smuckers
b. Little Jerry Seinfeld
c. Mulva
d. The Drake

9. Who dressed up like a clown?
a. Bob Cobb
b. Tim Whatley
c. Jackie Chiles
d. Joe Davola

10. Who did Marla the Virgin end up in bed with?
a. Elaine
b. John F. Kennedy Jr.
c. Newman
d. Nobody

ANSWERS:

I don’t care what you say, just doing the research for this and reviewing all those great characters only enforces my belief that Seinfeld was the best sitcom ever. Sorry Mr. Gleason and keep dreaming, Lucy fans. OK, here we go.

1. Kenny Bania was a stand-up COMIC that Jerry thought was a hack but George admitted that he kind of liked. Jerry helped him with his routine on Ovaltine.
2. MR. ROSS, who was the father of George’s fiance Susan, was inadvertently outed when his cabin burned down and a box of letters from Cheever was discovered. "Yes, he was the most wonderful person I've ever known. And I loved him deeply! In a way you could never understand.."
3. THE BUBBLE BOY, during a spirited game of Trivial Pursuit. Extra credit: What was the Bubble Boy’s first name? Donald! (No, I wouldn’t have gotten it either, so please don’t tell anybody. I’m so ashamed.
4. JAKE JARMEL was a character on Seinfeld, but not one of Kramer’s many unseen friends. He was an author who Elaine dated and who bought his glasses in Malaysia so that nobody else would have the same pair.
5. As far as is known, Sue Ellen Mischke did not HAVE A SECRET CRUSH ON JERRY. Brenda Strong, who played her, is one of the at least three Depsperate Housewives who appeared on Seinfeld. Can you name two others?
6. SALMAN RUSHDIE. Kramer thinks the last name Bass is a clue, since both bass and salmon are fish, until Jerry points out that the writer’s name is Salman and not salmon.
7. COURTENEY COX did not play herself, but she was indeed seen on Seinfeld. As were Wilford Brimley, Denise Richards, Michael Chiklis, Kristin Davis, George Wendt, Jon Voight, Mel Torme, Fred Savage, Judge Reinhold, Rob Schneider, Al Roker, David Letterman, Jay Leno, James Spader, Corbin Bernsen, Candice Bergen, Bryant Gumbel, Molly Shannon, Janeane Garofalo, Brad Garrett, Ben Stein, Kathy Griffin, Phillip Baker Hall, Jon Lovitz, Marlee Matlin, Debra Messing, Amanda Peet, Jeremy Piven, Helen Slater and gee I’m sick of typing so look up the rest up yourself.
8. LITTLE JERRY SEINFELD, of course. Last seen in his second cockfight bout when he is pitted against a “ringer” rooster flown in from Ecuador that was decribed as looking like “a dog with a glove on his head.”
9. JOE DAVOLA Would it have helped if I had given you his full name, “Crazy” Joe Davola? Are you still afraid of clowns?
10. JOHN F. KENNEDY Jr. Extra credit if you can name her profession: She was a closet organizer! And no, I don’t mean she was an organizer but kept that fact a secret. I mean she organized closets. Jeez. You have to be so careful how you phrase things here in the 21st Century.

The Young Bull and The Old Bull

There’s an old joke about two bulls, an old one and a young one. Actually it’s more of an allegory about the nature of the male, and of maturity, than a joke. And it’s more likely that it will elicit a smile of knowing rather than a loud guffaw in men of a certain age.

These two bulls were standing on top of a hill one sunny day, looking down upon the herd of cows that was grazing in the valley below. “Let’s run down this hill and fuck a cow!” said the excited young bull, to which the older bull replied, “No, let’s walk down and fuck them all.”

When I hear Senator Russell Feingold of Wisconsin frantically calling for the censure of Bush for his “unlawful authorization of wiretaps of Americans” I can’t help but think of the young bull. Feingold knows that he is right, knows that Bush has committed a crime, and knows he has him dead to rights. And in his zeal he simply cannot understand why his fellow Democrats are not lining up behind him. He goes so far as to accuse them of “cowering.” But Feingold is wrong, for the Democrats are not cowering. For once.

Like the old bull with his eye on the herd of cows, the Democrats are wise not to rush towards their ultimate goal, which is the destruction of George W. Bush. And despite their previous complacency, despite their four years of shameful cowardice, despite their having acted less like bulls and more like steers, they see that somehow their goal is now in sight. Now is not the time for reckless moves or half thought-out actions. The gears of the grape press turn slowly, but they crush with an unyielding power.

There is an expression in finance: The trend is your friend. The older Democrats know this. So like vultures patiently waiting for a potential meal to expire, they watch as Bush’s polls numbers plunge toward Nixonian levels, and as each fumbling move by this doomed president does more and more of their work for them. Oh make no mistake, the Democrats are ready to deliver the final, fatal blow to Bush, but they will only do so if and when the time is right. When the Bush presidency is already gasping for air, when Bush's base begins to abandon him in droves, that's when the Democrats will begin their slow walk down the hill.

He's In The Bare-troom

This one if for my fellow Seinfeld fans out there. Oh I don’t mean you casual observers who don't even know who Kenny Bania is, but you true fanatics who, despite the show having gone off the air nearly eight years ago, continue to watch those reruns night after night. And continue to laugh every time. In 2002 TV Guide named Seinfeld the Number 1 television program of all time and, with apologies to The Great One, I have to agree.

Students of the show are aware that the success of the show can be attributed not only to the four main characters but also to the dozens of odd, quirky and downright bizarre characters that passed through Seinfeld during its nine year run. One of my favorites was Alton Benes, Elaine’s father, who was portrayed by gangster film actor Lawrence Tierney. Originally it was planned that Alton Benes become a recurring character on the show, and Tierney gave such a hilarious performance as the hard-boiled writer that you may have wondered why you never saw him again. His absence was not due to his brilliant on-camera work but rather because of his behind-the-scenes behavior, which assured that Lawrence Tierney would never again be invited back to the Seinfeld set.

