R-E-S-P-

 

The new hot film genre features movie biographies of musical stars.  I guess you can say it started back when they did the biopic of Ray Charles.   But, rapidly speeding up in past years, we have films based on the lives of Freddie Mercury and Elton John.   Starved for comment, eventually Hollywood will get around to sharing the life story of Lou Monte, who sand "Pepino the Italian Mouse."

But, until then, we now have the latest.  "Respect" and it's all about the late Aretha Franklin who only died three years ago.   I remember it well as her body was treated to several wardrobe changes during the funeral wake.   Some people think of everything.  

But I digress...

Now, admittedly, I know Ms. Franklin's music but little about her life.   That said, if I could have predicted what her story was, I would have been right hitting all the obvious plot points.   I mean, why else make a film biography if you're not going to have the usual twists and turns.

Mother dying at an early age.

Overbearing minister father.

Manager/spouse who becomes violent and abusive.

Elaborate production numbers featuring hit songs.

Said star appearing at a performance drunk and then falling off the stage.

Ultimate redemption singing Gospel music.

Done.

Some rock stars have such cookie cutter lives.

That said, "Respect" is well mounted and features a strong performance from Jennifer Hudson in the title role.  Again, another smart choice is made by the film makers not to have Hudson try to imitate Aretha.  She has her own spin on the music but it works.   And you buy into it.

At the same time, the truly best moment of the entire film is against the closing credits when they show the real Aretha performing "Natural Woman" at the Kennedy Center Honors.   Those five minutes are worth the price of admission.

"Respect" is predictable but still enjoyable.   So, as you await the life story of Jerry Vale or Totie Fields, this film should keep you occupied for a while.

LEN'S RATING:  Three-and-a-half stars.

Dinner last night:  Sandwich and salad.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - August 30, 2021

 Birds of a feather...

Dinner last night:   Bacon, lettuce, and tomato....salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - When Elevators Attack

 

Here's a memory that comes back this time every year when I hear students are going back to college.   But the tale is hardly educational.

This is the majestic Keating Hall on the Fordham University campus. Home of WFUV where I spent a lot of time during my college years. Location of some classrooms where I spent a little time during my college years. The centerpiece of the Bronx campus is old, austere, and historic.

And it was between the second and third floors of this building where I had two pretty scary experiences.

Let's talk first about the only elevator in the place. For college students too lazy to walk up and down three flights, it provided the lift needed after a long WFUV session or a short Theology dissertation. The elevator itself might have been even older than the building. It was a large size wooden crate that resembled a vertical coffin. I never felt completely safe in there. Not for the queasy or the claustrophobic. But, take it nevertheless we did.

One day, I was scheduled to be the co-anchor on the WFUV Evening Report which aired at 530PM every afternoon during those halycon days at the station when students actually got to do things. It was a big deal for me as I had never done this co-anchor bit before. We did our usual preparation. Rip the news items off the Associated Press ticker. Maybe try to rewrite one or two, so it sounded like you weren't reading them verbatim. Around 445PM, I wanted a snack from the soda and candy machines down on the first floor. I was hungry. And, after several hours of reading AP recounts of Congressional votes, I was exhausted, too. Too spent to walk down and up three flights of stairs for my Coke and Hershey bar.

I boarded the elevator to Hell.

The trip down was a no brainer. Armed with soft drink and candy, I boarded the wooden crate for the return trip. Just past the second floor, it happened.

Clunk, crash, sputter, phhhhbbbbttt.

My journey, for the time being, had ended.

I generally don't panic in a stuck elevator. Because there's always an emergency button with someone very helpful on the end of the transmission. I pressed it. It took five minutes for somebody to answer the call.

"Si?"

I explained the predicament to him.

"No habla Anglaise."

The chocolate bar started to melt and so did I. Luckily, my magnetic personality is always missed and my WFUV cohorts noticed my absence pretty quickly. And it didn't take them long to figure out where I was. Because the broken elevator was now requiring them all to use the ungodly method of climbing stairs. And my new location between the second and third floor of Keating Hall became a novelty as they took turns calling down taunts.

"What are you doing down there?"

Well, I was really looking for some quiet time before the newscast and I really thought that an elevator shaft provided the best venue.

I pressed the emergency button again.

"Si."

Ugh. I was losing patience and planning to lose most of my friends who were up getting their jollies out of my plight.

When the laughs started to die down, somebody actually went to seek out the non-English speaking man on the other end of my lifeline. But, that didn't result in an immediate solution. I was stuck in that coffin for almost two hours.

And, of course, missed the newscast. I understand that the anchorperson that day signed off by saying good night to Len "whereever he may be in this building."

My other "between floors" experience in Keating Hall was a bit more harrowing. Darn right frightening. And, surprisingly, this time it was on the stairway between the second and third floor.

It was early in my junior year and I had just moved on campus. This was your traditional Fall college day. There was a football game scheduled that night. I was working on something at WFUV and realized that a host of my chums were headed to the campus center for some food. I wanted to catch up to them. So, I ran. And I decided that I could get down the stairs a lot quicker than with my own nemesis, the elevator.

As I started to fly down the first flight of steps, I tripped on my sneaker laces which were untied. I missed the last half of the flight, emulating Mary Martin as Peter Pan. To cushion the upcoming blow on the landing, I extended my hands. And my right one went right through the window.

It was one of those slow motion moments that happen in life. I didn't really feel anything as the hand went through the glass. There was no pain. It seemed all pretty routine. Until I noticed my wrist. With the big gash right on the vein.

And the blood shooting out like Old Faithful.

Hmmmm. This is not good.

I immediately put my left thumb over the gusher and slowly walked down the rest of the stairs. Now it wasn't lunch that I wanted to share with my friends. I needed help to get to a hospital.

My roommate and other cronies weren't that far ahead. After asking me whether it could wait till after they had lunch, I was chaperoned to the campus nurse's office. Where I probably passed out. My next memory was a whiff of smelling salts. Pressure was applied to stop the bleeding, but it was clear that I needed stitches. At nearby Fordham Hospital. Where people went in and usually did not come out.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. A hospital emergency room in the Bronx is automatically a scary prospect. Several gurneys were rushed in with people missing a body part or two. After a while, I realized that my six little sutures would be minor in the great medical scope of things.

