Monday Morning Video Laugh - October 31, 2011

It's Halloween, so what do you expect??  Let's enjoy this clip from "The Munsters."



Dinner last night:  BLT sandwich at Cafe 50s Diner.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Game 6

For Mets fans, there were really two Game 6s during the 1986 baseball post season.  There was the extra innings affair that propelled them to the World Series for the first time since 1973.  But, as invested as we all were in the outcome of that game, it happened miles away.  In an Astro-turfed mausoleum otherwise known as the Houston Astrodome.

But, it was Game 6 of the 1986 World Series that still resounds to this very day.  As long as I live and breathe and continue to be a baseball fan, there will never ever be another game that will be as important or exciting as that Saturday contest of Saturday, October 25 at Shea Stadium.  Indeed, since it didn't really end until after midnight, both October 25 and October 26 are two dates I will always remember for the rest of my life.

Fittingly, I was in Boston last week on the 25th anniversary of this hallmark moment in my life.  Looking around the streets of Beantown, I could only imagine the scene two and a half decades previously.  Boston Red Sox fans walking around like zombies.  A lifelong memory for them snatched away in a Brinks-like heist that will stay with them for complete different reasons.  Even after their subsequent World Series victories in 2004 and 2007, those buffoons of Fenway will likely never recover from being one strike away from a World Championship.  Not once, not twice, but multiple times.

In the winning wind tunnel to the south on Flushing Bay, it was all cherries on top 0f 56,000 hot fudge sundaes.

For me, it was a night like no others.

The images and details are etched forever.  Almost certain elimination.  A premature message on Diamondvision that saluted the Boston Red Sox as the 1986 World Champions.  Two quick mortifying outs in the bottom of the tenth inning.  A hit by Gary Carter.  A hit by Kevin Mitchell.  A hit by Ray Knight.  A wild pitch.  And then Mookie Wilson and Bill Buckner interlocking together for eternity.  The Mets rising from the dead.  Suddenly, to some of us, the story of Jesus and Lazarus was a little less impressive.

I am proud to say I was there.  I can still feel the concrete floor of the loge level of Shea Stadium move.  We were all lifted up and down perhaps a half inch.  The arena was clearly in play.  The construction folks who built the place in the early 60s had done their work admirably.  While Shea held together that night, I doubt the building crew had counted on the old lady having to endure October 25/26.

For Met fans, this was our V-E day.

That Saturday morning had opened to dreary skies.  It befit the mood of this Met fan.  After a glorious year of one victory after another, the Amazins were one loss away from losing the World Series.  I went about my weekend errands, although my stomach was in knots.

There was even more drama to deal with...

My mother's television set had gone on the fritz.

Mystically, my mom had become a huge Met fan.  I don't know how or why she started to watch the team's games on Channel 9, but she got sucked in primarily because she loved then-Met announcer Tim McCarver.  Within weeks, she had drank the Kool-Aid.  And now, with the most pivotal game of the season at hand, her television had blown a gasket.

So, my pre-game Saturday afternoon was devoted to taking her to one of those Rent-A-Centers so she could lease a TV for the week.

Back then, as had been the case for years that passed and even more years to come, I had been a Saturday ticket plan holder with the New York Metropolitans.  That, however, didn't secure entrance to every post season baseball game.  And, if it did, I certainly didn't get my usual Loge seats in Section 7, Row E.  Nope, you would be sent to the heavens, a Delta jet flight path, or, most likely, the upper deck of Shea Stadium.

Game 6 of the World Series was not one of the games I was provided with that year.  As a matter of fact, during a pre-game walk around the level, I saw that my regular Saturday seats were occupied by none other than NBC's 1986 World Series pre-game host Bob Costas.  What a come-down for my Saturday seat.  There was a different ass in it.  Literally and figuratively.

But, at least, I was in the park myself.  Luckily, I had the good sense to be best friends with my college roommate, who had the even better sense to become a sportswriter with the New York Times.  He had already scored me ducats for Game 3 which happened to be my one and only visit to the overrated dump that is Fenway Park.  But, my good fortune had continued at home as he also got me a Loge seat down the left field line for Game 6.

The only problem was that I didn't really know well the other folks I was sitting with.  Sure, my college roommate's wife was along, but who were those other two people?  One was a kid and this evening appeared to be not more than a time filler for him.  His ride was even coming to pick him up after the seventh inning.  I was an emotional mess and I was essentially alone.

Over the years, I had many good friends who were Met fans and would have been ideal companions for such a monumental game.  My best friend from high school?  At least, he was in the park but sitting with his cousin and her neighbors on the other end of the Loge.  But, where were my other Met cohorts?

Sadly, elsewhere.

Not that these folks weren't congenial.  It's just that they weren't Danny or the Bibster or Glenn or Bob or even my dad.  They would be in other locations, but ultimately sharing in the same memory.  For instance, here's what college buddy Bob writes:

We were living 15 minutes away from Shea in Astoria, watching Game 6 with my friends in their house. When Gary Carter was down 2 strikes with 2 out, my friend Dan grabbed a clothesline, tied it around his neck, stood on a chair, holding the rope above his head. He pronounced: "When Carter makes out kick out the chair from under me." Of course Carter then singles and the Mets rally and the rest is history.

My friend Dan never moved the rest of that inning, right through Buckner's error, holding the rope tied around his neck, standing on the chair, saying nothing while watching the Mets pull it out. We were convinced that it was Dan's actions that changed the Red Sox mojo and saved the Mets. Absolutely true story.My memories are not nearly as interesting, as no one near me made such a threat as Bob's friend did.

My other college pal Glenn?  He remembers and writes...

Ah yes...I remember it like it was last night!

I was watching it from my co-op apartment on Garth Road in Scarsdale, a place not conducive to wild celebrations, or celebratory comments of any kind, lest you were reported for speaking above a whisper. My wife was fast asleep, and had complained of a headache intermittently from inning one through eight...a headache that has persisted, by the way, for the ensuing 25 years.

I remember being particularly annoyed the Mets didn't get more out a no-out, bases loaded situation in the eighth inning. The screaming Gary Carter liner sacrifice fly, I thought, should have, with any luck, been a bases clearing double. As the bottom of the 10th inning began, I was resigned to loss, but since the Islanders had recently won four consecutive Cups, I was not nearly as unnerved by that as I became in later years, not having rooted for a winning team since, well, the '86 Mets. After the game was tied, I yanked my sleeping three-year old son out of bed because I thought history might be made. He doesn't remember. I do. Unfortunately, so does my wife.