Actress Julia Louis-Dreyfus, who played Elaine, described Tierney as a “nutjob.” His most outrageous act occurred when someone noticed that one of the butcher knives from the “Jerry’s Apartment” set was missing. Tierney had only one scene on the show and that was in a hotel lobby, but he had been seen wandering around the apartment set. It soon became obvious that Tierney had stolen the knife and was hiding it under his coat.

Nobody wanted to confront Tierney, who apparently was equally intimidating both on and off the screen. Finally Jerry Seinfeld himself went up to the actor and said, “Hey Lawrence, what do you have in the coat?” Witnesses report that Tierney became very red-faced, pulled the knife from his coat and, raising it over his head, began imitating the music from Psycho and going after Jerry as if the whole thing had been a planned joke. It was probably not long after this freakish demonstration that the producers decided that the character of Alton Benes would never return.

For the rest of his time there Larry David, co-creator of the series, would threaten any unruly director by vowing to write Lawrence Tierney into another episode if the director didn’t behave. The bluff must have worked, as Seinfeld went on for seven more seasons and Alton Benes was never again seen on the show. And neither was the knife-wielding Lawrence Tierney.

The Peace Symbol

Maybe you’ve worn it on your jacket lapel, a symbol of your own tiny protest. Maybe you’ve helped carry an image of it on huge banner in the middle of 100,000 marching, chanting people. Or perhaps you loudly bellowed that it is “the footprint of the American chicken” as you crushed yet one more empty beer can into your forehead. Yes, just about everyone is familiar with the Peace Symbol, but how much do you really know about it? And haven’t you always wished you knew more? Too bad, you’re going to anyway.

First you may be surprised to learn that the Peace Symbol is not some ancient symbol borrowed from a Mayan calendar or Egyptian tomb. In fact, it’s quite young. Well, younger than me, anyway. It was designed by British artist Gerald Holtom and was completed on February 21st, 1958. Oddly, this was also the day that Kelsey Grammer, TV’s Frasier, was born. I’m not sure what the significance of this might be; perhaps something about the connection between an over-used symbol and an over-rated television program? Anyway, if you want to pursue this further do it on you own time. Thank you. (Dammit, I just checked on IMDB and they say Grammer was born in 1955. Well, tough toenails. As you all know I’m not one to delete one of my hilarious bits simply in order to comply with the facts.)

Gerald Holtom was commissioned to design a logo by the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament for them to use in a protest march. The design comes from the letter N and D (Nuclear Disarmament) as they are represented in semaphore signals. When the two signals are placed over each other they form the peace symbol. Designer Holtom, who was a conscientious objector during World War II, once explained how the idea began:

"I was in despair. Deep despair. I drew myself: the representative of an individual in despair, with hands palm outstretched outwards and downwards in the manner of Goya’s peasant before the firing squad. I formalised the drawing into a line and put a circle round it."

Of course others have found deeper and darker meaning in the symbol. Some believe that it portrays an inverted cross, an anti-Christian symbol that dates back to the time of Nero, who crucified the Apostle Peter upside down. Others have said it is related to the Nazi swastika or to one or two ancient runes. Others even say that when the Peace Symbol is turned upside down you can see a representation of the female “private area.” (Of course these twisted types are likely to see representations of the female private area just about anywhere they look.)

I remember years ago my friend Arthur and I, ignorant to the fact that the symbol at that time was only about a decade old, had tried to figure out from where the design had come. And no, you spoiled little bastards, we didn’t have an Internet in those days to look up the answer to anything we wanted to know in about ten seconds. I happen to remember my theory and still believe, four decades later, that it was a pretty good one. Even if it was completely wrong.

See, the ten year old me looked at those three short lines converging into one and thought, “Aha! The three lines represent the three races on the planet, and they all come together in one line.” Yeah I know pretty naïve and goofy, not to mention absolutely inaccurate. But sweet in a way, don’t you think?

The Sexiest Movie Scenes Ever

I don’t know if it’s a 21st Century phenomenon or something genetic that resides inside of us all but we humans sure seem to enjoy lists. Frinstance, some DVD company called Lovefilm has just released the results of its poll naming the sexiest movie scenes of all time. Ah, that got your attention, eh? Let’s take a look, shall we?

According to the poll the number one sexiest scene in movie history occurred when James Spader spanked Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary. First off, let me confess that I made an error on my Fantasy Five list a few blogs back. I simply forget about Maggie Gyllenhaal. Let’s take Laura Bush off the list, since I was just being a smart-ass anyway, and give Maggie her rightful place in my fantasy life. There.

I saw the movie Secretary, but didn’t know who Gyllenhaal was at the time. That knowledge only makes the spanking scene sexier. Now adding James Spader is another story. There are three or four actors who I suspect lead very dark and twisted sexual lives. I have no evidence of this, of course, it’s just a feeling. And I’m not talking a Jack Nicholson “bag as many as you can” kind of thing. I’m talking dark and twisted here. The kind of guy that I’d go out and buy his autobiography. New. And in hardcover. I think Jeff Goldblum is one of these guys. And I also think James Spader is one. Who knows, maybe I’m wrong, but for their sakes I sure hope not.

According to this poll the number two all-time sexiest movie scene also features a participant named Gyllenhaal. Yup, this time it is brother Jake, and if you guessed that the scene was him sharing a kiss with fellow cowboy/Oscar loser Heath Ledger you’d be correct. Listen, I’m sure that there are some people somewhere who think that two men kissing is sexy, but I’m here to tell you that they are in the minority.