The bandage on my wrist was the big hit in the football stands that night. I explained that I was simply trying to perfect my impersonation of Judy Garland.

The scar shows to this day. And I always used a different staircase after that. And never the elevator.

Dinner last night:  Leftover tomato galette.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - August 2021

 Sixty years ago, this was the hot summer movie.

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

Len's Jukebox of the Month - August 2021

No, not "Dream Weaver" by Gary Wright.   He did another song that is so lush and infectious.  A wonderful memory of my young adult days.  Perfect for those drives coming home after being out with somebody you really, really liked.

Dinner last night:  Galette with tomato and mozzarella.

Hollywood Then and Now - August 2021

 

If you watch TCM, you surely must know what Schwab's Drugstore is.   Back in the 40s and 50s, it was the place to be in Hollywood.   The legendary "Sunset Boulevard" has a scene set in the popular gathering place.  Allegedly, it was the place where Lana Turner was discovered...sitting at the counter in a tight sweater.

Sounds like a great place.   Naturally, it closed in 1983.   Five years later, it was demolished to build this mall which exists to this very day.

Because we need another CVS Pharmacy?

Dinner last night:  Salad.

This Date in History - August 25

 

It's suddenly summer here in Los Angeles. I wonder if it was as hot on these August 25ths.

1580: BATTLE OF ALCANTARA. SPAIN DEFEATS PORTUGAL.

The score was 2-1 and the soccer match was just repeated on ESPN Really, Really Classic.

1609: GALILEO GALILEI DEMONSTRATES HIS FIRST TELESCOPE TO VENETIAN LAWMAKERS.

They practiced with him by spying on the naked chick in the next building. Eventually, this led to the invention of the Venetian Blinds.

1814: WASHINGTON, DC, IS BURNED AND THE WHITE HOUSE IS DESTROYED BY BRITISH FORCES DURING THE WAR OF 1812.

So, who was the knucklehead that bothered to rebuild it?

1830: THE BELGIAN REVOLUTION BEGINS.

If you ask me, it's pretty stupid to have a war solely based on chocolate.

1835: THE NEW YORK SUN PERPETRATES THE GREAT MOON HOAX.

No clue. But I dig the symmetry. Sun, moon. Get it?

1894: SHIBASABURO KITASATO DISCOVERS THE INFECTIOUS AGENT OF THE BUBONIC PLAGUE AND PUBLISHES HIS FINDINGS IN THE LANCET.

Years later, we can't eat eggs. We've come a long way, baby.

1910: THE YELLOW CAB COMPANY IS FOUNDED.

And how long did we have to wait for somebody to invent those beaded cushions that drivers sit on?

1916: THE UNITED STATES NATIONAL PARK SERVICE IS CREATED.

One day later, we see the invention of the litterbug.

1921: MONTY HALL IS BORN.

He's dead now, so he obviously picked Door #2.

1931: REGIS PHILBIN IS BORN.

Obviously, this is a popular date with game show hosts.

1944: DURING WORLD WAR II, PARIS IS LIBERATED BY THE ALLIES.

Now there's a day in history I wish we could do over.

1950: PRESIDENT HARRY TRUMAN ORDERS THE US ARMY TO SEIZE CONTROL OF THE NATION'S RAILROADS TO AVERT A STRIKE.

And they haven't run on time since.

1980:  ZIMBABWE JOINS THE UNITED NATIONS.

They must have lowered the annual dues.

2009: SENATOR TEDDY KENNEDY DIES.

Liquor stores all over Massachusetts dim their lights in his memory.

2012:  ASTRONAUT NEIL ARMSTRONG DIES.

One pretty big step.

2016:  ACTOR MARVIN KAPLAN DIES.

From the cast of TV's "Top Cat" and "Alice."

2018:  SENATOR JOHN MCCAIN DIES.

There was always something a little phony about him.

Dinner last night:  Tomatoes, mozzarella, and prosciutto.  

A Documentary About...Um, I'm Not Sure Why

 

Of all the Hollywood biographical documentaries that could be produced, I would not put one about actor Val Kilmer high on the list.    Or put it on the list at all, for Pete's sake.   But it made the recent rounds to theaters and On Demand.   I was compelled enough to sample it.

Why?   I'm not quite sure.   Although it is pretty interesting for one basic reason.  Virtually all the footage is shot via home movie going back to the pre-VCR days.  It lends this bizarre intimate quality that actually makes it tough to look away.

Val Kilmer has, in my opinion, had a pretty nondescript career.   Worked steadily starting in the 80s but nothing too remarkable.   From Top Gun to Willow to Batman.   Indeed, he clearly wanted to be an actor since the days when he and his kid brothers shot their own version of Jaws in the family pool.   And he persistently wanted to do work that was not of the commercial nature which led him to crafting a stage one-man show as Mark Twain.

Still, his name is not the first one that comes to mind when you think of phenomenal actors.  I'm not sure that was the desired end result of this documentary, but it was with me.  Val Kilmer?  Okay, what's next?

Another curious aspect of this are the scenes where you visit with the current-day Val Kilmer.   Recently afflicted with throat cancer, Kilmer now rasps through one of those electronic speech gizmos in his neck.  As a result, his narration of his life is limited and, most of the film, his son stands in as the voice-over.  Meanwhile, the latter-day Kilmer is a bit of an eccentric slob who pretends to have a seizure while he is being filmed.

Whatever.

It's tough to review a movie that you expected nothing of and ultimately didn't end up with much more information than you started with.   Val Kilmer is an average actor trying to be great but never really was.   

There you have it.

LEN'S RATING:  Two-and-a-half stars.

Dinner last night:  Leftover spaghetti and meat balls.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - August 23, 2021

My now monthly inclusion of a laugh prompted by Oliver the Beagle.

