If I Tweeted - June 2011

I don't.  But, if I did, here's what you might have read from me this month. 

#LenSpeaks  Glen Campbell has announced he has Ahlzeimer's.  "By the time I get to Phoenix...er, where was I going again?"

#LenSpeaks  Michelle Obama, her old lady, and the two kids are vacationing throughout Africa.  Meanwhile, I was walking around Glendale and can't help but notice the stores closed down due to the economy.

#LenSpeaks  All these people running for President and still nobody to vote for.

#LenSpeaks  I'm not interested in Michelle Bachmann, even though I love her pretzels.

#LenSpeaks  Somebody say that Anthony Weiner was such a dick and I think this is redundant.

#LenSpeaks  Weiner's wife has no sense of Huma.

#LenSpeaks  Peter Falk RIP.  Rhetorical question: does he get buried with or without the glass eye?  I mean, it is a nifty souvenir.

#LenSpeaks  I love it on Facebook when somebody famous dies and people write condolences to the person's family.  Like you know them?

#LenSpeaks  Lots of weeping over Clarence Clemmons.  Sympathy goes out to his family...and all five of his ex-wives.

#LenSpeaks  Breaking news:  For those who don't, I've never been a big fan of Bruce Springsteen.

#LenSpeaks  Must have been neat to have a neighbor arrested after twenty years.  When is the FBI going to get around to mine?  He snores and I can hear it through the wall.

#LenSpeaks  Passing the Today Show set in NY and seeing Al Roker, I wonder how somebody can forecast the weather when they've been dead for two years.

#LenSpeaks  Is there no bigger journalistic fraud than Matt Lauer???

#LenSpeaks  Some guy who was in Jackass died in a drunk driving accident.  Jackass, indeed.

#LenSpeaks  Apparently, Roger Ebert tweeted the same thing and this Jackass' family told Ebert to keep his mouth shut.  I think Roger's doctors already took care of that.

#LenSpeaks  Some old lady had to remove her diaper at airport security.  Seriously, what tool at TSA wanted to see THAT????

#LenSpeaks  The list of people owed dough by Frank McCourt is full of players with their names misspelled.  Because the first thing that you have to lose when you go bankrupt is spell check??

#LenSpeaks  Hollywood, I dare you to make a movie geared for somebody over the age of 25.  I double dare you.  No, I triple dare you.

#LenSpeaks  An old joke updated.  You're in a room with two terrorists and Frank McCourt.  There are two bullets in your gun.  Who do you shoot?

#LenSpeaks  New punchline.  McCourt twice.  And then let the two terrorists go back to their jobs at 7/11.

#LenSpeaks  If you already have a picture to see the last Harry Potter movie, I am very, very, very worried about you.

#LenSpeaks  Big surprise.  Just saw Mel Brooks eating Chinese food at Mandarette Cafe on Beverly.  And it wasn't even Christmas.

#LenSpeaks  I've seen some recent pictures of one of those Obama kids and she's starting to look a little chubby.  Hmmmm.  Healthy snacks, indeed.

#LenSpeaks  Carrot sticks, my ass.  That kid is two Ring Dings short of a Mindy Cohn.

#LenSpeaks  The Marlins just hired 80-year-old Jack McKeon as their new manager.  Just don't let him drive the team bus.

Dinner last night:  German salami sandwich with side salad.

This Date in History - June 29

Happy birthday to the baseball player who had the coolest sounding last name when it was spoken by a French-Canadian public address announcer.

226:  CAO PI DIES AFTER AN ILLNESS.  HIS SON CAO RUI SUCCEEDS HIM AS EMPEROR OF THE KINGDOM OF WEI.

Obviously, this year was the very last slice of pi.

1149:  RAYMOND OF POITIERS IS DEFEATED AND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF INAB.

Well, obviously, not everybody loved Raymond.  And you thought this was going to be a Sidney joke.

1444:  SKANDERBEG DEFEATS AN OTTOMAN INVASION FORCE AT TORVIOLL.

Which reminds me...you can also get an ottoman at Ikea.

1613:  THE GLOBE THEATER IN LONDON, ENGLAND BURNS TO THE GROUND.

Much to the disappointment to those who had tickets for June 30, 1613.

1659:  AT THE BATTLE OF KONOTOP, THE UKRAINIAN ARMIES OF IVAN VYHOVSKY DEFEAT THE RUSSIANS LED BY PRINCE TRUBETSKOY.

Backwards, it's potonok.

1850:  COAL IS DISCOVERED ON VANCOUVER ISLAND.

Which gave rise to the very first minstrel show in Vancouver.

1864:  NINETY-NINE PEOPLE ARE KILLED IN CANADA'S WORST RAILWAY DISASTER NEAR QUEBEC.

They couldn't make it an even hundred?

1874:  GREEK POLITICIAN CHARILAOS TRIKOUPIS PUBLISHES A MANIFESTO ENTITLED "WHO'S TO BLAME?" IN WHICH HE LAYS OUT HIS COMPLAINTS AGAINST KING GEORGE.

Years later, Barack Obama publishes his own "Who's To Blame?" in which he lays out his complaints against President George.

1880:  FRANCE ANNEXES TAHITI.

Well, how friggin' hard a decision was that?  Announce that you're annexing Selma. Alabama and then you're taking a risk.

1889:  HYDE PARK AND SEVERAL OTHER ILLINOIS TOWNSHIPS VOTE TO BE ANNEXED BY CHICAGO, FORMING THE LARGEST UNITED STATES CITY.

Like they always do in Chicago, they voted early and often.

1910:  COMPOSER FRANK LOESSER IS BORN.

Luck be a midwife tonight.

1911:  COMPOSER BERNARD HERRMANN IS BORN.