In general, in general, most men and most women are not turned on by this activity. Why? How the hell should I know? Maybe it’s one of those sexual checks-and-balances installed by your maker to insure that another six billion of us come popping out in the next twenty years. And I’ll go a step further and declare that many of these same people, men and women, think that two women kissing is hot. Very hot. So with such steamy examples as Salma Hayek’s lesbian love scene in Frida, or Gershon and Tilly's shenanigans in Bound and dozens of others I don’t feel like researching right now, how can a kiss between two stinky old sheep herders be the second sexiest scene in the history of film? Quite simply, it can’t. Deal with it.

Another “sexiest scene” on the list was when George Clooney locked Jennifer Lopez in a trunk in Out of Sight. Unfortunately he eventually let her out and thus allowed her to inflict Gigli on the world. Frankly I don’t remember the trunk scene as being particularly sexy, although I did kinda like the movie.

I am happy to report that some exciting lesbian scenes did make the list. Remember the kiss between Selma Blair and Sarah Michelle Gellar in Cruel Intentions? Sure you do. Well that little spit-swap came in at number five. And in Mulholland Drive there’s that scene where Naomi Watts and Laura Harring share a bed. That certainly made the list. As did the very famous vampire seduction scene between Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger. And it was when they were both young! Hell, the only reason I even rented the movie was because I had heard about that scene.

Speaking of Mulholland Drive, do you remember the scene with the naked dead blonde in the end? Well, guess what? I went out to dinner with that blonde! (Happily on the date she wasn’t dead, but sadly she wasn’t naked either.) And she once gave me a haircut besides! What has this got to do with the subject at hand? Nothing, but I just thought you’d like to know. (Personal Note: LP, where are you? You never call—you never write.)

As with my Fantasy Five, I’d have to spend some time thinking about my own favorite Sexiest Movie Scenes. Maybe I’ll do that and write about it another night. One thing I know for sure about the list is that Mimi Rogers will be on it. I still can’t forget that opening scene in Full Body Massage; you know, where Mimi’s standing in front of a mirror and slowly takes off her brassiere? Except she’s all alone, so I don’t know if that qualifies, since all the other scenes on the list seem to contain two (at least) people. Let me think about that and get back to you. And by the way, which are your favorites?

Animal Lover Quiz

I was e-mailing with my old college buddy today (and sadly, at this point any college buddy of mine would indeed be old) and he mentioned that he had gone back into our archives here and taken one of my quizzes from last August. Well, that reminded me that it’s been a while since I’ve treated you all to one of those inane but oh so enjoyable little quizzes.

So let’s lighten the mood around here and do one today. I was thinking about a subject for the quiz all day and I decided it should be about animals. What a crowd-pleaser, eh? I mean, whether you’re petting a cute little lamb at your local petting zoo or spreading a dollop of mint jelly on a piece of one in your favorite restaurant, there’s one thing on which we can all agree: In one way or another we all love animals! So let’s begin!

1. Which animal’s tongue is twice the length of its body?
a. Anteater
b. Chameleon
c. Leopard frog
d. Gene Simmons

2. A cow will give about how many glasses of milk in a lifetime?
a. 1,000
b. 5,000
c. 200,000
d. Over one million

3. How big is a newborn kangaroo?
a. One inch
b. Three inches
c. Six inches
d. One foot

4. Which animal can last the longest without water?
a. Horse
b. Camel
c. Rat
d. Alcoholic

5. How far away can a lion’s roar be heard?
a. One mile
b. Five miles
c. Ten miles
d. Doesn’t matter. If you can hear it you’re too close.

6. Which animal has an eye that’s bigger than its brain?
a. Cow
b. Lemming
c. Ostrich
d. And how did he get to be president anyway?

7. Which was the first cartoon character ever made into a balloon for a parade?
a. Mickey Mouse
b. Bugs Bunny
c. Tweety Bird
d. Felix the Cat

8. Which breed of dog bites humans most often?
a. German Shepherd
b. Pit Bull
c. Chihuahua
d. Boxer

9. Which animal has killed the most people in Africa?
a. Lion
b. Cape Buffalo
c. Hippo
d. Elephant

10. Which is not true about swans?
a. The female does most of the egg incubation
b. They generally mate for life
c. They are the only bird with a penis
d. They don’t migrate


ANSWERS:

1. CHAMELEON. Laugh all you want, but here’s one dude who’s not sitting home alone on a Saturday night watching his Lizards Gone Wild tape. Ever.
2. 200,000. No explanation is given as to how the glasses squeeze through those faucet thingies a cow has. Or exactly how painful that process is.
3. ONE INCH. I’ve seen some rather large ones still trying to squeeze into the pouch, though. How embarrassing to the mother! “Your Edgar is still living at home, I see.”
4. RAT. So the next time you hear that scratching from behind your walls you might want to leave a bowl of water out for the little guys. It’s probably been a while.
5. FIVE MILES. I guess that’s why it’s always the deaf antelopes that are the first to go.
6. OSTRICH. When you can kill a lion with one kick you really don’t have to be that smart.
7. FELIX THE CAT. No, I don’t know where or when, and it’s much to late to look it up. Oh, you demand an answer? OK, Macy’s Parade—1939. Now somebody do the actual research and correct me.
8. GERMAN SHEPHERDS. They also enjoy disgusting food, scatological pornography and horrible electronic club music.
9. HIPPO. Yup, the big guys have killed over 400 human-types. They should have made that game Hungry Hungry Hippos with little humans instead of marbles.
10. THEY DON’T MIGRATE. Oh yes they do, my under-educated friend. And as far as what all the other boy birds use to get the job done, uh—look it up yourself!

The Fragging of Pat Tillman

In May of 2002, eight months after the attacks of 9-11, professional football player Pat Tillman turned down a $3.6 million contract offered by the Arizona Cardinals, choosing instead to enlist in the U.S. Army. On April 22, 2004 he was killed in Afghanistan.

In the original reports of the incident the Army released a detailed account of the battle in which Tillman had died, naming him a hero and awarding him both the Silver Star and the Purple Heart. It would later be revealed that Tillman had been killed by friendly fire and that no enemy forces had been involved. The Army knew this within days of the accident but kept the facts hidden from Tillman’s family, as well as the general public, for months.