 

Dinner last night:  Spaghetti and meat balls at the home of friend Amir and Kevin.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - When A Kid Worked During the Summer - Final Chapter

 

No, that's not me in the picture.  Trust me, ballpark sodas have never cost a nickel in my lifetime.

But I did have a job like this.   Read on.

Since my two-summer career as a Mount Vernon playground supervisor had literally jumped the shark, I went back to the employment canvas in hopes of drawing a better picture. 

But now, there were other factors pulling at me. 

I had gotten myself involved up to my hips at Fordham's college radio station, WFUV. And since they were on the air all year round, there was plenty I wanted to do there during the summer months. Work on the radio and play off the radio with all the friends I made there. The only rub was that, after extensive rounds of negotiation with management there, my salary for this volunteer work was, well....nothing. 

That was not going to be an answer. To make matters even worse, I had made plans to move on-campus for the junior and senior years in an effort to cut down my painstakingly long fifteen minute commute to Fordham. The university was paying me nothing to work at WFUV and, at the same time, they wanted to charge me big bucks for the dormitory apartment. Sheer indignation. 

The only person who was even more annoyed by this nasty disparity... Dad. 

"You better bring some money in to help out or you can forget about the dorm." 

I'm sorry, Dad, this sounds like I have a choice, but I don't think I do. Oh, never mind. I began to work feverishly on a plan that would satisfy me in all areas. Money coming in. Time to work at the station. Flexibility. 

My college best friend and upcoming roommate had the answer on his own paycheck. Work alongside him as a vendor at Yankee Stadium. The notion was intriguing. The Yankees were home only half the summer. It's not the Mets, so there would be no distraction in my work. And I could work at WFUV when the Yanks were on the road. It all jelled. 

Sort of. 

There is a definite caste system when you work as an usher for a baseball team. Newbies don't get to sell beer or hot dogs. Those assignments go to the grizzled veterans who were trolling the stands back when Joe DiMaggio was patroling centerfield. Nope, I'd show up for my daily gig and had to hope that I would even get something or anything to sell that day. If the advance sale for the game was low, they wouldn't need as many vendors. And the newest folks would be told to skidaddle. 

That happened my first few days. I'd show up only to turn around and head back to the subway within ten minutes. Unlike the red tape my father was able to snip through for my playground gig, there was nobody he could call about this. It took about a week to get assigned for a game. The new kids on the block of 161st Street and River Avenue always got the crap to sell. Ice cream cups. Scorecards. Cotton candy. But, even if it was garbage, you still had to sell out to get your daily commission. There was money to be made, but it was hard work. With some tray strapped around you. An apron where you kept change. And a goofy paper hat that held a button that spelled out the price of your concession. 

If I had any pictures of me doing this job, they would have been burned by now. As you walked up and down the stands, you had to announce your arrival with those piercing catcalls. You adapted it depending upon what you were hawking. 

"Ice cream here. Get your ice cream here. Cold and refreshing." 

Except, of course, if you were still holding the very last cup that had melted to the consistency of chocolate milk an hour ago. It was no longer cold or refreshing. You might as well try to sell a container of pre-packaged diarrhea. 

"Peanuts. Peanuts here. Who wants my nuts?" 

I always thought that was a clever call until, of course, some girl would beckon me over and ask to see my nuts. That pretty much ended that gag. 

When you were assigned for the day, you prayed silently to wind up on the field level because that section was very easy to maneuver. If they threw you in the ultra-steep upper deck, every aisle looked like Mount Fuji. With a tray full of junk, I dreaded each climb like poison. My first time selling soda was memorable. I was also given the field level area behind home plate and it was a typical New York hazy, hot, and humid day. Ka-ching. The sweetest day of work ever.

Until I tripped down the stairs with a full tray of Coke.

Sitting on the concrete steps with sticky liquid covering me, I sheepishly tipped my paper cap to the applause around me. So, when you're watching a baseball game on TV and you suddenly hear crowd applause although there's no action on the field, just know that a stadium vendor has probably fallen down.

The great part of working at a ballpark, even in this lowly capacity, is you have immediate access to every area of the place. Nobody stops you as long as you're wearing your paper hat with a button that says "Soda $4.50." I used to work through the bullpens all the time and frequently one of the players would buy something. With a five dollar tip included. On Oldtimer's Day, Whitey Ford asked me for a soda and I complied. As I stood next to him waiting for his end of the transaction to be processed, he stared me down. And offered no cash.

"Kid, I'm the Chairman of the Board."

I tipped my hat to acknowledge his lofty presence. That's $4.50, please.

He still hasn't paid me and now that he's dead...Gin blossomed bastard.

Yankee vendors also got to extend their employment into the football season as they were also used at New York Giant games. And this presented a interesting dichotomy for one of the units we were frequently asked to sell.

If you got assigned those little containers of Sun Dew orange drink during the baseball season, you might as well kiss your day's financial take goodbye. Nobody bought that shit.

But, one week into the football season, I discovered this swill was a premium item. Fans bought them by the carton. You didn't even have to move. All I had to do was crack open a box and I'd draw a line. They'd even ask me to pour it directly into their Thermos. I quickly figured it out.

The Thermos was full of vodka. And I was mixing their screwdrivers. Ideal for the nippy Fall weather. By the third quarter, I could be scalping this stuff for ten bucks a container.

As lucrative as that summer job was, I still was apparently not meeting the budget line item my father had on his ledger of life. So, when the following summer rolled around for what was probably my last hot weather job, I needed to rethink it all one more time. Actually, he rethought it for me.

"You can make a lot more money in my place."

Namely, the factory where he worked nights in Stamford, Connecticut. It was more than a suggestion. It was a stipulation. A demand. An edict. One more time, he made a call and got me a night job manning the shipping department. Gone was my flexibility. Gone was the chance to work regularly at WFUV. Gone was a lot of hanging out with my friends.

But, enter a shitload of money. For doing virtually nothing.

I would ride up to work with my dad around 3PM every afternoon. Then, I would head into the huge shipping room, where, for perhaps no more than an hour, I would load some metal parts into a box. 

And then I was done. 