Despite the way it sounds, Glenn is still married to this day.

And what about those in the press box?  My college roommate and the source for my Game 6 tickets writes...

My most vivid memory is the complaining of Darryl Strawberry for being taken out in a late double switch. People in that clubhouse were giggling and hugging all around as if the governor had just called with a reprieve, and Darryl was complaining.

I defer to my friend Kenny Hand, who was covering the Series as a columnist for the Houston Post. He remembered the night as one of the worst of his career. Not because the Mets won, but because the chaos at such a late hour had turned his column into a mess.

Much later, he was standing outside the old Press Gate between Gates B and C, waiting for a shuttle bus that may or may not come to take him to the media hotel in Manhattan. Two guys were standing nearby. Kenny referred to them as Lenny and Squiggy.

Lenny saw a bumper sticker on Kenny's computer that said "Houston Post."

"Houston?" Lenny said. "We moidered those guys."

That's when Kenny snapped. He pointed out that he didn't root for the Astros, and frankly, there were some guys on that team that he did not like very much. But if Bob Knepper had taken care of business in the ninth inning of Game 6, Kenny said, Mike Scott would have finished the job the next day. Kenny described this in a way that he could not have printed in his newspaper. Think of a blunt object being placed in a small, dark place.

"And then, we're not standing here," Kenny told them.

"You know, " Squiggy said to Lenny, "I think he's right."

My good friend, the Bibster, was at home for Game 6 with his wife, Mrs. Bibster.  He also was a partial plan holder with the Mets, but he didn't have the inside ticket connections that I did.  Instead, he was sharing in the agony via the television.

It’s not very interesting, but as far as I can recall I was watching the game with Ellen in our living room (and by “With Ellen” I mean she was reading a magazine or two and getting up and down and doing things in the other room).

I remember a feeling of dread as the game went on.  The Red Sox jumped out to an early lead and the Mets tied it, also fairly early. Even the way they tied it, an unearned run scoring on a double play, made me nervous. The Red Sox took the led in the seventh and, if I remember correctly, Jim Rice was thrown out at home to end the inning, or it could have been 4-2 Red Sox.

I was very nervous again. Then the Mets were down to their last five outs and they tied it in the eighth. I was STILL nervous…the Mets had the bases loaded with one out in the 8th and Carter and Strawberry coming up, and they only scored the one run. It seemed that all season long they had been busting out in that situation, scoring at least a couple. And then when the Mets had runners at first and second with nobody out in the bottom of the ninth and didn’t score, I was sure they had wasted too many late inning opportunities in the game.

In the tenth, Henderson’s homer sent a complete feeling of numbness over me, so much so that I had to look up the game to remember how the Red Sox got their fifth run. I wouldn’t have remembered if my life depended on it. (For the record, after Henderson’s homer, Aguilera struck out Owen and Schiraldi, but then gave up a double to Boggs, a single to Barrett, and hit Buckner with a pitch before Rice flied out. I swear to you I don’t remember ANY of that.)

In the bottom of the tenth, I had regained a slight bit of confidence, having lived through many innings that year where the Backman/Hernandez/Carter trio leading off an inning had led to boatloads of runs. But Backman couldn’t get around on Schiraldi, and Keith hit the ball about as hard as he could, but it died in the outfield. At this point I was resigned to the loss and felt like the season was a waste (You know, kind of like Yankee fans feel every time they don’t win the World Series). My next thought was “too bad Carter is going to make the last out.”

We all know how the rest of the game went….and all I can say is that Ellen will tell you that I let out a blood-curdling scream when the ball went through Buckner’s legs. I don’t remember it at all because I think all the blood had drained from my head by then, but I assume it was a noise similar to the last sound Muammar Qaddafi made. Anyway, the next thing I knew I was running through the house at full speed, jumping up and down, you know the drill.

It was definitely the lowest low I’ve ever felt in sports followed just minutes later by the highest high. It was also amazing how my mood changed because in game seven even when the Mets were down 3-0 in the sixth inning I knew they would win.

As the Bibster writes, the entire season was like this and the post season games had given us more than a couple of reasons to celebrate wildly.  Indeed, for the Bibster and Ellen, their son was born exactly nine months after the Mets' 1986 October.  We've always wondered just which Met win that month had precipitated their own "personal" celebration.

But, I digress....

Meanwhile, in the bottom of the tenth in my Loge section, I had the same thought as the Bibster.  And uttered it over and over and over.  I didn't care if I sounded like a babbling fool.  After all, it wasn't like I had a lot of close friends around me.

"Please don't let Gary Carter make the last out."

That worked somehow.

I carried it over, although I didn't have the same affinity for Kevin Mitchell as I did for Carter.

"Please don't let Kevin Mitchell make the last out."

And that worked, too.  I didn't mess with a good thing.

"Please don't let Ray Knight make the last out.  Please don't let Ray Knight make the last out.  PLEASE DON'T LET RAY KNIGHT MAKE THE LAST OUT."

I sounded like one of those lunatics in Bellevue.  Slumped over in a fetal position and reciting over and over the lyrics to "A Spoonful of Sugar."

Knight also did not make the last out.

Okay, now I was on a mission.  Despite the fact there were 56,000 people (and countless others at home) around me with the same goal, I became convinced that I was single handedly spearheading this miraculous comeback.  I couldn't go off the standard operating procedure now.  Plus I was worried about my high school best friend Danny who was over in the Loge around third base.  What must he be thinking?  His very favorite New York Met was at the plate to hit next.

"PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT.  PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT.  PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT. PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT.  PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT. PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT. PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT. PLEASE DON'T LET MOOKIE WILSON MAKE THE LAST OUT."

To this very day, nobody really made the last out that night.

I was numb for the first few moments after the game.  The human body is not equipped to handle two wildly diverse emotions in the same ten minute period.  When my mind finally "woke up,"  I immediately had to share this emotion with a good friend...and a Met fan.  I didn't realize that my buddy Danny on the other end of the loge had the same sensation.  From the right field corner, I scampered down to the loge corridor and started running toward his end.  He did the same.  We converged around Section 1 behind home plate. 

And two grown men hugged for about five minutes.

I look back on that evening and postseason and I remember now what the Mets did for me in October 0f 1986.  The month before, I had broken off a relationship.  Well, I broke it off.  She essentially dumped me.  Not that this was the great love of my life.  But, still, the residual aches of a guy with inner turmoil and self-doubt had lingered.

The pain all dulled and virtually erased by the New York Mets.  Yes, it all evaporated in almost a blink of the eye.