The term “fragging” evolved during the Viet Nam War, and originally referred to the act of a soldier killing another member of his own unit by dropping a fragmentation grenade into his tent. The term was later expanded to include the intentional shooting of a fellow soldier in the heat of battle. The purpose of the practice was to eliminate an unpopular person, often an officer who was judged to be incompetent or so reckless as to put his men in unnecessary danger.

The Army has recently re-opened the case of Pat Tillman. No mention of “fragging” has yet been publicly mentioned, except on a few fringe websites. The new investigation has been organized to determined if the death of Pat Tillman was a case of “negligent homicide.”

When I first heard of the death of Princess Diana the words “they killed her” immediately popped into my head. It was not a decision I had reached after looking at all of the evidence and calmly and methodically thinking it out. It was a knee-jerk reaction, an uninvited and fleeting thought like a thousand others that enter our minds every day.

When I first heard the announcement that Tillman had been shot by his fellow soldiers the words “they fragged him” immediately popped into my head. Again this was based on no evidence. In fact I hadn’t followed Tillman’s story very closely, but simply assumed that here was some jock yahoo who puffed himself full of patriotic fervor and got himself killed for his efforts.

The nagging feeling that Tillman was intentionally shot will probably stay with me for a long time. My assessment of Tillman and the reasons he might have been fragged couldn’t have been more off base.

When he enlisted Tillman became a heroic symbol to many Americans and a powerful public relations tool for the Bush Administration. This much was obvious to anybody who even casually paid attention to Tillman’s story, including myself. What I and many others didn’t know was that Tillman was a vocal critic of the war in Iraq and of Bush himself. In 2004 he reportedly encouraged a fellow soldier to vote for Kerry. His mother has reported that upon his return from Afghanistan Tillman had planned to meet with well-known political activist Noam Chomsky.

Would Tillman have returned from his tour of duty as an outspoken critic of the Iraq war? Would we have seen him on television shows condemning Bush and his foreign policies? Would he have spoken at peace rallies and hugged Cindy Sheehan? Can you imagine the embarrassment to the Bush Administration when these images of their poster boy were beamed into homes across America?

We’ll most likely never know, of course, whether Pat Tillman was killed in a horrible accident or due to some much more insidious action. One thing that we have learned from this war, however, is that people are capable of committing the cruelest and most heinous of crimes against each other, regardless of the color of the uniforms they wear or of the flags that they carry.

“The administration clearly was using this case for its own political reasons. This cover-up started within minutes of Pat’s death, and it started at high levels. This is not something that (lower-ranking) people in the field do.” --Pat Tillman Sr.

A Visit to the PEZ Museum

I was beginning to feel like one of those people. You know, the ones who live in New York City and yet have never been to the Statue of Liberty, or live in Paris and have never been to the Eiffel Tower. And here I was, living in the San Francisco Bay Area and I had never been to the PEZ Museum!

Well I remedied that sorry situation today. The PEZ Museum is located in the city of Burlingame, a ten-minute car ride from SFO. (And yet upon landing tourists still insist on heading in the opposite direction toward the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman’s Wharf and the strip clubs. Go figure.)

I’ve been hearing about the museum for years but had absolutely no idea what to expect when I finally decided to pay the PEZ folks a long-overdue visit. I had found the address on their website and I guess I suspected that I’d be pulling up in front of some lunatic PEZ collector’s home. Not so. (It turned out to be some lunatic PEZ collector’s store.)

The PEZ Museum (or officially: The Burlingame Museum of PEZ Memorabilia) is a small retail shop on a busy boulevard that features many more small retail shops. Upon entering you get the feeling that here is a space that could have once been a nail salon or an adult bookstore or a smoke shop and may someday be again. But today there is no doubt that you’re in a place that is wholly dedicated to all things PEZ.

There are basically two rooms to the shop. The first is the retail area that contains dozens of different PEZ dispensers for sale, some PEZ decorations and a board behind the counter that tells you the price of visiting the PEZ Museum, which is the second room. That price is three dollars I am told by a very tall and very friendly man named Gary, who also informs me that the entrance fee includes a guided tour, if I wanted one. Well, hell yeah, I wanted one! How often does one get to visit the PEZ Museum?

And so we head back to the small room that houses the museum and Gary takes me to a large and colorful PEZ poster and begins his talk about the history of PEZ.

“PEZ was created in 1927 and originally there was only one flavor,” he began.
“Peppermint,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
“Uh, yes, peppermint,” he continued.
“That’s where the name came from!” You see, I had written an article on the stuff a few months back and unfortunately I couldn’t resist showing off. Finally I apologized to Gary for stepping on his lines, and without further interruption from me the tour continued.

You know, I originally had wanted to come to the PEZ Museum partly out of curiosity but mostly as a goof. I was hoping to witness for myself yet another example of the nuttiness that people were capable of, and perhaps to mock it for sheer sport. (And for your entertainment, of course.) Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I was genuinely enjoying all the displays of colorful and whimsical dispensers and other assorted PEZ memorabilia, and that the PEZ Museum was actually fun.

There was a showcase that featured several dozen PEZ dispensers dating as far back as 1950, when the original characters, including Popeye the Sailor and that whiney gay ghost Casper (“I just want a friend! Wah!) were created. Perhaps Gary’s proudest possessions were the three large metallic letters that hung on the wall to spell out “PEZ.”

“They are the original letters from the PEZ factory in Austria,” Gary told me. “They hung there for over forty years. I got them on Ebay. I was the only bidder.”

Now there’s a surprise.

Alas, all things, good and otherwise, must come to an end, and so after one more visual scan of the museum I decided it was time to go. After all, I didn’t want to spend an entire day stumbling around the PEZ Museum and I had already been there…twenty minutes.