He did all the Hitchcock scores.  A genius.  The best ever.

1920:  FILMMAKER RAY HARRYHAUSEN IS BORN.

His movie special effects were primitive and old-fashioned.  They still looked 100 times more real than any of the computer shit you would see in movies like Thor.

1928:  THE OUTERBRIDGE CROSSING AND GOETHALS BRIDGE IN STATEN ISLAND ARE BOTH OPENED.

As if anybody actually goes to Staten Island on purpose.

1933:  ACTOR FATTY ARBUCKLE DIES.

The official inventor of the Hollywood scandal.

1936:  BASEBALL PLAYER HARMON KILLEBREW IS BORN.

And he just died a few weeks ago. 

1941:  BASEBALL PLAYER JOHN BOCCABELLA IS BORN.

One more time, please  BOC-CA-BEL-LA!!!!

1945:  CARPATHIAN RUTHENIA IS ANNEXED BY THE SOVIET UNION.

And the official password for June 29 is "annex."

1954:  DODGER PITCHING COACH RICK HONEYCUTT IS BORN.

Well known to Dodger fans, he's the guy walking back and forth to the mound six or seven times every game.

1967:  ACTRESS JAYNE MANSFIELD IS KILLED IN A CAR CRASH.

What's that in the road...a head?

1974:  MIKHAIL BARYSHNIKOV DEFECTS FROM RUSSIA TO CANADA WHILE ON TOUR.

Wait till he found out how bad the health care was there.

1976:  THE SEYCHELLES BECOME INDEPENDENT FROM THE UNITED KINGDOM.

I don't know the Seychelles.  What were their biggest hits?

1978:  ACTOR BOB CRANE DIES.

Beated to death with a camera tripod and I don't think that's the appropriate use for one of those things.

1995:  ACTRESS LANA TURNER DIES.

The postman never rings a third time.

1999:  PRODUCER ALLAN CARR DIES.

Out of gas.

2002:  SINGER ROSEMARY CLOONEY DIES.

I remember this day vividly.  I had heard she was not long for our world so I drove past her house on Roxbury.  George Clooney was having a cigarette on the front lawn.  One of my truly favorite singers of all time.  And I got to meet her once!

2003:  ACTRESS KATHARINE HEPBURN DIES.

Guess who wasn't coming to dinner?

Dinner last night:  Breakfast for dinner---French toast and eggs at Barney's Beanery.

Why I Still Go

I get asked the question a lot these days.

"Why do you still go to Dodger games?"

The arguments are laid out nicely for me.  The team sucks.  The owner is a dirtbag and leading the franchise into bankruptcy.  Oh, yeah, and isn't the stadium nothing but one big crime scene?

Well, the team has had its problems, mostly due to injuries.  Frank McCourt is a jerk and no dispute is offered by me.  And I have never seen yellow police tape anywhere in the ballpark.

But I still go.  Why?

Last Sunday.  That's why.

A perfect example of why, despite the ups and downs of fandom, I have remained a baseball fan since I was ten years old. 

It's life. 

On any given day, regardless of the caliber of the teams you are watching, there is that odd chance that you will see something you have never seen before.  Or perhaps see something very familiar yet displayed in a different way.  It can be routine.  It can be unexpected.  A mediocre player can be turned into a star and vice versa.  The 25th man on the team just might be a hero.  The biggest guy on the squad could be the goat. 

And it's all life.

A glorious sunny day at Dodger Stadium is never ever a bad thing.  And, on this Sunday, we are getting the marquee pitching match-up that Vin Scully has been talking about for the past week.  Two of the best young pitchers in baseball, each of them the ace of their respective teams.  Jered Weaver hurling for the Angels of Disneyland.  Clayton Kershaw dealing for the Dodgers of Dyfunctionland.

I sat in Seat 1 of Loge 120, Row L and thought about these two pitchers.  How many times in my baseball life have I been so blessed to see such a pairing on the mound?  I think back to the games I saw with Tom Seaver of the Mets going against Steve Carlton of the Phillies.  Or when Dwight Gooden and Fernando Valenzuela hooked up.  This was just one more moment to savor.  Even with the passage of time, you still marvel at your good fortune to view greatness in the making.

As advertised, Kershaw and Weaver were incredibly equal to their tasks.  As the great Scully would extol, one smoke ring after another shows up on the scoreboard.  You know that this game will be decided by a mistake or two.  But those are late to arrive.  There are strikeouts and strikeouts and strikeouts.  Sheer mastery.  Clayton amazingly turns a sacrifice bunt into an acrobatic double play, invoking images of both Sandy Koufax and Karl Wallenda. 

None of this new.  Yet, all of this new.

The Angels break through with a run in the top of the seventh, proving that even gods can experience the occasional bad inning.  Knowing the Dodgers, you figure one run against them is akin to climbing Mount Everest with nothing but a stapler in your backpack.  Yet, somehow, with two outs in the bottom of the inning, Kershaw again dazzles us by hitting a single.  Heck, he's one of the better hitters on the team anyway.  But this is followed by a triple from, of all people, Tony Gwynn Jr..  Who needs Matt Kemp with these two around?

The tenseness continues a little longer.  Meanwhile, in the supposedly sinister environs that is reputed to be Dodger Stadium, all of the by-play in the stands is good-natured.  There are Angel fans amidst Dodger fans and the ribbing goes back and forth with only smiles and nary a punch thrown.  One Angel fan several rows away trades barbs with me.  They are all punctuated with giggles and grins.  Neither team really owns bragging rights in this town this year.

Kershaw continues on the mound in the ninth with the score tied and offers up a two-out homerun ball on a 3-2 pitch to the Angels' resident bloated superstar Vernon Wells.  All this heart and Kershaw is actually going to lose this game?  The Angel fan tips his cap to me.  It will be really tough for the Dodgers to come back against their new closer, Jordan Walden.

