This popped up during the Betty White tributes and let's see if this scene could be produced in our currently self-conscious world. Just goes to show how good the writing and acting was back in the day. And, yes, that is Rose and Blanche in black face.
Dinner last night: Mongolian beef at Chin Chin.
Twenty-five years ago this month, my California adventure began. I'm not talking about that claptrap of an amusement park down in Anaheim. Nope, that was the day my bi-coastal existence began in earnest and I effectively moved most of my life to Los Angeles.
Time flies when, well, time flies.
Truth be told, it doesn't seem that long ago. Back in 1997, my writing partner and I had done all we could in New York. But, some of the work we had done there led us to some great contacts on the West Coast. Plus we had gotten an agent. Okay, her office was on top of a flower shop in Studio City, but she was an agent nonetheless. The smell of jasmine and lilacs permeated every meeting we ever had there. Some would liken it to a beautiful meadow. Usually, for us, it was like a funeral parlor. But, I digress...
Armed with tons of start-up money that had come in the form of severance from my last New York job, we used January 1997 as the target date for our move West. At first, we decided to drive cross-country in my leased Toyota Camry. After all, we needed a car in California. But, quickly, we decided how wrong-headed such a trek would be in the dead of winter. We might not see the Pacific Ocean until 1998 at the earliest.
Of course, this suddenly meant that my car would need to be shipped from Yonkers to Los Angeles. I had no clue how to do this and was astounded to find that there are numerous places who do this. A day prior to my departure, a scruffy looking Black man came to my apartment to take my car away. Watching him drive off with your vehicle, I wondered if I would ever see it again. After all, I had pulled his number out of the Yellow Pages. I almost had a tear in my eye, as if my oldest son was going off to war. Or I had just been car-jacked at gunpoint.
I had already packed off a lot of my essentials, along with my computer. Still, I kept my NY apartment furnished. I figured that I would sell all that off later in the year. Little did I know. To this day, my Yonkers abode looks like it is regularly inhabited. In a way, it is. The concept of being bi-coastal never entered into my feeble little mind on February 13, 1997.
We had somehow settled on one of those apartment complexes in Los Angeles that specialize in housing entertainment people who come to town for pilot season, etc. A wonderful two bedroom unit courtesy of Oakwood Apartments. But, of course, we couldn't afford the really convenient one right up the road from Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank. No, we could financially handle the Oakwood Apartments in Woodland Hills conveniently located right up the road from Chili's. In the days before Google searches, Woodland Hills didn't look that far out of the way. Little did we know.
Back then, I didn't have all the airline credentials that I have with American Airlines today. We found ourselves in the middle seats of a three-across. I wound up sitting next to a Middle Eastern guy in a pilot's uniform. The pants and shirt had holes in them. In October, 2001, I would have likely reported this guy to the flight attendant. But, in 1997, I sat there and quietly stewed over my cramped predicament. Little did I know.
The six-hour flight that day took eight hours. Or eighteen. It seemed like we were flying forever. I looked out at the velvet sky. What the hell was I doing? Was this the craziest thing to try and attempt? When did this guy next to me last take a bath? Questions ping ponging around my head like a pinball machine on steroids.
Once at LAX, we picked up the rental car that would be our vehicle until the Camry would or would not show up three weeks later. Once again, money was an object and we opted for a Kia, which was previously used by Bumble Bee to ship tuna. Its "pick up and go" had picked up and gone. A speed bump proved to be a steep incline for this piece of junk.
Meanwhile, even though we had been out to California before, we had no idea where the hell we were going. Our lodging was in the San Fernando Valley. As we pierced the night air in our motorized beer can, our directions seemed to lead us further and further away from civilization. Just what planet was Woodland Hills on? Oh, look, I think we just passed Jupiter.
In the days before Mapquest and Googled directions, we got lost. We exited the 101 Freeway long before we should have. Riding around in circles. Was this even a "one horse town" because I don't see a single horse? We thought about pulling into several gas stations for help but they all looked like they were in middle of an armed robbery.
Hours and seemingly years later, we arrived at the Oakwood Apartments in Woodland Hills. It was already 9PM and the management had apparently turned in for the night, which was fitting because most of Woodland Hills looked like it had closed at 7PM. Some clown with excessive bedhead finally crawled out from a rat hole and "escorted" us to our home for the next several months. By "escort," I mean...
"It's up there on the second floor someplace."
Oh. Sorry to disturb in the middle of your leisure time.