But the PEZ charm had already worked its magic on this cynical old blogger. Before I left I looked through the displays of PEZ dispensers for sale, and when I spotted a happy-looking Spongebob I knew I had to have it.

“I’ll take this as a souvenir,” I said to Gary, as if I were buying it for some kid or my wife. Really, I’m such a fraud. Spongebob came with two packs of PEZ candies, and my wife would be lucky if she even saw one piece.

By the way, here’s a snap quiz for you. (And keep your eyes on your own paper, Mister!) How much do you think a Spongebob PEZ dispenser with two packs of PEZ candy and printed operational instructions (for those of you who went to school in California) costs these days?

a. $1.69
b. $ 2.99
c. $4.59
d. $6.89

Well believe it or not in this day of dollar peep shows (they tell me) and four-dollar cups of coffee a cleverly designed and finely crafted PEZ dispenser with all the trimmings will set you back less than two bucks. Now that’s a deal.

I was going to end this with a snippy comment about how, despite the cool dispensers it comes in, PEZ is actually a terrible candy. Then I spotted the long-empty Spongebob that’s sitting here on my desk. Yep, both packs.

My Fantasy Five

I was e-mailing back and forth with Peachpit today when she reminded me of her Fantasy Five list, and asked me who was currently on mine. What started the whole thing up again was a photo I had sent to her that at first appeared to me to be some raggedy-ass old lady but was in reality Eddie Van Halen arriving last night at an Oscar party. Yes, sometimes the years are not kind, but at other times they’re downright cruel.

“Oh my God,” wrote Peachpit. “He used to be so cute!” Didn’t we all. I don’t think Van Halen was ever on Peachpit’s list, and I know he was never on mine. In case you haven’t yet figured it out, the Fantasy Five is a ranking of famous people with whom you’d most like to, uh, do the horizontal bop. You know, knock boots. Part whiskers. Create the beast with two backs. Bump and grind. Dance between the sheets. Fool around. Get lucky. Get jiggy. Get off. Hide the salami. Insert Tab A into Slot B. Lay pipe. Park the pink Cadillac. Bump Uglies. Hit it. Roll in the hay. Boink. Do the squelchy. The old in-and-out. Diddle. Doodle. Twirl the squirrel. Frank the fungus. Hook up. Put the monster in the cave. Stuff the monkey. Hanky panky. Make Whoopee. Butter the corn. You do get the idea of what I’m trying to say, right? Make love! Yeah, now you’ve got it!

For a long time the #1 man on Peachpit’s list, until his untimely death, was John Kennedy Jr. Hey did you see that report that speculated that John-John was eliminated before he could change his mind and assume the presidential throne that undoubtedly awaited him? Maybe it’s true and maybe it’s more conspiracy nonsense, but either way you’ll never know. Hell, we’re still waiting to find out what happened to his father forty years ago.

So with Kennedy’s death he was unceremoniously removed from the top of Peachpit’s list and replaced by Number Two, who had been waiting anxiously in the wings. Now, maybe Peachpit had been repulsed by that grotesque photo of Eddie Van Halen, but you can’t accuse her of being biased against fossilized rock stars. Number Two on her list is the even older David Cassidy. Placing the AARP-eligible former Partridge atop her list makes me wonder if Cassidy would still be there if, say, Bill Haley were still around.

OK, enough about Peachpit. Let’s get to something really important: my list. And first let me preface this piece by saying that a whole lot of thought did not go into its creation. (“Of course it didn’t. Why should tonight’s blog be any different?” you smugly respond in that smart-ass way of yours.) No, my Fantasy Five is a fluid thing. It may well change tomorrow when I see a picture of some hot-patootie actress who I had completely forgotten about. But as of right now, on this rainy March night in the final years of the American Empire, these are my Fantasy Five.

#1 Mimi Rogers
I know she’s now as old as Eddie Van Halen but she’s been on top of my list for so long that I feel a warm nostalgia for her. I’ve seen one of her recent nude scenes and she does now have the body of an old woman, but she’ll always be Mimi. If you haven’t seen the breath-taking glory of the former Mrs. Tom Cruise in Full Body Massage then you’re in for a treat. And don’t take my word for it: Mr. Skin himself has declared that this film contains the second greatest nude scene of all time!

#2 Rachael Ray
Yeah I know, she’s has no boobs, a big ass and a grating voice that could curdle milk. So why do I, and just about every hetero man I talk to, think this woman is so damned attractive? “She’s perky and she can cook,” offers Peachpit. And there may be some truth to that. What could be better after a wild session of hiding the salami (rolling in the hay, buttering the corn, etc.) than having a cheery gal who will bounce out of bed and into the kitchen to whip up a tasty soufflé? It would be sheer heaven, let me tell you. That is until she opened her mouth and started to talk. Then it would be time for her to go. After she had done the dishes, of course.

#3 Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz.
And yes, they would absolutely have to be together. I’m looking for the total Latina fantasy experience. In fact, if either one of these gorgeous ladies offered herself to me separately I’d look her right in her fiery black-as-coal eyes and say, “Sorry, Senorita, but adios.” OK, no I wouldn’t. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t even turn down that 60-year-old Consuela with the bad teeth who works the counter at my local car wash. If she ever offered. Which she hasn’t.

#4 Any of The New Generation of Hot Young Actresses that I’m Too Out of the Loop to Be Familiar With.
Oh, I know they’re out there, with their belly shirts and tattoos and hip words that I’m too old to understand. They’ve got names like Simpson and Alba and who knows what else. I know nothing about them except that they’re hot, talented and #4 on my list. (“The only Simpson you could get is Marge,” quips Peachpit.)

#5 Laura Bush.
At first I put this blank-stared future former First Lady on my list so I could say, “Then I could do to her what her husband is doing to the country,” desperately hoping that you wouldn’t recognize the line as one used by Woody Allen many years ago. (Allen had been referring to Mamie Eisenhower!) Then I thought of the joy I’d have selling the story (and photos!) of Mrs. Bush and myself to the tabloids, thereby firmly affixing the horns of the cuckold to the top of our president’s empty head. I could even dust off the riding crop that’s still half hidden in the bottom of my closet. Hey, Ho what fun I would have! That is, until the day I heard the dreaded knock on the door and faced that inevitable visit from some of Rove’s people.