"Behind the bag, it gets through Buckner..."


Dinner last night:  Steak frites at Palomino.

Twenty Five Years Ago Last Week

My greatest moments ever in a baseball stadium.  More memories to come tomorrow.


Dinner last night:  Pasta with sausage and cherry tomatoes.

If I Tweeted - October 2011

I don't.  But, if I did, this is what I would have wrote this month.

#LenSpeaks  Am I the only one who thinks that new Martin Luther King monument in Washington DC looks like what they did to Han Solo at the end of "Empire Strikes Back?"

#LenSpeaks  Sean Penn is talking about the Tea Party being racist.  Susan Sarandon says the Pope is a Nazi.  I guess their movie should have been called "Brain Dead People Talking."

#LenSpeaks  Does anybody really care about the political opinions of a celebrity?  

#LenSpeaks  I love that Ann Coulter called those slobs protesting on Wall Street "the Flea Party."

#LenSpeaks  They're "occupying" Wall Street.  Most have done nothing in their lives except "occupy" their mothers' basements.  

#LenSpeaks  Now that Gaddafi is dead, how long before he gets his own show on MSNBC?

#LenSpeaks  Can we finally pin down the correct spelling of the Libyan dictator's name?  There are like 109 variations in the press.

#LenSpeaks  Possible courtroom irony:  Lindsay Lohan, working in the morgue, perhaps dealing with some of Dr. Conrad Murray's dead patients.

#LenSpeaks  Hey, Aretha Franklin, I know you're sick and all, but that didn't even remotely sound like the National Anthem. Hasn't the city of Detroit endured enough? 

#LenSpeaks  I saw "9-9-9" in the press and I thought it was an unassisted triple play by a rightfielder.

#LenSpeaks  Can the press stop with the stupid headlines about Herman Cain?  "Cain Raises in Polls."  "Herman Tries to Prove Cain is Able."  Please make them stop.

#LenSpeaks  Is there anything more stupid than the "bye week" during the NFL season?  Indeed, the National Football League always seems to get a "bye" when it comes to being shown as greedy in the media.

#LenSpeaks  Who made the rule that newspaper puzzles had to be easiest on Mondays and hardest on Fridays?  Please let me know.

#LenSpeaks  The liver-spotted mess that is Morgan Freeman is another one of those actors who needs to keep his big bazoo shut about politics.  A year without seeing his ugly mug in a movie trailer?  That would be on my bucket list.

#LenSpeaks  The guy that killed Gaddafi was wearing a Yankee hat.  If a Phillie fan had gotten a hold of the dictator, he would have been dead three years ago.

#LenSpeaks  President Obama makes another fundraising visit to Los Angeles and destroys traffic across the street.  Usually, this is called a Sig Alert.  What can we call it now?  Wink wink.

#LenSpeaks  Go to Texas and people hate Rick Perry.  Go to Massachusetts and people hate Mitt Romney.  What does that say to you?

#LenSpeaks  I wonder if Cardinal manager Tony LaRussa gets paid by the pitching change.

#LenSpeaks  Since when do hotels not put out writing pads and pens?  How cheap can you get?

#LenSpeaks  I was in Boston 25 years to the day that the Red Sox imploded against the Mets in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.  To commemorate the event, I will walk the street aimlessly like a zombie.

#LenSpeaks  While in LA, Obama got takeout food from Roscoe's Chicken N'Waffles.  Please insert your own joke here.

#LenSpeaks  That last line should be in a book that shows how to write the most perfect cliche.

#LenSpeaks  I thought the President's battle ax said we have to eat healthy.  Roscoe's is a heart attack with gravy.

#LenSpeaks   I passed by Occupy Boston.  Jerks in tents.  The way these protests will stop?  Snow and overnight temps below 32 degrees.

Dinner last night:  I was on a plane so a turkey sandwich courtesy of Boston's American Airlines Admirals Club.

Morons of the Month - October 2011

This Target shopper underneath her Foster Grants happens to be the First Lady of the land, Michelle Obama.  This photo circulated a few weeks back and got plenty of play in the lamestream media.  Here you have one of the biggest people in America and she, too, likes her private moments picking through the sale items and throwing them into her Target shopping cart.  After all, it is a tough economy these days.

 
Uh huh.

Now, let me be clear here from the get go.  I am not nominating Mrs. Obama as my special moron this month.  To be sure, I am not a fan of her.  I don't buy a single ounce of what she is portrayed to be.  From people I know who actually did work with her directly in Chicago, I have been assured that she is not a nice person.  Well, actually, the word I heard several times was...."bitch."

So, for the purposes of today's entry, bitch, yes,  But, moron?  No.

Indeed, in an odd way, Michelle is really a genius.  She clearly knows her audience.  And it's that very special group of idiots that I am "saluting" today. 

The morons this month are any of you out there who actually bought into the authenticity of this photo.

Come on, guys.  Do you really, really, really believe that the First Lady slips out to Target and picks up a few items for those two ragamuffins that slipped down her birth canal? 

Really???

Well, that's what the media wanted you to believe.  It was depicted that this photo was taken candidly.  She was trying to be incognito.  And, oops, somebody just happened to have a camera handy.  Mrs. Obama was out-ed.  As a homemaker who, in this troubling economy, is in quest of a bargain just like you and me.

Bullshit.

Frankly, this whole sequence had to be carefully staged.  I am betting this Alexandria, Virginia Target was swept by the Secret Service several times the week before Mrs. Obama's "impromptu" visit to pick up new Fruit of the Loom undies for the girls.  I would imagine there were extensive security interviews of all personnel scheduled to work that day.  Just checking to make sure that Cashier on Register #8 wasn't part of any right wing organizations and had never been convicted of a hate crime.  For all I know, the whole store may have been on lockdown so that Michelle could easily zip down the toiletry aisle and get that Modess tampon starter set for her eldest daughter.

Yeah, this was about as spontaneous as the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Yet, the media news outlets swallowed this hook, line...and stinker.  One more opportunity to portray the First Family as your typical, everyday, super-ordinary American household.  Trying to make ends meet. 

Bullshit again.

Whether you like it or not, folks, you are being played.  Every day and in every way.  By the politicians on both sides of the aisle.  Snake oil sales people who want you to think that they feel your pain.  They have your back.  They hold your best interest closely to their hearts.

P.S., they don't.  Each one is just as elitist as the next one.  They have no clue how you live or what you need to do to keep your family clothed and fed.  To portray them as anything but is pure folly.