With the Dodgers' own version of waste, Juan Uribe, leading off the bottom of the ninth, he might just be right.  That's what the Dodgers get for signing an ex-Giant.  Yet, amazingly, Uribe walks and now I believe anything can happen.  It's such an unexpected and monumental development that I order his bat be immediately shipped to Cooperstown. 

Dee Gordon, Dodger rabbit extraordinaire, pinch runs for the usually comatose Uribe, and immediately steals second.  Another walk and then a sacrifice bunt.  Runners on second and third with one out.  Okay, this, too, I have seen before in the muck and mire also known as the Dodgers of 2011.  Nothing will come of this, I think.  

Oh, yeah, Len?

Pinchhitter Aaron Miles lofts a flyball to short centerfield.  Nobody else can score from third on that, right?  Except Dee Gordon tries it.

In the replays, even the all-knowing Vin Scully can't tell whether he was safe or out.  But the umpire is the final word.  And his word is Nancy Bea Hefley-music-like to Dodger fan ears.  Angel manager and former Dodger Mike Scioscia tries to argue and it's a rare day when he's booed at Chavez Ravine.

 Now the score is tied and even I, after watching dozen of futile Dodger ninth innings this season, am believing.  Once again, Tony Gwynn Jr., of all people one more time, singles sharply and the euphoria begins.  The Angel fan from Row D shakes his head and then politely turns to tip his sun visor in my direction.

Have I seen ninth inning comebacks before?  Yes.  Will I see them again?  I hope so.

But the comeback that is most important is the one I have been doing since Shea Stadium was brand spankin' new. 

I come back.  Over and over and over and over and over.

Dinner last night:  Cervelat sandwich with side salad.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - June 27, 2011

Laugh, clown, laugh.

Dinner last night:  German cold cut sandwichs.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Summer Sounds

How many of you remember holding one of these radios up to your ear as you strolled your neighborhood on a warm summer's evening?  Or propped it up on your beach blanket as the hits of that day competed with the roar of the waves for your attention?

Or simply brings you back to summers past with memories triggered by a particular song?  We all have them.  You hear one of those tunes today and you are instantly transported to a time where you remember exactly what you were doing to that vintage soundtrack.

Suddenly, you're young again.

Yep, those were the songs of our summers.  And here are some of mine.

For instance...

Surf City by Jan & Dean:  I was on a beach blanket with a pail and a shovel.  At Glen Island Beach in New Rochelle or, if we were slumming it, "Horseshit Beach" in the Bronx.  I grew up with a lot of music in my life as my mom regularly listened to Top 40 radio.  WABC and WMCA in New York.  She'd even go out and buy the latest 45 rpm hits for our then-non-stereo record player.  The ones where you had to put the little cookie in the hole so 45s could play on a 33 rpm player. 

Surf City was playing from the transistor radio and I wondered about this beach that Jan & Dean were singing about.  I'd ask my mother where that was.  She told me California and it was someplace so far away that I'd probably never see it.  Uh-huh.

Sukiyaki by Kyu Sakamoto:  This was a big summer hit and I recall my mom doing the dishes and singing along.  Except it was in Japanese.  I asked her if she could speak that language.  Once again, I'm told that I ask too many questions.

Oddly enough, the singer of this one-hit wonder died tragically in a plane crash in the mid 80s.  But, to this day, I remember my mother doing a duet in Japanese.

 On Top of Spaghetti by Tom Glazer and the Do-Re-Mi Children's Chorus:   This was one of those stupid novelty songs that I remember singing with all my chums in the neighborhood.  Except the song itself was ridiculous.

On top of spaghetti, All covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball,
When somebody sneezed.
It rolled off the table,
And on to the floor,
And then my poor meatball,
Rolled out of the door.
It rolled in the garden,
And under a bush,
And then my poor meatball,
Was nothing but mush.
The mush was as tasty
As tasty could be,
And then the next summer,
It grew into a tree.
The tree was all covered,
All covered with moss,
And on it grew meatballs,
And tomato sauce.
So if you eat spaghetti,
All covered with cheese,
Hold on to your meatball,
Whenever you sneeze.

It's brilliant stuff if you're six years old.   But, as soon as you hit seven, the mere mention of this tune makes you want to put a revolver to your right temple. 

I recall running around the house with this tune emanating from my lips at a high decibel.  My grandmother obviously didn't care for the song herself.

"Go sing elsewhere."

Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport by Rolf Harris:  For some mystical reason, I remember my childhood pal, Leo, being particularly enamored by this little Australian ditty.  Another tune with lyrics that we would recite, even though they made little sense.  It's nothing but several stanzas yakking about wallabees, koalas, and didgeridoos or whatever the hell they are.

Our interest was piqued, however, by the end of the song.

Tan me hide when I'm dead, Fred.

We would put the emphasis on the word "Fred" since there was another kid in the neighborhood with the same name.  But, then, we'd move on to the delicious ending.

We tanned his hide when he died, Clyde, and that's it hanging on the shed.

Ridiculous.  But it gave us something to do in between stick ball games.

My Boy Lollipop by Willie Small:  Everytime I would sing along with this nonsense in the house, my father would get angry.

"Stop singing about some boy."

Oh.

The Little Old Lady from Pasadena by Jan & Dean:  Another beach ditty that had me thinking about other coasts.  Where's Pasadena, Mom?

"California and you'll probably never get there."

My parents didn't realize at the time just how small-minded they were.