The apartment was fully equipped. Two bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. A kitchen with plates, pots, pans, and silverware. A TV with cable and a, gasp, VCR. Home, sweet home.
CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACK. (PAUSE) CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLANK!
What the fuck!
The gate to the complex' parking lot was right outside our windows. And, inexplicably, despite all the quiet in the streets around us, that gate was opened and closed once every five minutes. Where did all these people go?
CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACK. (PAUSE) CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLANK!
Somewhere in Woodland Hills, there was some stuff happening. Because urchins were coming and going from it all night.
But, after a long day's journey into weirdness, sleep was able to conquer the noisiest of motorized gates. Tomorrow, the adventure would begin its next chapter. We were headed to Warner Brothers to hang with "Murphy Brown" for the next six weeks.
To be continued.
Dinner last night: Beef and broccoli bowl.
This opened fifty years ago this month. Yes, Liza is that old.
I often show you places around Tinseltown that no longer exist. Well, every once in a while, you can find something that is still in the same spot and looking amazingly like it used to. And is still being used as a venue.
Back when I was a kid, there was a Saturday night variety show called "The Hollywood Palace." ABC aired it from a theater on Vine Street and it made me so long to be a part of this town.
Dinner last night: Salad.
Okay, from the get-go, I have always been a sucker for these Agatha Christie whodunits. I particularly like the ones with Inspector Hercule Poirot. So I even ventured out to a movie theater to see this latest tale ably directed by Kenneth Branagh who also plays Poirot.
Now these Agatha Christie stories are now going through their second film remakes. So, if you're like me and you're old enough to remember the first one, it's going to be no secret who did what to whom. And that's the case with "Death on the Nile." Now, even if I didn't see the original in the 70s, the first two scenes of the remake so telegraph what is going to happen that I'd figure it out with zero knowledge. That would be my major complaint with this one.
That said, I did enjoy how the story unfolded and the characters were developed, even with the smarmy Armie Hammer apparently playing himself as a lech. The locations were exquisite and the now requisite drone shots (in every film now made) were amazing. In my case, I knew exactly where I was going. But, for some reason, the route to get there was enjoyable.
Except...
Here we have yet another classic tale and film updated to allow for diverse casting. Now I have nothing against any actor, regardless of race or color, getting a role...when it makes sense. There are two characters here that are now African-American and in romances with a White person. Again, there is nothing wrong with it if the time and setting of the story make sense. The year of this plot is 1937. Sad to say but what they are showing you would be very unlikely at that time in our world's history.
At some point, I am hoping that filmmakers not fear the backlash and tell their stories in the way they would make the most sense, especially if they are set in a particular time and era. We are not stupid individuals. We know history was not perfect. Stop trying to tell it was.
And, with those caveats firmly in place, I sort of recommend "Death on the Nile."
LEN'S RATING: Three stars.
Dinner last night: Leftover Mongolian beef.
This one comes from America's Test Kitchen and it is chicken in vinegar sauce. Or Chicken Lyon as in France. It's quite tasty and the prep time is easy.
First off, mince a shallot and three cloves of garlic. Put aside.
Preheat an oven at 325 degrees with the rack in the center.
You'll want to use perhaps four to six chicken thighs for this. Pat the meat dry with a paper towel as that will ensure a good sear. But don't forget to season them liberally with Kosher salt and pepper.
In a pan or a dutch oven with simmering EVO, add the thighs with the skin side down. Let them go for about eight minutes. Then flip them for another four. Take them out and put aside on a plate.
Skim the residue of the pan or dutch oven and leave only about two tablespoons of oil. Add the shallot and garlic. Cook over medium heat for three minutes.
Now whisk in the following.
1 cup of chicken broth or stock.
1 cup of white wine.
1/3 cup of red wine vinegar.
Let this reduce down over high heat for about five minutes. Put the chicken back in, skin side up.
Put the uncovered pan or Dutch oven into the oven for 45 minutes.
Once removed, take the chicken out and cover them with foil to keep them warm.
To the sauce/liquid in the pot, add one tablespoon of tomato paste. Stir that in and then add two pats of unsalted butter to complete the silkiness of the sauce. Let that all come together for about three minutes and then add the chicken back in. Let it all cook as one for about another three minutes.
Then serve with either rice or noodles or pasta on the side.
Bon appetit!
Dinner last night: Leftover pasta and meatballs.
Ah, that time of year.
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Fifty years ago, this was on ABC Prime Time. With Ronny Howard!!!!