I remember a similar fraud years ago.  When Geraldine Ferraro became the first female to be nominated for Vice President, I recall how the media tried to position her.  She was shown in newspaper photos clipping super market coupons.  Hey, she has to watch her pennies just like us.  Ooooh, 25 cents off on Bounty towels.  Snip, snip.

I remember being thoroughly insulted by this display.  Here was a woman whose family was loaded.  Some money earned legitimately.  Other cash coming in through the mob ties her swindler of a husband had pulled down.  But, oh, no, we're not rich.  We're just like you and I.

Well,  so much for that.  Ferraro croaked and has been carted out feet first, the economy is still a drain, and political hacks are still trying to dupe their audience with photos like the one that adorns today's blog.  Indeed, every snapshot like this must be viewed with several pounds of salt.  Because, sadly and realistically, none of it is real.

Surprised?

Dinner last night:  Chicken ala Romana at Strega on Boston's waterfront.

This Date in History - October 26

Take a vowel, Pat Sajak.  It's your special day.

306:  MARTYRDOM OF SAINT DEMETRIUS OF THESSALONIKI.

He's a martyr for one day.  I know some people who have been pulling that shit for years.

1597:  DURING THE IMJIN WAR, ADMIRAL YI SUN-SIN ROUTS THE JAPANESE NAVY OF 300 SHIPS WITH ONLY 13 SHIPS.

300 vs. 13?  Talk about your Vegas odds.  Meanwhile, Sun-Sin sounds like a cheap casino on the Strip.

1689:  GENERAL PICCOLOMINI OF AUSTRIA BURNED DOWN SKOPJE TO PREVENT THE SPREAD OF CHOLERA.  HE DIED OF CHOLERA HIMSELF SOON AFTER.

A tragic waste of lighter fluid.

1774:  THE FIRST CONTINENTAL CONGRESS ADJOINS IN PHILADELPHIA.

They sure must have talked a lot because they didn't come up with anything concrete until two years later.

1775:  KING GEORGE III GOES BEFORE PARLIAMENT TO DECLARE THE AMERICAN COLONIES IN REBELLION, AND AUTHORIZED A MILITARY RESPONSE TO QUELL THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

Too late, because they're already talking this up in Philly.

1776:  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN DEPARTS FROM AMERICA FOR FRANCE ON A MISSION TO SEEK FRENCH SUPPORT FOR THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

Don't count on those scumbags for anything.

1811:  THE ARGENTINE GOVERNMENT DECLARES THE FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION FOR THE PRESS BY DECREE.

So does that mean no more firing squads???

1825:  THE ERIE CANAL OPENS FOR PASSAGE FROM ALBANY, NEW YORK TO LAKE ERIE.

Neither one is a preferred desitnation for me.

1861:  THE PONY EXPRESS OFFICIALLY CEASES OPERATIONS.

And, in 2012, there may go the Post Office as well.

1881:  THE GUNFIGHT AT THE OK CORRAL TAKES PLACE AT TOMBSTONE, ARIZONA.

Oh?  So this was more than just a movie?

1914:  ACTOR JACKIE COOGAN IS BORN.

Uncle Fester!!!

1936:  THE FIRST ELECTRIC GENERATOR AT HOOVER DAM GOES INTO FULL OPERATION.

That has to be one long extension cord.

1943:  DURING WW II. THERE IS THE FIRST FLIGHT OF "PFEIL."

I have no idea what this is.  Except Bobby Pfeil was a utility infielder for the 1969 New York Mets and the guy who didn't make their post season roster.

1946:  GAME SHOW HOST PAT SAJAK IS BORN.

H_pp_  B_rt__y.

1947:  ACTRESS JACLYN SMITH IS BORN.

The birth of an angel...

1947:  HILLARY RODHAM CLINTON IS BORN.

...and a devil.

1948:  KILLER SMOG SETTLES INTO DONORA, PENNSYLVANIA.

Who knew there was that much traffic in Donora, Pennsylvania?

1952:  ACTRESS HATTIE MCDANIEL DIES.

Really, really gone with the wind.

1955:  NGO DINH DIEM DECLARES HIMSELF PREMIER OF SOUTH VIETNAM.

He is paid on a "per diem" basis.

1958:  PAN AM MAKES THE FIRST COMMERCIAL FLIGHT OF THE BOEING 707 FROM NEW YORK TO PARIS.

A now defunct airline and a soon-to-be-defunct television show.

1967:  MOHAMMED REZA PAHLAVI CROWNS HIMSELF EMPEROR OF IRAN.

Sort of like when you're playing checkers and somebody says "king me."

1984:  BABY FAE RECEIVES A HEART TRANSPLANT FROM A BABOON.

And they wonder why the kid is now climbing trees.

1986:  GAME SEVEN OF THE 1986 WORLD SERIES IS RAINED OUT.  I GO WITH THE BIBSTERS TO PIPER'S KILT FOR A BURGER.

If you don't get that reference, no worries.  It's written for an audience of one.

1994:  JORDAN AND ISRAEL SIGN A PEACE TREATY.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Peace in the Mideast.  Ha!

2001:  THE UNITED STATES PASSES THE USA PATRIOT ACT INTO LAW.

It's still not a fence.

Dinner last night:  Beef with broccoli at Q in Boston's Chinatown.

End of an Era?

Here's the scene last Saturday at the Grove of Anaheim as the legendary Don Rickles skewers some schmuck who had the bad/good fortune of sitting in the front row.  

Let me be clear from the get-go.  I have always loved Don Rickles.  From his days on the Tonight Show.  For Pete's sake, I had his record album called "Hello, Dummy" and I remember listening to it endlessly when I was a kid.  I've been privileged to see him perform multiple times over the years, mostly recently at this very same place just three years ago.

And this is why I am pained to write that last weekend's show just might be the last time I enjoy Don Rickles in person.  Sadly, gang, we're at that point in time.  Nothing and nobody are forever.  And I'm afraid that includes Mr. Warmth himself.

But, let's first dig into the bizarro venue that is the Grove of Anaheim which is mystically nestled in the far corner of the Angels Stadium parking lot.  I saw Don there in 2008 and, not knowing what to expect, I bought in the whole nine yards.  A supper club-like motif and I got suckered into a full-blown meal which was incredibly overpriced.  Is this what Mert and Marge from Michigan suffer through in Vegas?  For them, this might be fancy eats when compared to their usual big evening out at the local Sizzler. 