A Hard Day's Night by the Beatles:  When this album came out one summer, the kids up the block played it endlessly on our front stoops.  Over and over and over again.  We wanted to be completely enveloped in the music because the movie would be playing soon at the Loews Mount Vernon theater.   I recall going there for the very first showing on the very first day.    Unfortunately, the full pre-indoctrination into all the songs went for naught.  Because none of us could hear nothing that day but the wails and screams from every ten-year-old girl in town.

A Walk in the Black Forest by Horst Jankowski:  Summer car trips with the parents found a completely different soundtrack playing on the car radio.  Dad was in control.  Out went Mom's favorite radio stations.  In our family Buick sedan, the tunes we heard all came from WNEW-AM.  Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Nat King Cole.

This particular record, however, still resonates with me to this day.  I can vividly recall the very first time I heard it.  Dad was driving us to a Met game.  The car windows were rolled down so a fresh breeze negated the humidity of the evening.  My excitement level was naturally at a high.  Suddenly, looming up in the distance over the Van Wyck Expressway, I saw my beloved Shea Stadium.

And, from the radio, these haunting sounds...

To be continued.


Dinner last night:  Beef with broccoli/honey walnut shrimp at Panda Inn.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - June 2011

Summer froth from Alfred Hitchcock.  I saw this last month on a big screen and that is the only way to experience it.  Some great shots of Grace Kelly on the roads where she ultimately died.

Dinner last night:  The Dodger Stadium Club buffet.

Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Awkward

Multi-tasking your way through constipation.

"Look, Mommy, I got afterbirth on my hands."

A newborn has arrived and they're ready to make another one.

Look over here.  No, I mean over here. 

These are some mean kids and that's no bull.

What's worse, the clothing or the wallpaper?

Is there such a thing as "Rogaine for Children?"

There's always a family of super heroes in every neighborhood.

Supercuts obviously hires the blind.

There's at least one backstabber in every family.

Dinner last night:  Grilled Taylor ham.

Brain Required

Who would have imagined this was even possible?

On a summer evening in 2011, I went to the movies and actually had to use my brain while watching the film.

Yes, folks, a thought process was required.  Now think about that.

These days, Hollywood gives us one piece of excrement after another.  "The Green Lantern."  "Thor."  "Pirates of the Caribbean - Part 4 or 5 or 12."  All of it designed for idiots.  Indeed, the filmmakers thrive on the fact that their target moviegoer is the dumbest of the dumb.  The twenty-year-old male with the attention span of a gnat and the brain power of a twig.

When a gem like "Midnight in Paris" shows up unexpectedly, folks with ages and IQs of 30 and higher need to flock to it.  To behold.  To enjoy.

And, perish the thought, to think.

This is arguably Woody Allen's best work in years.  Personally, I had almost given up on the Woodman.  Beyond his inability to craft anything remotely interesting in the decade or so, there is, of course, that other purple elephant in the multiplex.  His thirteen-year-old wife and his twelve-year-old kids.  Or something like that.  It's tough to appreciate the films of an almost-eighty-year-old pervert.

But, still, when he somehow manages to connect creatively, there is nothing better than a Woody Allen movie.  "Midnight in Paris" is just that.  If you're expecting one of his laugh riots, forget it.  This is not guffaw-laden.  But, you can expect to snicker.  Repeatedly.

This film is best experienced if you have a masters in literature, but that is not required.  It would help you get all the inside jokes about early 20th century writers---the very ones I tried to ignore in high school English class.  That said, you can still enjoy "Midnight in Paris."

Indeed, the movie is a fantasy with surreal elements akin to Woody's very underrated "Purple Rose of Cairo."  In that little jewel, actors in a 1930s movie broke the fourth wall and regularly conversed with the theater audience.  "Midnight in Paris" goes a bit beyond that.  This is the director's first foray into time travel.

I've never liked Owen Wilson, but he is perfect here as he channels Woody's screen persona from "Manhattan."  A neurotic film writer vacationing in Paris with his annoying fiancee and his even more annoying prospective father and mother-in-law.  Our hero so detests his present day life that he longs for the "old days."

While wandering the streets of Paris as a clock tolls midnight, he is whisked away by a vintage car into a world where he is mingling with Parisian cafe society from the Roaring Twenties.  Hemingway.  F. Scott Fitzgerald and his Zelda.  Casals.  Dali.  Gertrude Stein.  They all traipse through here as if their appearance is as routine as finding Dentyne gum next to the supermarket checkout.

I'm sure there were literary references that I didn't comprehend, but I didn't really care.  Regardless of my unfamiliarity with most of these artists, I still found the story incredibly charming and wise.  And, at the film's conclusion, there was no big battle with some bad ass amidst CGI explosions.  Nope, there was a message that you could apply to your own life.

When was the last time that happened to you at the movies?

Thank you, Woody Allen, for restoring some order to a dismal summer at the multiplex.  Sadly, I am sure that the intelligence will be shortlived.

Dinner last night:  Beef with snow peas at Mandarette Chinese Cafe with Mel Brooks two tables away.

This Date in History - June 22

Happy birthday, Billy Wilder.  The greatest film director ever.

217 BC:  PTOLEMY IV PHILOPATOR OF EGYPT DEFEATS ANTIOCHUS III THE GREAT OF THE SELEUCID KINGDOM.

Seleucid?  I think that has some nasty side effects.

1633:  THE HOLY OFFICE IN ROME FORCES GALILEO GALILEI TO RECANT HIS VIEW THAT THE SUN, NOT THE EARTH, IS CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE.

Sun 1, Earth 0.

1783:  A POISONOUS CLOUD CAUSED BY THE ERUPTION OF THE LAKI VOLCANO IN ICELAND REACHES LE HAVRE IN FRANCE.

As if the French would even recognize a nasty odor.