For the rest of the evening, I would sit and listen to the radio. And write. And write. And write. The WFUV situation comedy I was producing would be going into its second season. I used my time in the shipping department to commandeer the writing staff (me) in the development of all the scripts for the year. I never wrote more regularly and consistently and successfully as I did on that dirty work bench in my father's factory. And I was paid handsomely for it. In my mind, this was the first time ever I was paid to write.

So, looking back, my father did me a huge favor that summer.

Moving forward, there would be no more summer jobs. The rest of my employment was all for real. And keeps.

Dinner last night:  Spicy peanut noodles with beef from Chin Chin.

Classic TV Theme Song of the Month - August 2021

This was getting set to premiere fifty years ago.   And it would get the coveted slot right after "All in the Family" on CBS Saturday night.   But then its star, Sandy Duncan got a tumor in her left eye.  So much for a long running series.

   

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

This Mask-querade

 

Dinner last night:  Sandwich.

Len's Recipe of the Month - August 2021

 

Fitting that this is the month of August.   Historically, the only month of the year that I will eat a tomato.   Oh, the rest of the year, I will consume tomato juice, bruschetta, and slices of tomato in a BLT sandwich.

But a tomato all by itself?   Only in August.   This comes from years living on the east coast when this was the month those wonderful red orbs ripened in gardens.  The taste in those 30 months is so miraculous.

And so, too, here on the West Coast.   During this month, I will visit a farmer's market in Santa Monica every Saturday.  For me, there is nothing better than a cherry tomato cut in half and dropped in a salad.

But, the other day, the larger models also looked very inviting on the counter.  I took two home and concocted a terrific side dish.   Or a main entree if you choose.   Either way....delish!

Heat your oven to 350 degrees.

Line a sheet pan with some good parchment paper.

Slice up the tomatoes you bought.   Perhaps to a 1/3 inch slice.

Place them side by side on your sheet pan.  Drizzle some EVO.

For added magic, chop or mince a shallot.   Sprinkle that over your tomatoes.

Now add some kosher salt and pepper to taste.

And you really want to get fancy, sprinkle some parmesan shavings over the tomatoes.

Bake for 15 to 20 minutes.

That's it.

Enjoy!

And hurry up!  September 1 is looming.

Dinner last night:   Salad....with cherry tomatoes.

This Date in History - August 18

 

This is a statue of Augustus Caesar, who apparently started the month as a bridge between July and September and a reason for the country of France to close down once a year.

1201 - THE CITY OF RIGA IS FOUNDED.

Later it merged with the city of Toni to start the first ever pasta factory.

1572 - MARRIAGE IN PARIS OF THE FUTURE HUGUENOT KING HENRY IV OF NAVARRE TO MARGUERITE DE VALOIS IN A SUPPOSED ATTEMPT TO RECONCILE PROTESTANTS AND CATHOLICS.

And how did that work out for you? Meanwhile, years later, my grandmother was still bitching whenever one of my cousins married a Catholic.

1587 - VIRGINIA DARE, GRANDDAUGHTER OF GOVERNOR JOHN WHITE OF THE COLONY OF ROANOKE, BECOMES THE FIRST ENGLISH CHILD BORN IN THE AMERICAS.

Little did they know at the time that she'd also be one of the last.

1634 - URBAIN GRANDIER, ACCUSED AND CONVICTED OF SORCERY, IS BURNED ALIVE IN LOUDUN, FRANCE.

A lot of things changed by the time Samantha Stephens came around.

1838 - THE WILKES EXPEDITION, WHICH WOULD EXPLORE THE PUGET SOUND AND ANTARCTICA, WEIGHS ANCHOR AT HAMPTON ROADS.

Okay, I sure hope those explorations were done on separate trips. Aren't the Puget Sound and Antarctica on opposite ends of the world? I'm wondering if the Captain got a little confused on Google Maps.

1862 - MINNESOTA TRADER ANDREW MYRICK IS KILLED AND HAS HIS MOUTH STUFFED WITH GRASS.

Huh? Was he killed by crazed environmentalists when he refused to recycle?

1868 - FRENCH ASTRONOMER PIERRE JULES CESAR JANSSEN DISCOVERS HELIUM.

And two days later, Janssen's teenage son shows his friends a great party trick.

1920 - THE NINETEENTH AMENDMENT TO THE UNITED STATE CONSTITUTION IS RATIFIED, GUARANTEEING WOMEN'S SUFFRAGE.

If they put it on the ballot this year, we might have a different outcome.

1928 - CINCINNATI REDS OWNER MARGE SCHOTT IS BORN.

Born over 60 years after the abolition of slavery, Marge was way, way too late.

1933 - DIRECTOR ROMAN POLANSKI IS BORN.

Which means that, around 1950, he was the right age for that girl.

1936 - ROBERT REDFORD IS BORN.

Go ahead. Do the math. The guy is really old now.

1963 - JAMES MEREDITH BECOMES THE FIRST BLACK PERSON TO GRADUATE FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF MISSISSIPPI.

That had to be a lonely study group. Meanwhile, how many kids in this school can actually spell the name of the state they're in?

1969 - JIMI HENDRIX PLAYS THE UNOFFICIAL LAST DAY OF THE WOODSTOCK FESTIVAL.

So, was there an official last day of the Woodstock Festival? I am guessing some of the attendees are still hearing music in their heads.

1982 - JAPANESE ELECTION LAW IS AMENDED TO ALLOW FOR PROPORTIONAL REPRESENTATION.

Don't call me until dolphins or sharks get a vote.

2005 - DENNIS RADER IS SENTENCED TO 175 YEARS IN PRISON FOR THE BTK SERIAL KILLINGS.

A good lawyer gets that sentence commuted to 125 years.

2014:  ANNOUNCER DON PARDO DIES.

Here's your consolation prize.

2015:  PRODUCER BUD YORKIN DIES.

It's amazing how much his former partner Norman Lear shits on him these days.  Makes me wonder who was the real talent in this union.

2020:  ACTOR BEN CROSS DIES.