Back when, I wrote about my earlier Grove experience.  I reread that blog post and suffered through it all over again.  The waiter who disappeared for such long stretches that even milk cartons would have given up on him.  The dinner bill that included items and drinks that were served at other tables perhaps in other restaurants.  And the fact that we were ignored so long that we actually bussed the dirty dishes off our table all by ourselves.

Yeah, it was that glorious.  And, as I concluded that blog piece, I wrote that I would be happy to see Don Rickles in the Grove again.  Provided I eat ahead of time.

So, that was the plan last weekend.  Eat ahead of time...and elsewhere.  Except some gnarly traffic on the 5 Freeway turned the hour drive into two.  Okay, let's eat afterwards.  Let's just sit at our assigned table, have a smart cocktail, and wait for the laughs.

The only problem we had fallen once again into the waiters' edition of the Bermuda Triangle.  As we sat and longed for an adult beverage, folks around us were addressed, served, and acknowledged as human beings.   I suddenly felt like George and Marian Kirby from the old "Topper" TV series.

Except us.  There was no eye contact ever made with anybody holding a tray.  I wanted to lie down on the floor and act like one of those spike strips the cops lay down on the road to stop some criminal's getaway car.  Hello?  I realize that I look infinitely more classy than some of the other Orange County denizens around me.  But who the hell do I have to blow to get a gin and tonic in this place?

Well, apparently, even that was not an option.  I simply walked out to the bar in the lobby and fetched the cocktails myself. 

Naturally, in this Vegas-like show, we had the requisite opening act.  In this case, the "kid" getting the big break from Don Rickles was some "definitely nobody looking to be a semi-somebody" called Tony DeSare.    A little bit Sinatra, a little bit Michael Buble, and a whole lot of Liberace as he played some of his own music on the piano.

Tony was talented, inoffensive, and ultimately forgettable.  For the most part, the main function of these opening acts is to get you some background music that will accompany you and your party as you try to figure what are the wrong items on your dinner bill.  That is provided you even had been served anything in the first place.  Niftily, we didn't have that issue as we listened to Tony DeSare.  Oh, wait, he just mentioned this song is from his first CD.  Does that really mean there's more than one?

To the ominous strains of the worst gladiator movie you can ever see, Don Rickles made his triumphant entrance.  At the age of 85, he no longer bounds onstage.  Now he shuffles, toddles, and, with a stoop and a slouch more commonly seen in nursing homes and bocce courts, barely manages.

Indeed, his posture and gait was no different three years ago.  But, back then, his arrival was followed by a frenetic fifteen minutes of the most hilarious verbal artillery ever.  He even walked through the audience himself, looking to attack the Negro, the Pollock, the Mexican, and the Chinaman.  Yes, only Don Rickles can get away with such political incorrectness.

But, this time around, there was no foray into the wilds of the front rows.  He stayed onstage and pretty much waddled from one end to another.  Oh, sure, the salvos were being fired and most hit their marks.  But, to me, there was a level of energy missing.  Sure, you can get from here to there in a four cylinder vehicle, but Don was always at least cruising at six and sometimes eight.  He was working harder, but getting just a little less on the results side.

One of his usual pieces of shtick is to drop the microphone down on the stage as a sign of indignation.   He still does this, but now, in a running gag, he motions to his bandleader to come and pick it up off the floor.  He makes a joke out of the fact that he likely can't bend over.  But, indeed, he probably can't. 

Meanwhile, Don repeated a lot of the exact bits from the last performance three years ago.  They still work, yes.  But, having seen Joan Rivers recently still peppering her act with new and timely material, I expected just a soupcon more from Rickles.  Clearly, regardless of the sameness of it all, the audience was just happy to be there.  And, from my vantage point, so was Don Rickles. 

In 2008, there were celebrities in the mix.  Okay, B-listers like Jack Klugman and John Stamos, but, at least, they were there.  Last Saturday, Don read off his roster of guests in the house.  Who is that?  And who is that?  And what was that name?  The only one I recognized was the goofy LA Times sports columnist T.J. Simers who would show up for mass genocide if there was a salad bar included.

I exited the Grove amused and a little sad.  I know Don wants to work, but perhaps it is one day too many.   Personally, I would also like to remember him the way he was.  With Johnny Carson.  Or at the Westchester Premier Theater in Tarrytown or the Westbury Music Fair.  The memories of fun that will last a lifetime. 

But who knows?  Maybe I'll read about another Grove appearance scheduled for a year or two from now.  And I'd likely be moved to go again.  Or, perhaps, it's best to remember when. 

Yes, I don't know if I will see Don Rickles again.  I can tell you, with certainty, that I'm not likely to be served by a waiter at the Grove of Anaheim.  Ever.

Dinner last night:  Macaroni and cheese.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - October 24, 2011

This is particularly hilarious because Harry Belafonte has been such a big mouthed asshole for years.  Wake up!!


Dinner last night: Spinach salad with chicken, peppers, chick peas, and olives.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - In My Room

The trilogy of my childhood play areas concludes with a visit to my room for almost twenty years, save for two that were spent in a Fordham University dorm apartment.

Take a gander at this vintage toy chest.  It wasn't mine.  The one that occupied my room had the Three Little Pigs on it.  Now imagine that in the room of a high school senior.

Inexplicable?

Yep, that was my room on Fifteenth Avenue in Mount Vernon, New York.  Decorated with a five-year-old in mind and it never deviated away from that age.  Hopelessly trapped in time.  

While my neighborhood and school chums visited, we played, of course, in the basement or the cellar.  They never saw my room.  The pre-school decor had something to do with it.  I may have been closing in on puberty, but my bedroom was trapped somewhere around the years of my baby teeth.  How could I possibly put up an adult front with that confounded toy chest.  And the chest of drawers that also screamed "don't wake the baby."

The other reason why I accepted no visitors was equally as simple.  There was no room.  Because, as childhood bedrooms go, mine was more like a walk-in closet.  These days, a condo owner might crave a room of this size.  Ideal for clothes storage right off the master suite.  For me, this pinhole of a room was where I slept, did my homework, watched TV, and played my record player.  Anne Frank had more space in that Amsterdam attic.

I guess I should have figured that I would always be an only child.  There was absolutely no place else to house another kid.  Once my room was loaded with the bed, the chest of drawers, the toy chest, the little table and chair, and ultimately the portable TV, I could barely get in there without moving sideways.  Realistically, I should have upgraded to larger quarters by the time I was ten.  But, go where?

I had a brilliant idea.  Have Dad finally finish off the walls in the attic and I could set up my own apartment up there.

"There's no insulation or heat.  You'll freeze to death."