And the Winner is Not...

First of all, I’m not surprised. Not in the least. You may recall (you may, but you don’t, do you?) that a few days back I wrote about how I was going to make one bet and one bet only on who might win an Academy Award tonight. The category I chose was Best Picture and the movie I was going to bet on was Crash.

Brokeback Mountain was, and remained until the envelope was opened, the prohibitive favorite to win. Crash was the number two choice, posting what I thought were very attractive odds at 4-1. I mentioned that I had picked Crash for my best movie of the year, so how could the Academy dare disagree with me? Ha-ha-ha! Aren’t I hilarious? I also pointed out that you would probably all be laughing at me when Brokeback won, knowing that I had pissed away (another) one hundred dollars. Well here’s some not very surprising news: Despite the upset victory of Crash, as I predicted, you all are still free to laugh at me to your heart’s content. Let the mocking begin…….now!

I attempted three times to place my bet on YouWager.com, using three different credit cards, and thrice my bet was rejected. No, the reason I failed to attain approval was not because all my cards were maxed out, but I do thank you for your vote of confidence. Finally I called the website on one of those old-fashioned telephone thingies and was informed by the voice at the other end that many times perfectly legitimate credit cards were rejected.

The reason? The credit card companies had a built-in block against their cards being used for gambling websites. Who do they think they are, my mother? I mean, what if I had planned to use it to complete an illegal drug transaction or pay a hooker in some seedy hotel? A refusal to honor that manner of transaction could have been, at best, highly embarrassing and at worst damaging to my own personal body.

OK, so then the voice told me that I could send the money to them by Western Union. Western Union? What is this, 1943? “Mr. And Mrs. Jones the War Department regrets to inform you…” No way. Even though I suspect it could have been simply done over the computer I decided that sending money by Western Union was just too much of a chore. I was beginning to suspect that there were cosmic forces at work here, trying to stop me from placing my bet. And there were: mean and ugly cosmic forces that just wanted to laugh at me.

And so I let the bet slide, leaving me, at least theoretically, with two possible outcomes. First, I could have been wrong about Crash and would therefore be thrilled when Brokeback Mountain won, knowing that those gay cowboys and my credit card company had teamed up to save me $100. Did I expect it to play out this way? Don’t be absurd. I’ve lived my life for many decades now…I can usually tell which direction it’s going to take.

The Academy Awards show tonight was one continuous stream of non-surprises, hosted by a somewhat cautious but still funny Jon Stewart. Add that to the fact that before the show began more than one commentator mentioned that “the only surprise of the evening could come at the very end, if Crash wins Best Picture.” So combine that bit of info with my inner knowledge that the only way Crash would not win was if I had been able to bet on it, and I knew that at this point the only surprise of the night left for me would be if Brokeback Mountain actually did win.

Oh, and if anybody took me seriously about my (heh-heh) Matt Dillon 10-1 Long-Shot Pick of the Night recommendation and wants to drop by to, uh, thank me in person, well I’m afraid I’ll be out of town for a while. A long while. Besides, that’s why they call them long-shots, Chump.

Learning to Enjoy Life's Little Ironies

One of my favorite Howard Stern quotes is, “If it’s on television then it’s entertainment.” From the moment I first heard these words I immediately sensed the truth of them, and shortly after expanded the concept to include motion pictures. Whether you’re at the theater watching the lamest of Adam Sandler comedies or a documentary about the spread of HIV in Africa you’re there to be entertained. You are there to make yourself feel good, either by laughing and being amused for a couple of hours or by means of self-congratulations for taking the time to educate yourself about the plight of others. It’s a fact: living things avoid negative stimuli. If going to the movies wasn’t in some way a positive, rewarding experience we wouldn’t pay the $9.50 for the pleasure. Rather, we’d run away from it.

My (well, Howard’s) theory was put to the test today as I sat through the new movie Why We Fight with my stomach in a knot. It was not a pleasurable experience, but as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been in a movie theater.

Why We Fight is a brilliant and masterfully constructed documentary that posits that the United States is a wildly militaristic nation, and the reason is because war is good business. While the movie begins with President Eisenhower’s 1960 farewell speech, warning of the dangers of an out-of-control military-industrial complex, it concentrates mostly on the Iraq War and the lies and manipulation that has brought the U.S. to the sorry state in which it finds itself today.

In just 98 minutes Why We Fight manages to revisit and review that time only three short years ago when Bush and his gang presented their case for the unprovoked attack on Iraq to a still stunned American public. Watch it and you will be surprised, no shocked, by the things you may have forgotten that were told to the public to justify this war, as well as by the apparent shortness of our memory.

Perhaps the most compelling aspect of the film is not the self-incrimination and demonizing of Bush, but of the several stories of everyday people, and how their lives were and are affected by this war. We follow the story of a middle-aged NYC cop who, after his son dies in the World Trade Center, begins a campaign to have his son’s name written on one of the bombs to be dropped on the people of Iraq. He grief is palatable and he was, by his own admission, thinking about nothing except revenge. That is until the day when he sees Bush on television finally admitting that Saddam Hussein had nothing to do with 9/11. We feel the anguish of this man who is in shock at both having lost his son in the horrible attack and at feeling betrayed by the president he trusted.

We also follow a young man who is talking to a recruiter about enlisting in the Army. His friends have advised him against it, but his mother has just died and he feels he is not able to take care of himself, so he allows the Army to do it for him. One shot shows the kid climbing into the back seat of a car and closing the door as the recruiter climbs into the driver’s seat. It’s a gripping Orwellian scenario as that car pulls away, one that I’m not likely to forget anytime soon. You can’t help hoping that this hapless and helpless kid is safe. And that he himself hasn’t killed anybody.