1807:  IN THE CHESAPEAKE-LEOPOLD AFFAIR, THE BRITISH WARSHIP HMS LEOPARD ATTACKS AND BOARDS THE AMERICAN FRIGATE USS CHESAPEAKE.

Leopard 1, Chesapeake 0.

1844:  THE FRATERNITY DELTA KAPPA EPSILON IS FOUNDED AT YALE UNIVERSITY.

And then thereby inventing alcoholism amongst college students.

1898:  DURING THE SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR, THE U.S. MARINES LAND IN CUBA.

Cigars all around.

1903:  GANGSTER JOHN DILLINGER IS BORN.

He should have watched the movie on Netflix.

1906:  DIRECTOR BILLY WILDER IS BORN.

A film legacy that is unequaled.

1906:  THE FLAG OF SWEDEN IS ADOPTED.

After several years being a foster flag.

1919: DANCER GOWER CHAMPION IS BORN.

A good thing since, otherwise, Marge would have had to do a solo.

1918:  THE HAMMOND CIRCUS TRAIN WRECK KILLS 86 AND INJURES 127 NEAR HAMMOND, INDIANA.

An idea plagarized years later by Cecil B. DeMille in "The Greatest Show on Earth."

1921:  BROADWAY PRODUCER JOSEPH PAPP IS BORN.

Also famous for his smear.

1941:  GERMANY INVADES RUSSIA.

Oh, sure, those goose steps are impressive now, but just you wait...

1944:  PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT SIGNS INTO LAW THE GI BILL.

The smartest thing he ever did.  Oh, yeah, that and cheating on the wife.

1945:  DURING WORLD WAR II, THE BATTLE OF OKINAWA ENDS JAPANESE ARMY FORCES COLLAPSE.

Years later, they still couldn't get a break when Ghidra the Three-Headed Monster came to town.

1949:  ACTRESS MERYL STREEP IS BORN.

She made two movies last week.  Oh, wait, make that four movies last week.

1953:  SINGER CYNDI LAUPER IS BORN.

Girls just want to have fun.

1969:  SINGER JUDY GARLAND DIES.

Over the rainbow and she expires while on the toilet bowl.  PS, her crypt is right around the corner from my mother at Ferncliff Cemetery.

1976:  THE CANADIAN HOUSE OF COMMONS ABOLISHES CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.

At least, their criminals can travel to the United States if they want to be executed.

1987:  ACTOR-DANCER FRED ASTAIRE DIES.

Never gonna dance...

1988:  SINGER DENNIS DAY DIES.

Not his day at all.

1990:  CHECKPOINT CHARLIE IS DISMANTLED IN BERLIN.

Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that Checkpoint.

1993:  FORMER FIRST LADY PAT NIXON DIES.

Mrs. "I am not a crook" to you.

2002:  BASEBALL PITCHER DARRYL KILE DIES.

Met physicians just put him on the 60-day disabled list.

2002:  COLUMNIST ANN LANDERS DIED.

Dear Abby,...er, never mind.

2006:  DOG ACTOR MOOSE DIES.

The mutt from "Frasier."  Who gets his rerun residuals?

2008:  COMEDIAN GEORGE CARLIN DIES.

A bad forecast for that hippy dippy weatherman.

2009:  EASTMAN KODAK ANNOUNCES THAT IT WILL DISCONTINUE SALES OF KODACHROME COLOR FILM.

Well, there goes Paul Simon's career.

Dinner last night:  Pizza with pancetta and black olives at Maria's Italian Kitchen.

Yay! I Finished Another Book - Dick Van Dyke's "My Lucky Life In and Out of Show Business"

Hey, Len, didn't you just finish a book? Are you really reading fast these days?

Umm, I was on jury duty and needed to kill eight hours in a day. That's how I finish a book really quickly.

It also helps that the book is one of those celebrity memoirs which usually read faster than a Hallmark card. You know the kind I mean.

"I was born in...."

"I went to school at..."

"My father/mother was a...."

"Then I got married..."

"Then I got a job..."

"Then I got my big break..."

"Then I did..."

"And then I did..."

"And then I did..."

"This is when I started to drink/take drugs..."

"And then I stopped..."

"This is why I'm happy today..."

That's pretty much the outline for Dick Van Dyke's new book, "My Lucky Life In and Out of Show Business." Okay, I am giving him very short shrift here. He truly comes off as a nice guy and, let's face it, that five-year body of work called "The Dick Van Dyke Show" is the type of artwork you would find hanging in the Louvre. That's why I read the book at all. But, if you're looking for revelatory gossip, you've picked up the wrong memoir. Even if it's there, Dick ain't sharing.

And that's okay. Yes, he appears to be quite guarded and aloof. Yes, he does cheat on his longtime wife but that's after the marriage starts on its long, protracted way to divorce. But, the man is a genius and I would like 1/1000th of the success he has enjoyed. And the fact that he has remained as grounded as he appears, well, kudos.

Dick Van Dyke is one of the true television stars of my youth and you can't help but give him your attention. That's the same reason why I am still reeling over my chance meeting with Carl Reiner several months ago when the two of us shared a bonding moment over crumpled paper towels on the floor of the men's room at the TV Academy. These are folks that really merited your reverence and respect. They knew how to entertain.

Look at television today. The stars that are touted are from reality shows. Who's this? Who's that? I flip through People or the Star while getting my hair cut and I can't name a single person plastered in photos on these pages. What exactly is their claim to fame?

Folks like Dick Van Dyke are the last of a dying breed. So, at the end of the day, who cares if his memoirs don't give you dishy dirt on Rose Marie or Morey Amsterdam? The simple fact that he documented ever so briefly what contributed to that shining light in our living rooms is what's ultimately important.

Dick Van Dyke may say little in his book. But, for years and years and years, he spoke clearly and with authority. And we're all the better for it.