From "Chariots of Fire."  This race he loses.

Dinner last night:  Fried chicken sandwich at the Dodger game.

One Thumb Up

 

This one, however, not so much.

Suddenly, the phrase "all thumbs" does not apply to me.   You see, the left thumb in this photo...well...that's the only position it currently has.  Oh, I can move it around with the aid of another finger.   But let go and it goes right back to the position you see above.

Hmmmm.   How does this happen?  Well, I will tell you.

Given the number of years I have lived with arthritis and bone-on-bone situations in my knees, it would be the wrist that would present me with the most pain.   About six months before COVID last March, the pain in my left wrist got more pronounced.   I went to the same orthopedic group that I visit for my knee and they announced that there was something missing in my wrist that might have originally broke when I was a kid.   I naturally blamed sixth grade gym class.

Nevertheless, I got a cortisone shot and all was right with the world.   For six months.   Pain returned and so did I.   Another jab.   Improvement.

Unfortunately, this past March, the aches came back and I went back to the doctor, who did not want to give me another shot.  Instead, he gave me a brace to wear and told me to take two Aleve a day.   

Thanks for nothing.   The pain grew significantly and it got to the point where I could never remove the brace which now resembled some black arm-length gloves that Kitty Carlisle used to wear on "To Tell The Truth."

I finally called my internist and said...."give me another doctor."

The new guy is terrific.   He's the only one in the office and took lots of time to explain what was going on.   Yes, I was missing some cartilage that was creating a bone-on-bone scenario in my wrist.   And he had no problem giving me another cortisone shot.

And the discomfort went from 8 to 2 on the Len-O-Meter.   Until one Sunday...

I was putting on face moisturizer.   I raised my left hand to my face.  And felt a switchblade in my fore arm that was reminiscent of Jets versus Sharks in "West Side Story."   

The 2 went to a 32.

I called the doctor the next morning and he immediately called me back.   He told me to ice and brace and get the pain calmed down.   Was there swelling?  No. Was there bruising?  No.   Did I feel tingling?  No.

We opted to see what the week would bring and my doctor said he would call me on Friday, which he did.   I still answered no to all the questions above but it was still painless.   My biggest challenge was removing socks and pulling up pants. He asked me to come in the following Tuesday.

Remarkably, during those three days, the pain subsided greatly and that included the raising of pants.  But, I also noticed two other things.

1.  I couldn't easily tie the laces of my sneakers.

2.  My thumb...well...was sort of like the Federal Government.   Useless.

It all crystallized as soon as the doctor saw me.  

You see, arthritis can not only destroy cartilage but it can also weaken tendons that connect my fore arm to the fingers.

That knife stab was likely the initial rupture of the tendon that operates my thumb.   When the pain calmed down, that was because the rupture had completed its mission.

So, there you are.

Now there is a surgery that is very similar to baseball's Tommy John Surgery.   It moves tendons from another finger to replace the one attached to the thumb.  I watched an operation on You Tube.   It all looked Freddie Kreuger-ish.  I will take my doctor's advice and not rush to the gurney.   He himself had a colleague who suffered the same rupture and still hasn't opted for the operation some 13 years later.

So it's off to PT where I will learn how to tie my shoes and hold an onion while I try to chop it.

Which puts my other fingers in immediate peril.

For that reason, this whole episode gets a solid "one thumb down" from yours truly.

Dinner last night:  Sandwich and tomato salad.

   

Monday Morning Video Laugh - August 16, 2021

Stadiums are back to full capacity.  No more social distancing.   And this means....KISS CAM!

 

Dinner last night:  Grilled filet mignon and oven roasted tomatoes.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - When A Kid Worked During the Summer, Part 2

And so it continues.

After my disastrous summer knee-deep in Carvel chocolate sprinkles, I gave my employment options for the following hot weather season a long think over the winter. This would be the summer prior to college and I needed to show the parental management team in place that I was doing my part to pay for higher education. Or at least for the books required for higher education. Or, at the very, very least, the slice of pizza that I could buy in between classes of higher education. 

And I had a great idea. 

The most coveted job for any teenager in Mount Vernon, New York during those days was with the city's Recreation Department. There were about two dozen playgrounds across the town and each needed at least two supervisors to manage the kids. Professional and organized babysitting. Monday through Friday. And you only had to work into the night hours and close the playground twice a week. Sweet. 

To get this plum assignment, however, you had to start laying the groundwork while there was still snow on the ground. My best friend in high school and I did just that. Got our applications. Provided our references. And then dealt with one more hurdle. A Civil Service examination. 

The test for the position of "Playground Supervisor" was a bitch. You literally had to know the rules and requirements of every game ever invented. Luckily, there was a study guide to help you remember how high a volleyball net needed to be. How far apart wickets were to be on a croquet course. And exactly what a shuttlecock was. Forget the fact that the city had virtually no supplies for any of the above. No volleyball net. No croquet mallets. No shuttlecocks. You still needed to know what the hell they were. And pass the friggin' test, so you could at least go on the list for any open positions. I studied hard and, yes, a shuttlecock is the thing you hit in a badminton game. Score! We both passed. Where are our playground keys please? 

Not so fast, they said. After all, this is city government and certain strands of red tape must be cut. In this case, the definition of "red tape" is specifically "who do you know in City Hall that can get you this job?" Now, the commissioner of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department in those days was some Mafioso (who wasn't) named John Branca. John's brother was famed Brooklyn Dodger pitcher Ralph Branca. And anybody who ever frequented a Mount Vernon saloon apparently knew Ralph Branca. This was my sixth degree of separation. I had a solid connection. Dad. After all, he frequented Mount Vernon saloons and... 

"Okay, I'll make the call."

I got a cushy assignment. My playground was a mere six blocks from home. The Purdy Tot Lot (seen in its current incarnation above). Who Purdy was is still a mystery to me. But it was your basic playground with swings, slides, a play area, and some benches under a big awning. 