Why We Fight is a hugely important film, a historically important film, the latest in a line of movies such at Fahrenheit 9/11, Lord of War and Syriana that have necessarily picked up the investigative and educational responsibility that was so readily and disgracefully abdicated by the American “free” press. By chronicling the story of the build-up to the Iraq War and by shining a bright and illuminating beam on the bogus case presented by Bush Why We Fight provides a short and concise document to this pivotal and ugly time in American history that is certain to be referenced and studied for generations to come.

The tragedy of Why We Fight is that it will be seen by so few people, and by almost none of those who truly need to see it. For people like myself who were onto Bush from the beginning the film does little more than fill in a few gaps of our knowledge and to make us even angrier by confirming what we already knew to be the truth. Those who belong to the ever-decreasing percentage of Americans who still support Bush’s war will not go see this movie, but rather will dismiss it as more Michael Moore/George Clooney-style leftist propaganda. That is until the day when all, except the few holdouts cowering in the bunker, are forced to admit the truth about the war while at the same time howling pitifully about how they were so horribly misled.

And so as I sat through Why We Fight I felt the white hot flame that has burned inside me since before the start of the war grow a little hotter and a little whiter with each close-up of those now so-familiar faces of the true axis of evil: Bush-Cheney-Rumsfeld. And I was forced to finally admit that what I was feeling was not simply anger or rage, but a pure unadulterated hatred, a hatred that is neither enlightened nor healthy but there none the less.

And so as I emerged from the theater, caught somewhere between violence and tears, I knew that I had to calm myself. I stopped at a coffee counter and treated myself to a mocha with whipped cream. I then convinced myself that I would take the long way home, Route 84, a spectacularly scenic and winding mountain road that would take me slowly and deliberately through glorious vistas of majestic pine trees and fast-running creeks, until I was eventually rewarded at the junction of Highway 1 with the grandest view of all, the Pacific Ocean. And I would take my time and let the beauty of the drive heal my shredded, angry soul.

I headed west on Route 84 and for a short time remained the only vehicle on the road, happily isolated in the deep woods and wet foggy air. Suddenly I stopped for an intersection and a blue pick-up truck turned onto 84 and got ahead of me. Within a minute I realized that this blue truck, with two large decorative plants secured in its bed, was driving very slowly and that for the next hour or more I would be staring at the rear of this pick-up and the large plants it carried.

A few minutes later a closer look told me that I’d also be forced to stare at the gaily-colored bumper sticker that was affixed to the truck. It read “Viva Bush!” And I thought at that moment that perhaps all hope was not lost, because I had discovered that I could still laugh at life's little ironies.

Bet Picture

There are only two things that will make this Sunday’s Academy Awards more fun. The first is if I actually win one, which even I’m willing to concede doesn’t appear to be a likely scenario. And the second is if I make some winning wagers on them.

Betting on the Oscars in many ways is a different kettle of fish, whatever that means, than betting on sporting events. There are several nominees in each category, but a look at the odds show us that in nearly every case there is a heavy favorite, a clear choice to win. The rest, to varying degrees, are simply long shots.

Let’s take a look at some current odds, as they appear on my new favorite gambling website YouWager.com. And no, I do not get a kickback for promoting them, but that’s not to say I would angrily rip up and return any check that they cared to send to show their gratitude. Right now Phillip Seymour Hoffman is –800 to win Best Actor. This means, for those of you who are foolish enough to keep your money in a bank and therefore are unfamiliar with gambling parlance, that you would have to put up $800 to win only $100 if you wanted to bet on Hoffman. Why would anybody do this you ask?

Years ago I had a friend--well he wasn’t actually a friend but a co-worker, and a psychopath to boot--who would always bet on Mike Tyson. “They’re giving away money!” he’d chirp every time one of Iron Mike’s fights approached, and then bet a huge amount of money on Tyson in order to win a little. For example if Tyson were a 12-1 favorite he would put up $12,000 in order to win $1,000. In this guy’s mind there was no risk because he believed that Tyson was a sure thing. And back in those days he was. Until that time when he wasn’t.

I later asked this fellow how he did on the Tyson-Buster Douglas fight, which was arguable the biggest boxing upset in history. “I didn’t bet on that one,” he said, the lying sack. Still, I didn’t push it because, as I previously mentioned, he was a psychopath.

Wasn’t it just a short time ago that Heath Ledger was considered almost as likely to win the Best Actor Oscar as Hoffman? What happened? As of today Ledger is a 7-1 underdog. Should I be tempted here? Seven hundred bucks for a hundred sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. What do you think? C’mon, help me out here.

I’ll skip the Best Actress category, even though Reese, at –550, is less of a favorite than Hoffman. Did you hear she’s now going to get $29 million dollars a movie? My goodness, if things keep going this well for her she may end up making almost half as much as Howard! Her closest competitor is Felicity Huffman who is nominated for Desperate Housewives. She is a 3-1 shot to win the Best Actress. Oh and by the way, if you just let that Desperate Housewives slide right by you might as well stop reading now. That’s a TV show—the Oscars are for movies. If you don’t know at least that much this column isn’t for you. You’re probably one of those annoying people who waste their lives by reading books or even going outside. Go on, git!

Now the Best Picture category is something I might be able to sink my teeth into. True, Brokeback Mountain at –600 is a heavy favorite. But not prohibitive. Look at Crash quietly sitting there minding its own business at 4-1 odds. Regular readers (Hi Mom!) know that Crash was my pick for Best Picture of 2005 and really, do you think that the Academy would differ from me? They wouldn’t dare! For the record—I’m going to put $100 down on Crash for Best Picture. So when you hear them announce Brokeback Mountain on Sunday night you’ll have yet one more reason to laugh at me. You bastards.