Oh.  As opposed to be mortified on a daily basis as my first sight on a waking high school morning was the Three Little Pigs cavorting on my toy chest?  I'll take the slow route to eternal reward, thank you very much.

For a few early years, the tall chest of drawers held on top my first ever pet.  A goldfish bowl which was the home of, you guessed it, Goldie the goldfish.  Cleverness, like puberty, had still not arrived in my home.  But Goldie had and he/she swam happily around every day.  My job, of course, was to to feed him/her.  One day, I accidentally dumped a whole container of fish food into the bowl.  It wasn't long before Goldie resembled Jackie Gleason.  This was not a viable option.  In my room, there was clearly no way something could grow any bigger.

One morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a raspy voice.  Your typical childhood cold.  But, wait.  As she was taking the requisite temperature, Mom noticed that Goldie was not in the bowl.  

My mother looked at me.  I obviously had something in my throat.  For a brief moment, she considered the almost impossible.  Had Goldie somehow jumped out of the bowl and dive bombed into my mouth while I was asleep?  Implausible?  Well, in my room, that would not have been such a tough distance for the goldfish to travel.

The mystery was solved about a week later.  Mom was dusting in my room.  She rolled away the chest of drawer and found Goldie, stiff as a board, stuck on the baseboard.  Dead.  So, the fish had tried to make an escape.  

If only I could...

It wasn't long before I had even less space in the room.  Toys and games needed to be stored someplace.  Luckily, I had a nifty closet which wound up as the recipient of Chutes N' Ladders, Easy Money, Art Linkletter's Game of Life, and my Jerry Mahoney dummy.  As years went by and I needed the closet space for, gasp, clothes, everything was crammed so tightly in there that I didn't dare to try and remove a thing.  Fibber McGee had nothing on my closet.

My bed was nestled next to the wall and, as I grew taller, my feet got further and further off the edge of the mattress.  Over my headboard was a picture of Jesus.  Even he couldn't overlook the absurdity of this cubbyhole.  And they thought Harry Potter had it bad under the stairs.

Inside the toy chest, I kept endless supplies of every Colorforms play set ever created.  Eventually, even that was full.  When I finally scored my own portable television, the toy chest was almost permanently closed for business as it needed to act as my TV stand.  It was important that the chest not be moved one inch.  I had, in pretty short order, busted off the portable TV's antenna and it had to be propped up against the closet door jamb so I could watch Get Smart without a blizzard of snow around it.

One common ritual in my room was the closing of the door, so I could have some private time with my record player.  Along with the usual Beatles albums of the day, I played to death both the soundtracks of "Bye, Bye Birdie" as well as "The Music Man."  Even with very little room to move, I could still perfectly act out every gesture and note of "Ya Got Trouble."  In my River City, the town square was no larger than about twelve square feet.  

Another daily event during the school year was my own personal alarm clock.  No, not the traditional kind.  My mother would kept up and walk into the kitchen down the hall.   She would unchain my dog, Tuffy, who would probably scamper down to my room, jump on my bed, and then promptly leave.

Good morning, world.  Even the dog didn't want to spend too much time in my crawlspace.

My parents finally were convinced of my age and realized that I needed a more "adult" place to do homework.  They got me a "space saving" and allegedly modern metal desk that was held up by two poles that stretched from floor to ceiling.    It also had some extra shelves that could be attached between the two poles.  It wasn't long before I had overloaded them as well.  And, frankly, the desk was so cramped that I continued to do my homework on the kitchen table.

The desk and shelves never looked particularly sturdy and I always eyed it suspiciously from my bed.  One morning, my thoughts of caution were validated.

Around 630AM, I was awakened by a creak.  Where had this come from?

Creak again.

Huh?  I looked up.

Creak, creak, creak....

And, suddenly, the desk, shelves, and all of its contents keeled over as the two metal poles gave way.  It all tilted forward.

Onto my bed.  With me in it.

It gave me the perfect excuse to clean my room.  That would be the only way I could get out of bed.

Dinner last night:  Belgian waffle at Denny's.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - October 2011

The trailer alone is frightening.



Dinner last night:  Skirt steak and fries at the Six.

When Awkward Comes Marching Home Again....

Samurai Toddler.

I hope this isn't one of those bachelor auctions, because this guy is about to be marked down.

When you don't know what to do with those used tablecloths from the local pizzeria.

She is really holding the tomato.

Please call for a running play.

It's not a party until this guy shows up with his fire extinguisher.

You pull your end and I'll make a wish.

The original "two-bagger."

These ladies sure have balls.

With that fat ass, there's not even enough room for an olive.

Dinner last night:  Sausage and olive pizza from Maria's Italian Kitchen.

Footloosier

The "Footloose" remake opened last weekend.

Yeah, I did.  Wanna call a cop?

The 1984 original has always been a guilty pleasure for me.  One of those movies that I am almost embarrassed to admit that I enjoyed.  With a soundtrack album that, yes, I bought.  And frequently listened to on my, gasp, Sony Walkman.

I can't explain why this film resonates with me, but it does.  It is pure cinematic cheese, but, then again, who doesn't enjoy a big hunk of Velveeta every once in a while?  I most recently increased my cheddar intake by purchasing the Blu-Ray release and watched it as soon as I could rip the cellophane off.

Just five days later, I wound up seeing the 2011 remake.  I was officially in Footloose overload.  Like the kids in the movie, my right leg couldn't stop twitching.  Was that euphoria or a tic?  No clue.  All I know is that I had been infected all over again. 

And, frankly, if I'm alive in 27 years when the newest version comes out, I'm probably be there, too.  Ready to get all gooey all over again. 

Not that the 2011 edition makes any great inroads.  Or deviations from the original.  In some cases, the scenes are identical except for newer---and younger actors hoofing it up in the gin mill.  Line by line, word by word, look by look, this is like a reprint of the Mona Lisa.  Or, more appropriately, a copy of that old Farrah Fawcett poster.

As soon as it started, I thought I was watching my Blu-Ray.  The same feet with more modern shoewear.  Tapping away to the strains of the original theme song sung by the original warbler Kenny Loggins.  Whoo-ee, Mar-ee.  Even at the bargain matinee, I began to wonder if I had wasted coin on this.

And then, out of the blue, the 2011 movie veered into a scene you did not see in 1984.  A loud and violent car crash that was only referred to in the previous version.  Five young Bomont teenagers snuffed out in the blink of a headlight.  The impetus for the town to ban dancing and carousing. 

I cringed immediately.  Wow, did they really need to show this?  Did I need to see this?