Dinner last night:  Chicken and tortellini in pesto sauce.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - June 20, 2011

Quite amazing.

Dinner last night:  Hamburger and home made onion rings.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Happy Father's Birthday

Here's Dad in a photo I have used before.  I don't have many others because, frankly, my father was usually the guy behind the camera as opposed to in front.

I am guessing this is some sort of graduation or confirmation photo, because Dad was usually in a suit for only two possible occasions---a wedding and a funeral.  Otherwise, he was dressed the same way.  A polo shirt, slacks, and a windbreaker.  And that's how I had him dressed for his own trip into eternity.  But, that's not the focus today.

My father's birthday was June 20.  So, each year with the timing of Father's Day, I had a double whammy.  Two celebrations rolled into one.  Every six years, the two "holidays" coincided.  Yes, I was able to get by with one gift.  But, when the dates didn't sync up, I was often faced with coming up with two different commemorations. 

As a result of this mess of a calendar, all the birthdays and Father's Days sort of morph together.  I don't have specific memories about them.  But, there were three Father's Days that do stick out of my memory drawer with great prominence.  Some I have written about before, but all good memories are always worth repeating. 

Take, for instance...

On a very hot Father's Day, my family made their usual holiday visitation to see all the dead relatives at Ferncliff Cemetery. Alongside the street where "Uncle Fritz" was buried, everybody hopped out of our car to do the necessary grave trimming. Grandma bounded out with hedgeclippers in hand. But my dad and I sat in the car, glued to the Met game on the radio.

Except this was no ordinary contest. My father explained.

"This is history happening. The guy has a perfect game in the ninth inning."

I was a baseball fan, but I still didn't the complete significance.

"But the Mets are losing."

Minutes later, we listened to Phillies pitcher Jim Bunning strike out Met John Stephenson for the final out in this masterpiece. I didn't understand why this was such a big deal, but Dad did. That was good enough for me. Outside, Grandma continued to pull weeds out of "Uncle Fritz" and called out to my grandfather for assistance.

"Pop, get the shears!"

And here's another one from many years later.  On this particular year, the birthday and the Dad's Day festivity was on the same day.  So, I decided to leave it up to my father as to what he wanted to do.  Most of the time when I did this, he'd simply shrug and say he'd be happy to stay home and read the Daily News funnies. 

Except, this time, I was startled. 

He wanted to go to the movies.

Huh?

Yep, another story told here previously.

When I got to the age of 10 or 11, I stopped going to the movies with my parents. There were friends, both boys and girls. Cousins. Classmates. I learned how to do the whole cinema thing without parents intruding pretty darn quickly. Eventually, the only way my father was playing into the moviegoing experience was by dropping us off or picking us up at the Loews Mount Vernon or RKO Proctor's.

Until a few years later. When "The Godfather" came out. And became the absolute "must-see" movie across all sexes and age groups. It was Father's Day and my dad's birthday at the same time.  I offered to treat him to something.  Imagine my surprise when he blurted out his request.

"Let's go see The Godfather."

Uh-oh.

In previous years, such a suggestion from my father would have found me quickly putting on my jacket and running to the car like Maury Wills.

But not that day.

"Er, okay," I responded with a lump in my throat.

It was one thing for me to sit alongside my father in a darkened theater and watch "The Longest Day" or Jerry Lewis in "The Nutty Professor." That was a snap and the Milk Duds would easily slide down my gullet with those movies. But, "The Godfather." This was a relatively adult movie. Well-reviewed but certainly much more mature than "Operation Petticoat." And there was one very specific segment of the film that I really dreaded seeing on the big screen with my dad ensconced in the adjacent seat.

Page 23.

Mario Puzo's novel had already made the rounds of my neighborhood buddies. For us, reading that book was a rite of passage. More so than "Silas Marner" or "Last of the Mohicans."

And it was because of Page 23. The very start of the Corleone saga set at Connie's wedding. When Sonny Corleone takes one of the bridesmaids upstairs and violently...well, you know.

We knew all the words by heart. It was like sex education. Right there in front of us. On Page 23. It was raw. It was real. It was relentless. And easy to share with your pals up the street. But, in front of your father? That was one of those planets we didn't orbit ever in our household.

As I sat on the passenger side of our huge Buick LeSabre, I secretly hoped that Francis Ford Coppola had neglected to film that scene for the screen. But, from a friend who had already gone through his cinematic de-flowering, I knew it was there intact for all to see. Maybe the film would break. Perhaps a fire would break out in the smoking section of the theater right at the beginning of the movie. I hastily devised a plan to spend a lot of time in the bathroom for the first ten minutes of the film. Sorry, Dad, lunch didn't agree with me.

No such luck.

As soon as the first strains of Nino Rota's haunting theme, I was glued to the street. There would be no missing reel. No smoke. No imagined diarrhea. My eyes were riveted on the screen.

Page 23 comes very early in the movie. I avoided all side glances to my dad. I focused on the screen like I was reading an eye chart in the optometrist's office.

There was no sound or motion to the right of me. As quickly as James Caan had started the process up on the big screen, it was over. It was never discussed. Either then or later. My dad and I simply proceeded very nicely to the graphic murders, horse decapitations, and all the wonderful other fun that is "The Godfather."

My father and I never saw another movie together.

During his last years, the Father's Day/birthday celebrations got very simple.  All he wanted to do was go out to dinner.  Eventually, we even locked into the same location.  

A Victoria Station in Yonkers.  Famous for steak.  And, more importantly, for Dad?  

A fully-stocked salad bar.

I remember my dad's euphoria the first time he saw one.

"They have beets!"

"They have hot peppers!"

"German potato salad!!!"