And that gives us something else to think about. If Brokeback is such a sure thing, then who’s to say that this year's movie awards gala won’t turn into a “gay-la”? Maybe you had better think about putting a few shekels on Ledger, Huffman and even Jake Gyllenhaal. Then again, Hoffman is playing Truman Capote. Goodness, it’s all so darned confusing!

Here’s your long shot for the night. I give it to you as a gift, because I like you. (And because I’m much too pusillanimous to make the bet myself.) Why not take a flyer and bet on Matt Dillon to win Best Supporting? Of the five nominees in the category, Dillon is considered fourth most likely to win. And yet I keep hearing people mentioning him every time Crash is mentioned. And at 10-1 odds you can retire to a life of luxury with your winnings! (Assuming of course that he actually does win and assuming again that you bet a hundred thousand bucks to begin with.)

One bet that I’m staying away from is whether host Jon Stewart will be booed at any time for a political comment. It’s a coin-flip, odds-wise, although I gotta believe he won’t be, seeing how the audience will be stuffed with left-wing wacko Michael Moore-worshipping communist lesbians who hate America. Still, it only takes one upright real American infiltrator to boo and the bet is lost. Nah, I’ll skip this one.

But I will take this one. You get 2-1 odds that one of the winners will use his acceptance speech to protest the war. Now the bet description specifies that it has to be one of the night’s “winners” so this clearly eliminates Stewart or any of the presenters. I’m not sure if we’ve actually heard any outburst since Michael Moore delivered his famous “Shame on you!” speech to protest that previous war way back when. What? It was the same war? But it seems like so long ago.

OK, then, those are my two bets. I’m going to put $100 down on Crash to win Best Picture and another $100 on a winner protesting the war in his or her acceptance speech. I like that second bet, because it’s one that will last throughout the entire evening and not just for one category.

So wish me luck. If everything goes well (and it certainly hasn’t in my first half-century and frankly I see no reason for it to start now) I’ll be pocketing a cool $600 profit on Sunday night. A buddy of mine, who in the most successful financial year of my life made six and a half times as much as I did, is shocked that I would be making $100 bets. He is quick to point out that I don’t know who’s going to win Best Actor, I don’t know what’s going to win Best Picture and I don’t even know where my next mortgage payment is coming from. All of which may be true, but I certainly do know what I’ll be doing on Sunday night.

By the way, at YouWager.com you can also get 13-1 odds that a human in the United States will become infected with the bird flu by April 6th. How can you pass up a bet like that?

Crashing

Somewhere in Mississippi or Montana or New York a very fat man who can barely hoist his bloated body out of his lounge chair to waddle into the kitchen to get another six-pack (“I always get a sixer when I go to the kitchen—less trips that way!”) yells at the TV screen. “What an idiot! That girl had the gold medal won, and she just had to show off. Serves her right!” And with a grunt of self-satisfaction he oomphs back into the chair and pops the top on his eighth, or is it ninth, beer.

Yes every knows by now, even those of us who avoided the Olympics like the bird flu, that snowboarder Lindsey Jacobellis was within two short jumps of winning the gold medal in women’s snowboardcross when she committed what is akin to a mortal sin in the sporting world: she began to celebrate too soon. While airborne the attractive athlete reached down to grab her board to go into some snowboarding pose that I’m sure has a name and is done all the time. Except this time it caused her to fall as she hit the ground. The gold medal was lost and the ridicule began.

Now imagine if she had done the pose and then completed the race without incident, bringing home the gold. Images of that aerial stunt would have been everywhere, from television commercials to boxes of Wheaties. “Golden Jump!” the cover of Sports Illustrated would have proclaimed, with the photo of the proud and excited champion against the blue Italian sky decorating newsstands around the world.

Jacobellis is an athlete, and in a sport that is by nature somewhat less staid than others. She is young, she is pretty and she won a silver medal in the Turin Olympics. So sit on the couch and laugh at her all you want, America. But first, let’s all go take a look at what’s hanging in your trophy case.

“We’re going to crash, we’re going to crash!” yelled the frantic woman aboard the Virgin Airlines flight from London to Las Vegas. The flight, with well over 400 people on board, had hit severe turbulence 30,000 feet in the air, and the poor woman had panicked, frightening the other passengers. What made this story newsworthy was that the terrified screaming woman was a flight attendant.

OK, at first this story seems humorous. After all, it’s the crew of an aircraft that we look to assure us, to allay our fears in times of less than ideal flying conditions. On many occasions during turbulence (and believe me it doesn’t take this sort of severe bouncing to get my palms sweating) I’ve looked into the face of a passing flight attendant. If she seemed calm, then I would be calm. Well, calmer, anyway. Underneath she might have been peeing her panties, but keeping that stoic look plastered on her face while continuing to serve the complimentary beverages—that’s what she’s getting paid for.

And so the unforgivable crime committed by this panicked girl in her twenties was not being afraid, but showing it. And of course the poor woman will likely be fired, and deservedly so I think. I certainly would let her go. Give me flight attendants who could be filled with fear up to their eyeballs and never for a second show it. Flying is scary enough without having the employees add fuel to the fire. And I have to believe that this woman would beg to be fired anyway. “I’m never going up in one of those things again,” she probably vowed. Who hasn’t?

What happened that caused this woman lose her job and become an international laughing stock? Her plane didn’t crash, that’s what. How many panicky flight attendants, passengers and even pilots have screamed, “We’re going to crash!” but we never heard anything about it because they did?

So once again we sit on our couch and laugh at this woman who dared to both panic on an airplane and be a flight attendant. We mock her because in a crisis situation (the crew confirmed it was the worst turbulence they had ever experienced) she didn’t exhibit the controlled discipline and grit of a battle-hardened career Marine.

And so people all over the world gather around water-coolers and in bars to discuss with disdain the case of the frightened airline stewardess and the showoff Olympic snowboarder. For both of these hapless women have been tried in the media and been found guilty of the same crime: the crime of being much too human.