For the time being, we have the usual thread-bare cinemas from the likes of AMC and they are attempting to field a product that will get audiences off their couches and streaming services. Good luck. You know the monthly drill, gang. I'll sift through the LA Times movie pages and give you my knee-jerk reaction to what's polluting their screens.
Truly, the Egyptian re-opening can't happen soon enough.
Death on the Nile: Blog review coming. Whodunits don't necessarily work when they've been remade and you saw the original.
The Sky Is Everywhere: A shy teenage musician copes after the death of her sister. America's Got Grief.
The Worst Person in the World: If this is produced by MSNBC, I would guess this is about Trump.
Licorice Pizza: Still on my list to see. I'm a sucker for anything 70s.
Drive My Car: From Japan and it's on the nominee list for Best Picture and Best Foreign Film. But it's three hours long, so beware.
West Side Story: So Rita Moreno did not get a nomination. Well, they tried.
Parallel Mothers: I hear this is interesting. But so are ant hills.
The Tragedy of Macbeth: The tragedy is they put that shithead Denzel in this.
Moonfall: The moon is going to collide with Earth. My grandmother always said that landing there was going to be bad luck.
Belfast: Got a slew of Oscar noms and it's actually one of the few movies I enjoyed this year.
Nightmare Alley: One of the many nominated movies I did not enjoy this year.
The Power of the Dog: And here's another one.
Flee: What people are doing in most major cities.
King Richard: Another acting enema from Will Smith who is dying to win an Oscar. Having some talent might help.
Don't Look Up: Reviewed here and you take the title of the movie literally.
Dog: Unlike "Power of the Dog," this really has a dog in it.
Uncharted: Mark Wahlberg and a host of others looking for treasure buried by Magellan. The explorer, not the map.
Marry Me: A rom com with J-Lo and without A-Rod.
Blacklight: An action movie with Liam Neeson. Isn't there like one of these every month?
The Cursed: A horror movie set in 19th Century France. Any movie set in France is a horror to me.
Finding Carlos: The Nutcracker set to skateboarding and hip hop music. Kill me now.
Too Cool to Kill: A comedy from China. Cameo appearance by Hunter Biden.
Dinner last night: Leftover SPO.
This was going to be epic. One of my truly favorite films "Bye Bye Birdie" accompanied by the legendary Ann-Margret. It doesn't have to get any better than that.
And, for the first two hours while the movie was playing at the Ricardo Montalban Theater in Hollywood, it was. The crowd applauded each production number. The love I have for this gem was not going to be unmatched.
And then the Q/A.
Introduced by some record company hipster/huckster with a blonde mohawk haircut, Ann-Margret entered the stage to a tumultuous standing ovation.
And then, almost immediately...sadness.
No one had to have a medical degree in tow to release that Ann-Margret is in some numbered stage of dementia. She repeated the same childhood story not one, not twice, not three, not four, but five times. Clearly, there would be no discussion of Birdie or Elvis or late husband Roger Smith. And the host was either too stupid or too callous to read the room and what was happening. Or maybe they knew ahead of time? The record company was there to promote the latest album from A-M where she is embarrassingly doing covers for some old 50s and 60s hits. And who let that even happen in the first place?
Clearly, there are people in A-M's camp who are letting this unfold and don't care? And there is indeed blood on the hands from Cleopatra Records, the crappy company that is behind this. Did they not see the same things we saw? Did they squirm like us? Did they have any sense of compassion for this once mighty talent?
It was all a reminder that aging is the great equalizer amongst celebrities, politicians, and the rest of us common folk. But the key is to be equalized with compassion and dignity.
Ann-Margret is not experiencing either.
Dinner last night: Salad.
I was under the false impression that "The Power of the Dog" had something to do with a canine. Wrong. The title is referenced in some Biblical quote which is revealed at the very end of the movie. If you managed to make it to the end. This film is as dreary and dull as a film can get.
Beyond the false advertising of the title, it also appears that you are getting a western. Well, not unless you consider 1925 Montana the wild, wild west. It is the frontier and there are a bunch of cowboy-like characters but they do very little to warrant a story.
A story? As if this movie has one. Oh, there's some slender thread of a tale about two brothers. One...the civilized guy...marries a widow and her teenage son who might be gay. The uncivilized brother likes to swim naked in the mud and naturally he takes the son under his wing. If that sounds interested, you fell for the gag. I guess you might call this one a psychological drama. Well, you have to be a little psycho to make any logic out of this. You've heard the adage that nothing happens and a lot happens. Well, in this misfire from the overrated Jane Campion, nothing happens...period.