By the end of this "Footloose," I had to admit.  The inclusion worked.  And, in some mystical way, it made the 2011 film work just a little bit better than what we watched back when MTV was in its infancy.  Now you feel the pain of the town because you actually could see it.  It makes every character's motivation a little bit more realistic because it becomes more organic.  You finally understand.

As a result, the town preacher, once played by John Lithgow and now essayed by Dennis Quaid, is a more complex character.  You understand his dilemma.  And, with a less verbose actor at the helm, the pastor has many more layers, albeit softer ones.  I wonder what the part would have been like if producers had gotten gimmicky and hired Kevin Bacon for the role.  But, nevertheless, Quaid is a distinct improvement in a plot line that now seems a little richer.

That's not to say that the new "Footloose" is light years better than the old "Footloose."  The current cast of "youngsters" is much weaker, although they really are dancers, as opposed to Bacon and Lori Singer who had to doubled by some stunt "two-steppers."   Kenny Wormald is from Boston, so the writers now have Ren McCormick relocating from Massachusetts with his accent but without his mother, who is missing from this version after succumbing to a convenient case of leukemia. 

The heroine, Ariel, still wears those damn red boots and is played by somebody named Julianne Hough.  She apparently is a veteran of "Dancing with the Stars" and that explains why I'd never seen her before.  She and Wormald both can dance up a storm, but neither should be giving up their introductory membership to the Actor's Studio.

Most of this "Footloose" is the same with some changes instituted for the sake of change only.  There are a few more Black kids in Bomont this time around, as opposed to the 1984 town which might have been marshalled by the Klu Klux Klan.  Ariel's best friend Rusty, once played by Sarah Jessica Parker when she was so young that she still wasn't wearing high heels, is now either Black or Hispanic or the love child of Derek Jeter.  In any case, there was no reason to switch out this ethnicity except to fulfill the filmmakers' need for a rainbow.

The wonderful highlight from 1984 was the musical montage where Bacon taught Chris Penn's character how to dance as accompanied by Deniece Williams' "Let's Hear It for the Boy."  The number now is almost identical, but still equally infectious.  Somehow and some way, it still is gold.

Ultimately, was there any reason to remake "Footloose?"  Of course not.  And it just makes me think how no classic movie is safe anymore.  How long will it be until we are saddled with attempts at duplicating the greatness of, say, "The Apartment," "Some Like It Hot," or "North By Northwest?"  My stomach is getting tied up in knots just typing that.

But, still, compared to anything else that opened last weekend, you could have done worse than this "Footloose."   Mom's meatloaf with a side of macaroni and cheese is always good, no matter how many times you reheat. 

As long as you're not expecting it to taste like Kobe beef.

Dinner last night:  Turkey burger at the Cheesecake Factory.

This Date in History - October 19

Hey, look, it's Divine.  And it's his/her birthday.

202 BC:  AT THE BATTLE OF ZAMA, ROMAN LEGIONS UNDER SCIPIO AFRICANUS DEFEAT HANNIBAL BARCA, LEADER OF THE INVADING CARTHAGINIAN ARMY.

Looking at this, maybe the reason I wasn't so hot with World History is because I couldn't remember how to spell the names.

439:  THE VANDALS, LED BY KING GAISERIC, TAKE CARTHAGE IN NORTH AFRICA.

Long before the Vandals moved on to the NYC subway system.

1216:  KING JOHN OF ENGLAND DIES AT NEWARK-ON-TRENT.

Regardless of where it is, there's no dignity if you die in Newark.

1453:  THE FRENCH RECAPTURE OF BORDEAUX BRINGS THE HUNDRED YEARS' WAR TO A CLOSE.

And, at last, they can start making bordelaise sauce again.

1466:  THE THIRTEEN YEARS WAR ENDS WITH THE SECOND TREATY OF THORN.

I suppose the first treaty of Thorn wasn't worth the paper it was printed on.

1469:  FERDINAND II OF ARAGON MARRIES ISABELLA I OF CASTILE, A MARRIAGE THAT PAVES THE WAY FOR THE CREATION OF SPAIN.

Which would have been fine if they had all stayed there.

1512:  MARTIN LUTHER BECOMES A DOCTOR OF THEOLOGY.

And, years later, he would provide me with a place to go on Sunday mornings.

1789:  CHIEF JUSTICE JOHN JAY IS SWORN IN AS THE FIRST CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE UNITED STATES.

Oh.  So there was one before Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

1810:  ABOLITIONIST CASSIUS CLAY IS BORN.

So you thought that dopey boxer had a trademark on the name?

1812:  NAPOLEON I OF FRANCE RETREATS FROM MOSCOW.

Have you ever eaten borscht?  Can you blame him?

1813:  THE BATTLE OF LEIPZIG CONCLUDES, GIVING NAPOLEON ONE OF HIS WORST DEFEATS.

On second thought, maybe Russia wasn't so bad.

1873:  YALE, PRINCETON, COLUMBIA, AND RUTGERS DRAFT THE FIRST CODE OF AMERICAN FOOTBALL RULES.

I'll be there was even a tailgate for this.

1914:  THE FIRST BATTLE OF YPRES BEGINS.

If you know how to pronounce that, please contact me.

1917:  LOVE FIELD IN DALLAS, TEXAS IS OPENED.

The last airport JFK would ever see.

1932:  ACTOR ROBERT REED DIES.

Papa Brady!  Does Barry Williams also claim he slept with him, too?

1933:  GERMANY WITHDRAWS FROM THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS.

What I like about the League of Nations?  No designated hitter.

1936:  ACTOR TONY LO BIANCO IS BORN.

I spoke to him on the phone once.  That's all I got.

1943:  STREPTOMYCIN, THE FIRST ANTIBIOTIC FOR TUBERCULOSIS, IS ISOLATED BY RESEARCHERS AT RUTGERS.

So not everybody there was tailgating.

1945:  ACTOR DIVINE IS BORN.

It must be tough to maintain two completely different sets of wardrobe.

1956:  THE SOVIET UNION AND JAPAN SIGN A JOINT DECLARATION, OFFICIALLY ENDING THE STATE OF WAR THAT HAD EXISTED SINCE AUGUST 1945.

Japan really knows how to pick the wrong fights, don't they?

1959:  THE FIRST DISCOTHEQUE OPENS.

So was this Studio 1?

1973:  PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON REJECTS AN APPEALS COURT DECISION THAT HE TURN OVER THE WATERGATE TAPES.

Yeah, that worked out well.