This was all stuff my father used to buy regularly at a delicatessen on White Plains Road in the Bronx.  Now he was seeing it for the taking in an honest-to-God restaurant and he couldn't contain his excitement.

The hell with the steak.  Dad made three trips to the salad bar alone.

"Will they let me take a new plate?"

Of course.  They're chilled in the refrigerator.

"Chilled plates??!!"

This concept alone was equivalent to a polio vaccine for my father.

These were his later years.  And, conveniently, these very simple pleasures were his favorites.

Happy Father's Day today, Dad.  And, oh, yeah, happy birthday tomorrow.

Dinner last night:  BBQ Bacon Burger at Go Burger.

Classic TV Theme of the Month - June 2011

For Father's Day weekend, what did you expect?

Dinner last night:  The Dodger Stadium Club pre-game buffet.

Your Weekend Movie Guide for June 2011

"Mighty Joe Young!"  You'll gasp and gape!  Now that's a good movie to go see this weekend.

If the weekend is in 1949.  Because, here in 2011, there is absolute shit playing in the multiplexes.  Garbage tailored solely for the mindless twenty-year-old. 

You know the drill, folks.  I'll flip through the movie pages of the Los Angeles Times and I'll give you my knee-jerk and often gut-wrenching reaction to the swill Hollywood is shipping us this week.  The worst movie summer in history continues.

Green Lantern:  Ryan Reynolds as yet another super hero.  It's amazing how many of these guys there are.  The target audience loves their comic book characters who possess super powers.  Meanwhile, most of them are hardpressed to work a light switch.  From the trailer I saw, the computer special effects are getting cheesier and cheesier.

Mr. Popper's Penguins:  Jim Carrey's in it and I hope these things attack to kill.

X-Men First Class:  Clearly economy class.  Back of the plane.  Middle seat. 

Kung Fu Panda 2:  I actually know some adults who went to see this and they didn't bring children.  This is why, when updating my address book, I write names in pencil.

Thor:  For IQs 50 or lower.

Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer:  A kids movie and a pretty bad message to send.  Can the title be any worse grammar?

Bridesmaids:  They wonder why they're not married.

The Hangover Part II:  A shameful attempt at comedy.  Because blacking out from an overdose of liquor is a laugh riot.  A prime example of why the youth of America is completely fucked up.

Pirates of the Caribbean - On Stranger Tides:  The fourth installment and they ran out of plot right after the first splash when the ride opened up in the mid 60s.  Friends who got suckered in tell me this was the most boring movie they've seen in years.

The Tree of Life:  Pray for a forest fire.

Midnight in Paris:  Allegedly Woody Allen's best work in years.   The word of mouth is wildly divided between love and hate.  I will have to see it and decide for myself.

Super 8:  Reviewers say this Steven Spielberg-produced alien movie is reminiscent of his earliest work.  The days when he didn't rely on bloated special effects and an even more bloated Tom Hanks.  This is on my very small list of films to see.

The Art of Getting By:  George, a lonely and fatalistic teen who's made it all the way to his senior year without ever having done a real day of work, is befriended by Sally, a popular but complicated girl who recognizes in him a kindred spirit.  Supposedly this is a teen movie with a brain with British roots.  So that means no fart and penis jokes?

Queen of the Sun:  Investigates the mass disappearance of bees.  Has no buzz whatsoever.

Road to Nowhere:   A young filmmaker gets wrapped up in a crime while shooting his new project on location.  Len's rule of thumb:  If the title includes the word "nothing" or "nowhere," the film sucks.

City of Life and Death:  A dramatization of the rape of Nanking in 1937.  A multiple choice quiz and essay exam follow every screening.  Yawn.

Jig:  Documentary on the 40th Irish Dancing World Championships.  I'd even go see this instead of 'The Hangover Part 2." 

The Last Mountain:  A documentary about a coal mining corporation and a tiny community vie for the last great mountain in Appalachia in a battle for the future of energy that affects us all.  I usually see documentaries.  Bobby Kennedy Jr. and his liberal crackpot friends are involved in this.   I won't be seeing this one.

Women Art Revolution:   Through intimate interviews, provocative art, and rare, historical film and video footage, this feature documentary reveals how art addressing political consequences of discrimination and violence, the Feminist Art Revolution radically transformed the art and culture of our times.   Yeah, I won't be seeing this one either.

Beginners:  I'm hearing good things because this sounds like it was written with a brain.  A young man is rocked by two announcements from his elderly father: that he has terminal cancer, and that he has a young male lover.  The latter means that there will be very few Mormons in the audience.

Submarine:  Another teen movie from England, where the kids are much smarter than the dopes in America.   15-year-old Oliver Tate has two objectives: To lose his virginity before his next birthday, and to extinguish the flame between his mother and an ex-lover who has resurfaced in her life.  Hmm.  My only goal at that age was to win at Strat-O-Matic.

Dinner last night:  Spaghetti, garlic, tomatoes, and pancetta at Il Cielo.

Dear Commissioner Selig

Or can I call you "Bud?"  Maybe I should just address you the way I normally do.

"Shit for Brains."

I know that's a little harsh, but, let's face it, you've done a damn good job ruining the sport I've loved since I was seven years old.  I'd need an EXCEL spreadsheet with double letters in the columns to list all the ways you have completely fucked up the national pastime.

Looking the other way with steroids.

Expanding the playoffs so that Game 7 of the World Series could coincide with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Letting the McCourts buy the Dodgers and then allowing the franchise to twist in the wind.

I could go on and on, but, frankly, I'm not sure you can read in the first place.  You certainly didn't know how to run your own baseball team when you had one.  Come on, a regular tradition at Milwaukee Brewer baseball games is a sausage race. 