On my first day, I donned my official Recreation Department t-shirt and headed out to make a difference in these kids' summer. For some reason, there were three supervisors assigned to the Purdy Tot Lot. Stephanie was an adorable college student and I immediately thought she would make a difference in my summer as well. I quickly found out she was married and unavailable and, of course, who wasn't in those days. Nevertheless, we quickly bonded, primarily because we were the only two White people in the entire playground. 

And then there was Big Mabel Brown. Both adjectives in her name were correct. She was and she was. Mabel had been part of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department since balls were round. I was working alongside a veritable institution in the neighborhood as "Miss Mabel." And she had a very definite opinion on how to supervise a playground, which she quickly extolled to us when we tried to start a kickball game.

"These youngins don't want to play no games. It's too hot. They rather play cards."

Huh? But, what about all those rules and regulations I had to learn for the test?

"They like their 500 rummy."

There was no arguing Big Mabel Brown. And that's pretty much what those kids from the age of 7 to 13 did all summer. Play cards. You name it. They dealt it. And it wasn't long before they taught me to play them like a Mississippi riverboat gambler. I don't think I touched a ball the entire summer.

Of course, there was the idle activity every once in a while and I'd have to get something out of the supply cabinet.

"Mr. Len, I want crayons."

Ten minutes later...

"Mr. Len, I'm done with the crayons."

There was one hyperactive kid named Drexel who liked to climb the monkey bars in between poker hands. One afternoon, he came over to see with a rather innocent question.

"Mr. Len, my shoulder broke. Can you pop it in?"

Huh?

"Miss Mabel do it all the time."

There was a first aid primer we had all received, but there was no time to check the table of contents. I grabbed his arm and pushed it upward. I heard something click.

"Thank you, Mr. Len." Off went Drexel.

Of all the summer jobs I ever had, my time at the Purdy Tot Lot was the best. You sat, you read, and you occasionally cleaned a neighborhood kid out of ten cents during a game of gin rummy. When, during the following winter, I was asked about my desire to return to the Mount Vernon Recreation Department, my hand was quickly raised.

Except I didn't know at the time that you were never re-assigned to the same playground. Except for Big Mabel Brown, everybody was moved. And I wound up at the Howard Street Playground AKA Hell on Earth.

I had coasted in an all-Black pre-teen neighborhood. Howard Street was, however, all White, all Italian, and everybody there was already sporting some pubic hairs.

"Forget the dodgeball, Mr. Playground Supervisor Asshole. When do we get to have sex?"

Help. Anybody.

To complicate matters, my female counterpart there was a fox. Collette. Mount Vernon High School cheerleader. Cute as a button and she knew it in spades. If I had a shot at her, I'd have to stay in line behind some of the randiest fifteen-year-olds you'd ever want to meet. All had a common goal. To get Collette in the supply closet. More than once. With or without condom.

In the current photo above, Howard Street looks pretty tame. But, back then, it was anything but. The kids smoked, drank, and pretty much abused any level of authority, which was primarily me. It wasn't long before I realized Collette was always exiting said supply closet with a big smile on her face. I'd get no help from her. I was totally alone with the Sharks and the Jets. Organizing a punchball game with me substituting for the ball.

There was one time when some creature decided to bring his pet boa constrictor to torment everybody. Well, not everybody. Primarily me. There are not many arguments you can win when somebody is holding a nine foot long snake in front of your eyes. By the end of July, the whole playground looked like Babylon and I don't mean Long Island. I had lost control of the entire situation. Word leaked back to the powers that be and I was unceremoniously moved to the playground two blocks away. I probably was lucky to keep the T-shirt.

The new assignment was a little quieter. Most of the denizens were teenagers who were pretty much content to sit under a tree and make out. I left them alone and buried my nose in a book. I didn't need to watch kids five or six years younger doing something that I wasn't.

By the end of that summer, I decided to forego the Recreation Department job for the next year. For all I know, they could have sent me to a softball field in Hanoi.

Yep, my next summer job would have to be different. And it was...

To be continued.

Dinner last night:  Kung pao chicken from Chin Chin.

Classic Newsreel of the Month - August 2021

59 years ago this month.   I still miss this guy.

 

Dinner last night:  Jersey Mike's Italian sandwich.

Your Weekend Movie Guide for August 2021

 

There is hope.

Rumblings are afoot that the Arclight Hollywood and the attached Cinerama Dome might re-open after all.   Cleaning crews have been spotted inside.   The plywood boards have been removed from the windows.   The rumor is they will be open for the Christmas onslaught of movies.

Yay.

But, for now, they are closed.   Not like there is a damn good reason for them to be open given the limited cinematic fare these days.  You know the monthly drill, folks.  I will sift through the movie pages of the LA Times and give you my knee jerk reaction to films currently in theaters.

Like I said...best you wait for Christmas.

Black Widow:  Every day and in every way, there's more Marvel Comic bullshit to avoid.

Disney's Jungle Cruise:  They've completely ruined the ride with political correctness.  The movie must be worse.

Space Jam - A New Legacy:   Didn't give a shit about the old one.

Respect:  This looks decent.  Jennifer Hudson playing Aretha Franklin.  Will they show the different dresses they put her in over the course of her three-month wake?

Zola:  A Detroit waitress goes to party for a weekend in Florida.  Any place has to be better than Michigan.

CODA:  All about a deaf family and is there any surprise that Marlee Matlin has wormed her way into this?

The Forever Purge:   That's how long it will take to clean up Washington DC.

Annette:  A comic played by Adam Driver falls in love with an opera singer.   I hope they name his character Frankie.

The Suicide Squad:  More comic book crud.   With a cast that includes Sylvester Stallone, Pete Davidson, and Viola Davis!!  Huh????

Pig:  Nicolas Cage looks for his kidnapped pig.  I wrote that verbatim.

Ailey: A documentary about dancer Alvin Ailey.   Zzzzz,

Val:  A documentary about actor Val Kilmer.   Did we even need one?

The Green Knight:  Nothing bores me more than stuff about medieval times.

Bring Your Own Brigade:  A documentary about LA fire fighters.   A film that is needed.

Nine Days:  A man talks with human souls in limbo.  Isn't that all of us?