1978:  ACTOR GIG YOUNG DIES.

He shot himself.  They shoot horses and apparently actors, don't they?

1987:  ON BLACK MONDAY, THE DOW JONES INDUSTRIAL AVERAGE FALLS BY 22%, 508 POINTS.

This one, I'm told, was Barbara Bush's fault.

1994:  ACTRESS/COMIC MARTHA RAYE DIES.

Buried with or without the dentures?

2003:  MOTHER TERESA IS BEATIFIED BY POPE JOHN PAUL II.

I read that really fast and you don't want to know what I thought it said.

2005:  SADDAM HUSSEIN GOES ON TRIAL IN BAGHDAD FOR CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY.

If he had gone on trial in Los Angeles, he might have been acquitted.

2008:  FASHION CRITIC MR. BLACKWELL DIES.

Not the list he wanted to make.

2010:  ACTOR TOM BOSLEY DIES.

And not his happiest day.

Dinner last night:  Leftover jumbalaya.

Another Chapter of "Only in Hollywood"

Admittedly, the photo above is a little blurry. It's tough to be a decent photographer when folks around you are giving a standing ovation to the legendary Carl Reiner. In fact, the only thing I can really make out in this snapshot is the bald spot right in front of me. It belongs to Jerry "The Beaver" Mathers and it's now immortalized forever on this blog.

Yep, welcome to another ordinary night in Hollywood.

This was the Television Academy's salute to Reiner at the, of course, Television Academy Theater in North Hollywood. For those keeping score, I did not achieve the hat trick of pissing alongside Carl for the third straight time. The invited guests were all backstage in a green room which must have had its own exclusive urinals. As for me this time around, my bathroom "mate" might have been some guy who was a key grip on the last season of "Lost."

I'm lucky enough to know a TV producer who just happens to be a member of the Academy and she invites me all the time to these exclusive evenings.  I have been judicious on which ones I actually attend, which explains why I may skip something like "An Evening with Alan Sues."  But, naturally, showing up to salute Carl Reiner is a no-brainer for me.  And, apparently, it was for a lot of TV Academy members who gobbled up the "first come, first served" ducats.  So many of them, in fact, that we were all told to go home as soon as we got there.

These evenings are always overbooked, so you can easily wind up driving to the Valley for nothing.  The "no room at the inn" declaration last week turned away lots of folks, including me and the guy standing next to me on line---the aforementioned Jerry Mathers, who I can clearly attest to all that he was not killed in Vietnam as the urban legend goes.  I resisted the urge to turn to him and ask if Wally and Lumpy had managed to get in ahead of us.  Instead, we both accepted the Academy's invitation to stand on line again.  To watch the show on closed circuit television in a conference room.

Since they regularly stream these events live, I thought of the sheer folly now enveloping this night.  Standing on line to watch something on a television screen.  I could frankly do the same thing at home and languish in the sheer comfort of my gym shorts.  But, I looked at the ultra craggy Jerry Mathers and wondered if I would have this moment again in my life.  I opted to stay.  Leave It to Len.

With now several lines dotting the TV Academy plaza, I noted how unorganized the Academy volunteers were.  Stand here.  No, wait.  Stand over there.  Hold it.  You can't congregate in that spot.  Move over to that location.  I suddenly was part of #OccupyEmmy.  Luckily, the Beaver was equally as confused.  But, then again, wasn't he always for 235 episodes?

After about a half hour, there seemed to be some movement amongst the Academy workers.  It seems that a lot of the invited guests had left passes for their own invited guests and, interestingly enough, the barber who trims Dick Van Dyke's beard might be a no-show.  Two by two, they started to let some of us in.  Mathers went ahead of me, but we were not far behind.  Not only had us stragglers scored entrance, but we found up in the first three rows.    Again, I found myself in proximity to the Beav.  The picture shows you just how close.  I thought of a plotline for Episode 236.

"Gee, Ward, I'm worried about the Beaver's hair."

On stage, there was a living room set that may have been stolen for the evening from the TV Academy's reception area.  Some no-name guy was the host for the festivities and he will now be forever known as the man who asked the longest questions in the history of mankind.  He literally spent five minutes framing one query which could have been easily reduced to "so, Carl, how does it feel to be 89?"

I looked around at the crowd and I had the sense that these were all TV people.  Unrecognizable, but television insiders nonetheless.  Hmm, that guy looks familiar.  Perhaps he once served Carl coffee at the Desilu commissary.  Hey, that lady over there!  Isn't that the assistant who used to help Rose Marie up to the top row on the "Hollywood Squares?"  I was rubbing elbows with people who had, well, very frayed elbows already. 

One by one, the verbose questioner brought out special guests to spend some quality moments with Carl Reiner who sat on that couch so long that he had trouble getting up by evening's end.  Paul Reiser, who had written the character of Alan Brady into an episode of "Mad About You."  Garry Shandling, who had used Carl Reiner as a guest on his show.  Eva Marie Saint, who played Carl's wife in "The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming."  Lily Tomlin who starred in "All of Me."  Her co-star, Steve Martin, was on tape and apologized that he couldn't be there because he was busy having dinner next door.  Bonnie Hunt, who is more commonly known in Hollywood by the body part that rhymes with her last name, also appeared for some reason or another. 

When the "Dick Van Dyke Show" folks made their collective appearance, the gala got into high gear.  Van Dyke pretended to trip over the coffee table.  Hey, why not?  Rose Marie was wheeled out and her famous hair bow is now simply a speck on a head that has obviously taken way too much Prednisone.  Larry "Ritchie" Matthews on also on hand.  I noticed two earrings and black fingernail polish.  I am thinking that, back when, he enjoyed chumming  around with Don Grady more than with Shelley Fabares.

Absent from the proceedings were son Rob Reiner who is plagued with a case of walking pneumonia.  I thought he should have been wearing a scarf at that last Dodger home game.  Mel Brooks also sent his regrets as he is suffering with sciatic pain that even he wouldn't wish on a Nazi.

George Clooney was the final surprise as he presented a TV Academy honorary award to Carl and I suppose we were lucky that there had not been a hurricane or an earthquake last week.  More standing ovations as all re-assembled on stage for a champagne toast.  I spotted "Everybody Loves Raymond" creator Phil Rosenthal two rows away and I realized just how many of my writing heroes were in that room that night. 

Once again, I realized that I indeed lived in Hollywood.  A special night that can only happen here.

P.S., Jerry Mathers didn't need a lift home.

Dinner last night:  Cervelat sandwich and side salad.