And, also, we have yet another movie which is lit by Stevie Wonder. Even in daytime scenes, it's hard to see the actors' faces. As if you want to. Okay, Kirsten Dunst has a moment or two as the widow. But, as the ruthless brother, I can take or leave Benedict Cumberbatch. I know he has his legion of fans, but his worthiness is lost on me, especially with that name which sounds more like one of a rabbit in a children's novel.
Again, this is all lost on me especially since this film got a leading 12 Oscar nominations. I missed something. I apparently missed everything. And I sure do wish there really was a dog in this one. Even a rabid one.
LEN'S RATING: One star.
Dinner last night: Went to a screening so nothing really.
Happy Valentine's Day. What better way to celebrate than showing you the last scene of "Fatal Attraction." Yes, this is funny.
Seventy winters ago!
Dinner last night: Jambon beurre sandwich at Petit Trois.
Why am I surprised? This is another bloated affair from Del Toro, whose movies are as large and sloppy as he is. For some reason, Hollywood adores this swine and even gave him the Best Picture Oscar for the dreadful "Shape of Water." Well, this year's nominations (as if anybody still cares) came out this week and the love tryst continues.
Again, I would counter that nobody knows what they are looking at because the film is so excessively dark. This makes film noir of the 40s look like a Busby Berkeley musical. Perhaps if you can't see the action on the screen, it will help you overlook the ugly characters prancing around a lack of story.
For those who care, Bradley Cooper plays this...dark...guy who somehow wanders into a...dark...traveling carnival loaded with live chicken eaters, soothsayers, and a woman who electrocutes herself on cue. That's the first half of the movie. If you haven't left, the second half takes Cooper to the big city where he becomes a Kreskin-like mentalist in supper clubs. While there, he hooks up with a...dark...shrink played by Cate Blanchett.
What happened after that? Your guess is as good as mine. But, clearly this is a glimpse of Del Toro's childhood and he must have gotten beaten up a lot in the playground. He seemingly hates everybody.
We're even. I hate him.
Hmmm. Did I actually just write that? Sorry. My vision is still adjusting to light.
LEN'S RATING: Zero stars.
Dinner last night: Korean pork from PF Chang's.
Now, with NY's Bill DeBlasio now doing clean-up on the condiment counter at Burger King, we can officially say without question that Eric Garcetti is the dumbest mayor in the US. He will hold that title until he is either booted or Mayor Pete goes back to his old job in South Bend.
There is no better illustration of Garcetti's stupidity than the photo faux pas which caught him maskless at the Rams stadium last week. When questioned about this, this idiot explained it all away by saying this was only for the selfie and he was holding his breath the entire time.
Hahahahahahahahaha!
If only he could not exhale for about 90 minutes and then we would have a good story.
But lunacy is obviously more contagious than Omicron. Because, at the very same event, we got the other California shit-for-brains Governor Gavin Newscum caught in a similar selfie.
The only people dumber than these two are the ones who pulled the lever next to their names in the voting booth. That might even be you.
And here's the catch on both of these selfies. Magic Johnson is also maskless. Now he's as dumb as a door knob, too, but...I mean...he's got an auto immune issue. Wasn't he deemed HIV Positive 100 years ago? Shouldn't he be masked at all times? And not hanging around with these two morons?
This is all a fucking charade. And surprise...California has now lifted indoor mask mandates.
Dinner last night: Leftover Chinese food.
I'm digging the Oliver the Beagle video channel, partly because he reminds me of the dog I had when I was a kid. Enjoy and woof.
Dinner last night: Chicken in vinegar sauce.
My birthday is this Friday and regardless of how I celebrate, it will never top a birthday I enjoyed about 25 or so years ago. And it involves none other than the lady in the photo above.
Rosemary Clooney is one of the things I inherited from my parents, other than the maddening mix of personality flaws (stoicism from Dad, impulsiveness from Mom) I got from both. Her music was always playing in our house on those monaural long playing records that were stacked up five-at-a-time on the "Hi Fi." Vikki Carr, for some bizarre reason, was always being piped in throughout the house, and this made no sense to me, as half of her songs were always in Spanish. But, I digress...