Stillwater:  Matt Damon tries to clear his wrongly accused daughter who is in jail in France.  Perhaps on Bastille Day?

Roadrunner - A Film About Anthony Bourdain:   A documentary about the famous food critic who was ultimately very scrambled.   Like an egg.

Old:  M. Night Shyamalan's latest that probably proves again that his best film is still "The Sixth Sense."

Dinner last night:  Leftover lasagna.

Why Don't You Mind Your Business?

 

Yeah, I'm talking to you, Elizabeth Warren.  Or Grandma.  Or Pow Wow the Indian Girl.  Or whatever your name is today.

If you access your computer in California, you've probably had the repeated experience I have had of late.  You click on a You Tube video and the ad that you see is Elizabeth Warren explaining why the state should NOT vote to recall the inept and arrogant Governor Gavin Newsom.   As this old hag explains, this is all tied to a Trump conspiracy and we cannot let white supremacy dictate his removal from office.

To that, I say...well, look at the title of today's blog.

Again, the only thing our political leaders know how to do is take sides depending upon whether there is a "R" or a "D" after somebody's name.  Elizabeth Warren is so friggin' stupid that she would probably give Adolf Hitler a vote of confidence if we was registered with the Democratic Party.

Warren lives three thousand miles from California.   She should visit here some time for a reason other than to take a donation from some Hollywood type.

Liz, look at the homeless encampments.

Liz, look at all the rental signs over small businesses.

Liz, go visit that other dried up bitch in San Francisco and look at what has happened in that city.

Liz, take a good gander at what unstopped one-party rule has done to a once great state.

Then, and only then, can you bombard my on-line experiences with your pleas for cash to your party?

As I said above, mind your business and focus on destroying your own state.

Dinner last night:  Cherry tomato salad.

This Date in History - August 11

 

Happy birthday in Heaven to TV personality Mike Douglas who gets a double hit today.  Stay tuned.

3114 BC:  THE MESOAMERICAN LONG COUNT CALENDAR USED BY THE MAYA BEGINS.

Boy, that was a long time ago.

1315:  THE GREAT FAMINE OF EUROPE BECOMES SO DIRE THAT EVEN THE KING OF ENGLAND HAS DIFFICULTIES BUYING BREAD FOR HIMSELF.

No Wonder...literally.

1919:  BUSINESSMAN ANDREW CARNEGIE DIES.

Hence the Hall.

1920:  TV PERSONALITY MIKE DOUGLAS IS BORN.

One of my grandmother's favorites and somebody who had a perfectly symmetrical life.   You'll see.

1921:  AUTHOR ALEX HALEY IS BORN.

The original Roots.

1925:  ACTRESS ARLENE DAHL IS BORN.

And still with us.   Hollywood's version of the Mesoamerican Long Count Calendar.

1929:  BABE RUTH BECOMES THE FIRST BASEBALL PLAYER TO HIT 500 HOME RUNS IN HIS CAREER.

No steroids....just ate a lot of frankfurters.

1933:  MINISTER JERRY FALWELL IS BORN.

Lunatic.

1934:  THE FIRST CIVILIAN PRISONERS ARRIVE ON ALCATRAZ ISLAND.

Your home away from home.

1942:  ACTRESS HEDY LAMAAR AND COMPOSER GEORGE ANTHEIL RECEIVE A PATENT FOR A COMMUNICATION DEVICE THAT EVENTUALLY BECOMES THE CELL PHONE.

So blame her when you can't reach your kids via text.

1949:  MUSICIAN ERIC CARMEN IS BORN.

All by himself.

1953:  WRESTLER HULK HOGAN IS BORN.

Public reminder: this sport was fixed.

1965:  RACE RIOTS BEGIN IN THE WATTS AREA OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.

And that neighborhood is still a disaster.

1969:  THE APOLLO 11 ASTRONAUTS ARE RELEASED FROM A THREE WEEK QUARANTINE FOLLOWING THEIR LIFTOFF FROM THE MOON.

A three week quarantine??  Oh, puh-leze.

1972:  THE LAST US GROUND COMBAT UNIT LEAVES SOUTH VIETNAM.

Eight years too late.

1984:  US PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN, WHILE RUNNING FOR RE-ELECTION, JOKES "WE BEGIN BOMBING IN FIVE MINUTES" WHILE PREPARING HIS WEEKLY ADDRESS ON NPR.

The earliest indicator of his dementia.

1995:  MUSICIAN PHIL HARRIS DIES.

Alice Faye's hubby and Jack Benny's bandleader.

2003:  HOCKEY COACH HERB BROOKS DIES.

Excelled at a lot of things, but not driving.

2006:  TV STAR MIKE DOUGLAS DIES.

One of those weird coincidences....dying on your birthday.

2009:  EUNICE KENNEDY SHRIVER DIES.

There are probably about five women who had the name "Eunice" ever.

2014:  ACTOR ROBIN WILLIAMS DIES.

This one still stings.   What a talent.

2020:  SINGER TRINI LOPEZ DIES.

"Lemon tree I'm buried under...very pretty."

Dinner last night:  Prime rib at Lawry's.

Wait! What??!! - August 2021

 

It's been a long time since we added a new monthly feature to this blog.   But, given all the lunacy around us (particularly on a government level), it is time to highlight this craziness every thirty days or so.

Welcome to...

Wait!  What??!!

You may have heard this last week even if you choose to avoid the news like I do.  There's some piece of trash who's a House Representative from Missouri, which is fast becoming the left armpit of America.   We might as well let Cori speak for herself.  And forgive me for exposing you to one of the stupid talking heads of MSLSD.

Wait?  What??!!

So this overgrown baboon is all for making laws that say you cannot get evicted if you can't pay your rent because of the pandemic.

Oh.

Does this idiot realize that rental home landlords are not always the super rich or privileged?   How about the woman who owns the condo I rent?   Or I have a friend who has been renting out his condo apartment to somebody for several years.  All of a sudden last spring, the guy stopped paying his rent.   Why?  Because some California governmental dodo said he didn't have to.  Now my friend has to jump through hoops to get his bills paid.