Even if you could read and sampled this blog every day, one thing you would learn about me is that I love sausage.  On a plate or a bun.  Not running around on a warning track.  But, I suppose this passes for entertainment in Milwaukee, home to people don't have the good sense to move out of a city where the high temperature for the year is 33 degrees.  You certainly deserve that franchise, Budster.  A town that considers individually wrapped cheese slices a delicacy.

But, I digress.  I'll pause for a second while you look up that word.  Okay?  Got it?  Let's move it along.

I'm now reading that you, in your finite wisdom, have another light bulb ablaze in that noodle of yours.  You want to even up the number of teams in each league.  This would require moving two franchises from the National League to the American League.

Finally!  Now you're cooking with gas, Bud.

I hear you're thinking about shifting teams like the Arizona Diamondbacks or the Houston Astros or the Florida Marlins.

Okay, you're on the right path, Bud.  Don't screw it up now.  Let me help you decide what to do here.  You're a flying donkey.  Let me see how long I can make you stay aloft.  Because you've got the wrong teams moving.  As a matter of fact, I have some ideas on which two franchises you can disband altogether.

Okay, okay, I can hear you now.  You're thinking I'm going to nominate the Brewers for extinction after those snarky comments I just made about your daily Hillshire Farms Derby.  Nope, not them.

And, no, I'm not talking the New York Yankees.  Or the San Francisco Giants, although I wouldn't exactly sneer if you put that loopy bearded closer of theirs, Brian Wilson, in front of a fully armed firing squad.   With that stupid Hasidic beard of his, you are virtually ignoring that the earliest sponsor of Major League Baseball in the 50s was Gillette. 

What kind of message is he for American youth?  Instead of dreaming about being a baseball player, one look at Wilson and some kid is liable to think he has a future in the Oklahoma City production of "Fiddler on the Roof."

But, I digress.  Remember that word?  We used it before.

Bud, I'm thinking about two franchises that have really lowered baseball standards to Captain Nemo-like depths.  Destroy them now and you and I will be squared for life.  No questions asked.

You can start with the Philadelphia Phillies.  Yep, yep, I know.  It's one of the oldest franchises in the majors.  Going back to Connie Mack and all that shit.  Yeah, yeah, I got it.

Destroy it.

First of all, based on the most detestable and stupid mascot in all of baseball, the Phillies need to disappear.  Anybody that finds the Phanatic even remotely funny also probably laugh at close-ups of Abe Zapruder's home movies.  Oh, look, there goes JFK's brain.  LOL. 

That's the real thing wrong about the Phillie franchise.  The fan base.  Perhaps the vilest and most disgusting in any sport.  Yeah, those creatures have sold out that ballpark for every game the past three seasons.  Big fucking deal.  What else is there to do in Philadelphia besides run up the Rocky steps or order extra onions for your cheesesteak hoagie?

Over the years, I've heard one horror story after another about how disgusting Phillie fans are.  Taunting women and small children with one obscenity after another.  All the focus has been on that fan beating in the Dodger Stadium parking lot.  Meanwhile, verbal assaults have been going on in the City of Brotherly Love since Johnny Callison was roaming the right field corner.

End this mayhem and kill this franchise please, Bud.  Blow up the stadium.  And, if you do it in the middle of Fan Appreciation Day, you get extra points from yours truly.

But, we're not done yet, Buddy boy.  I've got another team you can dump off the planet while you're at it.

The Colorado Rockies.

Yes, you heard me.  The Colorado Rockies.  One of the more recent and...greatest mistakes in franchise awards.  To a city that has virtually no business being included in Major League Baseball.

Because you regularly experience air bubbles in your head, you probably had no clue what that high altitude does to somebody's brain.  Let's face it, Denver is loaded with people who don't have the good sense to move because they no longer even know where they are.  Half the town still thinks that John Elway is the quarterback of the Denver Broncos.  Bottom line: none of these tools will miss a baseball team if it's gone.

That bizarro air in Colorado has created a mockery of the sport we love.  Even after storing the baseballs in a humidor, you still don't get balanced games.  All of a sudden, Jamie Carroll can look like Babe Ruth and Clayton Kershaw looks like Jerry Hinsley?  Who's Jerry Hinsley, you ask?  Exactly, I respond.

The beauty of baseball is in its even, balanced contests.  Impossible in Coors Field, where any games should be broadcast on the Military Channel.  I just finished watching the Dodgers play a series there and their bullpen was so taxed that they needed Ron Perranoski to come out of retirement and pitch out of a bases loaded jam.  Both teams ran out of pitchers and the games resembled mere shells of what they are supposed to be.

The sport should never have been allowed there in the first place.  Bud, I'm not sure you were responsible for the original decision.  But, you certainly could score points if you closed out baseball in Denver.

Look what else that would happen if you did that.  We'd get to say goodbye to the second dumbest team mascot in all of baseball.

Does anybody even know what this thing is?  Except that it prances around the ballpark like it's in a Gay Pride Parade on steroids.  And, during the bottom of the seventh inning every game, it sits behind the home plate screen and taunts the opposing pitcher.  A charming example of poor sportsmanship.  I am waiting patiently for the Rockies to institute "High Powered Rifle Day."  The 25,000 fans get a round of bullets and a scope.  First one to splatter this thing all over the outfield gets a $100 gift card from the Sports Authority.

Okay, Bud, I'm anticipating your attention span, so let's review again.  Philadelphia Phillies?  They need to go.  The Colorado Rockies?  See ya.

See how easy that was.

Of course, given your track record, I have about as much faith in you making the right decision as I do in Ramon Troncoso getting anybody out ever.

That's right.  Neither are going to happen anytime soon.

Sincerely,
Len Speaks

Dinner last night:  Risotto with chicken, sweet potatoes, and peas.