I developed an affinity for Rosemary Clooney at an early age, and I continued it as her musical stylings changed over time. Indeed, when she got to that small cabaret stage in the early 90s, this was a fastball over the plate for me. I ate it up. So, you can imagine my absolute glee when I heard that she would be appearing at the old Rainbow and Stars supper club on top of Rockefeller Center on a Saturday evening in February about two plus decades ago. And it was my birthday! Touchdown. Score the goal. Touch 'em all. I would be there.
I made a pact with God not to louse up this amazing quirk of timing. The only thing that could stop me would be one of those crippling blizzards that renders New York City as useful as power brakes on a turtle. I enlisted two cohorts to share in my glory. And then I called for three reservations to the show. And here comes what might have been a fatal mistake.
Supper Club: "Will you be dining with us or just coming for the show?"
Me: (knowing fully well how pricey their menu was) "No, just the show, please."
An oops moment. Except I did not know it at the time.
When the evening arrived, it was cold and blustery. But nary a winter cloud in the sky. The only flakes were the usual tourists that hover around like Rock Center like ants on picnic blanket crumbs. We ate dinner, but at a venue certainly a little more downscale than the 75 buck burgers the supper club was hawking.
An hour before the 11PM show, we made our way up the elevator to that wonderful room that overlooks the entire city. I walked up to the hostess and announced our arrival.
There was no reservation in my name.
WTF!
I stressed there must be some mistake. I recited the day, date, and appropriate time that I called.
Still nothing. Sorry.
And, of course, the show is sold out, so there was no chance of getting another table.
WTF!!
I asked to speak to the manager. He was not available. But we were more than welcome to have a cocktail in the bar and enjoy the view.
Happy birthday to me. And a glorious Fuck You from the Rainbow Room.
My friends did their best over drinks to make me feel better. It didn't work. As I sat there staring at the Empire State Building with that red heart of lights all ready for Valentine's Day, I got more and more agitated. And then I kicked into what I call Murphy Brown mode. Or something akin to that scene in "Terms of Endearment" when Shirley McLaine screams at the nurses' station to get her daughter more medication.
I got ugly.
Leaving my friends with their adult beverages, I went Rainbow Room manager hunting. And I didn't care who I asked. Or interrupted. I finally tracked the guy down in the main part of the Rainbow Room, where he was coordinating somebody's wedding reception.
Yeah, I didn't care.
At first blush, he tried to blow me off. But, then I explained it was my birthday that was now ruined. Of course, I added, other people in the same situation may use that "faux birthday" excuse. I assured him my birthday story was true. I whipped out my driver's license and shoved the date in his face. There was a small glimmer of hope in his face. He told me to go back to the bar and that he would send somebody for us just before the show was scheduled to start.
And he was good to his word. Just before 11PM, the same snarly hostess, who was now off my Christmas card list, came to get us. She explained that the reason for the mix-up was due to a late reservation request from.....Harry Crosby. Okay, if I'm going to get upended by a Crosby kid, make it Mary Crosby. At least, she's the answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. Nevertheless, they were creating an extra table for us. The only caveat was that we couldn't enter the show until the very last minute and we had to do so from a side door. Perhaps, there was surveillance set up by the Fire Department? Who knows?
Anyway, the skank ushered us to said side door. Which was not really a side door. It was actually the wings to the stage.
And we were standing there alongside Rosemary Clooney!
It took me about five seconds to realize that this was the ultimate birthday present. I thought really fast about what to say to her. I know not to say "break a leg." Besides, I know she already had several years before.
Me: "Have a great show."
Rosemary: "I'm a little nervous."
Me: "Don't be. All friends in there."
And Harry Crosby is in my original seats.
Rosemary: (patting my arm) "You're sweet."
And off she went for an hour of musical nirvana.
Oddly enough, after the show, we ran into her again near the coat check. She was apparently using the area to mingle with her friends. I was standing about three feet away from her as she gabbed with Skitch Henderson. Another friend came over to take their picture. I realized I was positioned right in the center of the intended photo. They smiled. So did I. Flash.
I've always wondered if anybody questioned who the hell was this schmuck standing between Rosemary Clooney and Skitch Henderson.
Hey, I'm the one who was celebrating my birthday that night.
When Rosie died in 2002, I posted this story to a memorial website that her family had set up for fans. About three months later, I received a handwritten note from her brother, Nick Clooney (father of George). He mentioned that the family was touched by my story and they wanted to invite me to the Hollywood memorial concert being held later that year. Unfortunately, I couldn't be there. And I didn't need to be.
I still had my story. And I was sticking to it.
It really was my birthday!
Dinner last night: Tangerine beef at Chin Chin.