Now Cori Bush also says that, because of COVID, everybody should be exempt from utility bills.  Forget the fact that millions of me that did not include me got hefty stimulus checks for pain and suffering.  Meanwhile, somebody I know who works at a Target in the SF area told me his store ran out of 60 inch television sets the week after the stimulus hit the mail trucks.

Oh, and to make matter worse, Cori Bush also wants money removed from police forces.   But added that it's okay for taxpayers to pay for her security detail because, after all, she gets death threats all the time.

I can't imagine why.

Jeez.

Dinner last night:  Salad.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - August 9, 2021

 That's why they call them amusement parks.

Dinner last night:  Grilled cheese sandwich at the Hollywood Bowl.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - When A Kid Worked During The Summer, Part 1

 

Do they even do that anymore?  I'm talking about kids working summer jobs. Heck, in these post-pandemic days, the parents might be indeed taking on the same work they used to ask their kids to do.

But I digress.  Let's talk about the old days when teenagers ran around to find some sort of gainful employment for July and August.  And I ask now a very rhetorical question: is there still such a concept as "working papers?"

This nondescript street corner in Mount Vernon was the site of a monumental moment in my history.   Yep, my first summer job.

I remember when I was in my teen years that you couldn't even attempt to work without them. I completely forget the process of how you got them, except I'm pretty sure an application for a Social Security Card was part of the deal. Nevertheless, as soon as I was sixteen, I wanted to hit the bricks and find a job. Well, actually, it was really my dad's idea who told me very explicitly "hit the bricks and find a job."

My first employment ever was literally around the corner. In the winter before my neighborhood chums and I all hit the 16 digit in age, we were excited to see a huge job opportunity start to get erected within a block of our homes. A Carvel Ice Cream store was going up on the property of the local car wash. As a matter of fact, it was a business expansion for the car wash's owner, some ugly creep named Jerry Rattner (he's long dead, so I have no worries using his name). Jerry had the physical appearance of Frankenstein's monster with a personality to match. He probably fancied himself as this big business tycoon. And perhaps he was if you considered that one city block to be the entire universe.

Despite the ultra scary nature of Jerry, the local kids, including my best friend Leo and I, started to stalk him about when the store would be open. Jerry would always grunt the same reply.

"This summer. Come back then."

We chased this dude like showgirls would pursue Flo Ziegfeld. And, always the same garbled answer from the guy with bolts in his neck.

"This summer. Come back then."

Gotcha, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gruesome.

Eventually, summer on schedule came. And most of us got hired to be the store's staff. I remember the very hot July night when the store first opened. We were decked out in Carvel whites with those stupid paper hats. And the place was packed to the seams as if nobody had ever seen before a two-scoop ice cream cone. One customer blended into another and we were all dizzy by the end. All the while, we had our Incredible Hulk of an employer standing nearby to critique our work. And concentrate on our mistakes.

"Whoa, that's too much whipped cream on there!"

"Whoa, cut the banana in quarters!"

"Whoa, stop giving all the pretty girls extra stuff!"

I wanted to say, whoa, fuck off, you bastard.

Amid all this hubbub, I developed a very real fear in working up one item for sale. It ultimately became a phobia that I needed to conquer and fast.

I was absolutely petrified if anybody ordered a Brown Bonnet.

You might remember that particular treat. A soft ice cream cone which is covered in this chocolate sauce that hardens on contact. You can actually buy the junk now in supermarkets under the brand name "Magic Shell." Well, Brown Bonnets were a very tricky thing to make. First, you swirl the soft ice cream onto a cone. And then you quickly dunk it in the sauce. Except I would always lose the ice cream in the mix. The cone came out without the custard. And this pretty much screwed up the sauce as there was now this glob of ice cream in the can.

"Whoa, that stuff is expensive. You're killing me here!"

Whoa, if only I could kill you right here...

The whole experience for me was torturous. Hours before the store would open to the public each day, you were on duty making all the "fresh" products that were sold in the freezer case. Parfaits, Flying Saucers, the 32 or so flavors of ice cream that were in vats displayed to customers. You'd stand with a tub in front of one of the custard machines. As vanilla ice cream dripped into the vat, you would periodically spoon something else in to create all the wonderful Carvel variations. Spooning in cherries. Voila, Cherry Vanilla. Spooning in chocolate syrup. Voila, Vanilla Fudge Swirl. Spooning in chocolate chips. Voila, Chocolate Chip.

"Whoa, that's way too many chocolate chips in there!"

Fuck off, shithead.

You'd go home at the end of the day, smelling like chocolate. You'd lay in bed at night and dream of the repetitive motion needed to make a cone. Over and over and over. And, throughout your sleep, you'd hear Jerry's voice telling you how you just screwed up one more time.

I lasted only the summer and no more. While my friend Leo actually thrived there as a manager and essentially funded his college education right through grad school, I realized that I was much better off on the other side of the counter. 

Licking the cone and wondering why there weren't more chocolate chips in the ice cream.

The following year, I moved onto another summer job. But, you will simply have to wait one week to hear all about it.

Dinner last night:  Barbecued ribs from Holy Cow.

Classic TV Commercial of the Month - August 2021

Remember when the new cars came out in September and you saw the commercials ahead of time.   Here's a glimpse of how Ford introduced...the Mustang.

 

Dinner last night:  Brisket sandwich at the Dodgers game.

The Mugs of August 2021

 

Honey, you do realize that this photo is not for the school yearbook.

He's ready just in case his jail cell has some cracked ceiling plaster.

Yes, you can...in about three to six years.

But did Obama believe in you?

Color of eyes: blue.  I mean, black.  I mean, black and blue.

That's what she gets for being nosy.

Oh, my God!  They've arrested Doc Severinsen!

Oh, my God!  They've arrested Bert Lahr as the Cowardly Lion!

Yeah, that's a talent that will come in handy when you hit the women's showers.

That's either a bad dye job or a vintage Montreal Expo cap on her head.

Dinner last night:  Chicken sausage.