F#@king Shrinking

 

If you're confused by the title of today's entry, all will be revealed at the end of the piece.  For now, let's just review a new TV show.

If you're like me, you are completely numbed and addled by the amount of new series that premiere on streams almost daily.   There is way, way, way too much content and most of it sucks.  So how does Len get enticed to cut through the weeds and find something he actually wants to watch?

Well, if Harrison Ford is featured in the ad, that's enticement enough.  That's what led me to "Shrinking," unspooling its first season right now on Apple.  For the most part, I have been rewarded.  Admittedly, you cannot go by the first episode.   Normally, I would have tuned out.  But, the creators (from the old NBC sitcom "Scrubs") have developed a show where not everything and everybody is revealed in Episode 1.  Or Episode 2.  Or Episode 3.   Truth be told, you have to hang in there to figure out who's who and why they are doing what they are doing.

Now, the lead actor almost made me tune out early as well.  Jason Segal, who was in another show I never got - "How I Met Your Mother," plays the main character of Jimmy Laird and his shameless over-acting is annoying.   Eventually, you learn the reason for some of his histrionics, but that still doesn't make him a good actor.  Luckily, there's enough around him that make the show worthwhile.

Segal plays psychiatrist still grieving over his wife who was killed in a car crash.  He's also trying to cope with a grieving teen age daughter.   Meanwhile, he tries to radically alter his in-office counseling, much to the consternation of his "mentor" played wonderfully by the never-bad Harrison Ford.  Segal gets too close to some of his patients and that's where the comedy...and the drama...resides.   

Yep' "Shrinking" is one of those hybrid shows that mixes laughs with tears. These days, it's hard to find a TV show that is one or the other.  Most are horrible.  "Shrinking" manages it with a bit more success.

As I said, it takes a while to learn about everybody.   And you will soon discover that everybody is broken is some way.  And lying about some things to some people and telling the truth to others.

Despite some of the flaws mentioned above, "Shrinking" is worth your time if not for Harrison Ford alone.

And now for the title of today's entry.  One of the biggest annoyances of this show is the virtually dropping of the F bomb.  Not just by one character.  EVERYBODY!  Men, women, young, old.  It's almost like the word itself is as common as "the."  Now I'm not normally a prude about this, but, on "Shrinking," it is excessive.  The writers and producers need to realize that it doesn't make the show any funnier or edgier or more hip.  It's needless.  And less is more.

Dinner last night:   Leftover bow tie pasta.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - February 27, 2023

It ain't in English but you can get where this is going.  As my grandmother would say, dumkopf.

 

Dinner last night:  Wrapping up my month of birthday celebrations with a sumptuous gourmet meal at the home of good friends Amir and Kevin.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Snow Jobs

 

It was a weather alert like I had seen before.

Blizzard warning.

Except I never seen it on a TV screen in Los Angeles, California.   But, yes, with this recent cold, cold storm, the snow levels were dropping to 1,000 feet.   Keep in mind that the Hollywood Sign is at 1500 feet.   Now there's a photo for you. Snow flurries in Tinseltown.

Of course, I grew up in New York and the white stuff was not as uncommon there.  You may have seen this photo before.  But, nevertheless, here I am again.  Enjoying the snow several decades ago.  With a friend that was undoubtedly built by my dad.  Even then, I had no patience when it came to artistic moments.  I certainly couldn't have crafted a snowman.

Ah, how refreshing.  How homespun.  How cute.

And, then, a bunch of years later...

Here I am again.  Having a lot less fun.  A snapshot from the 80s.  My very first solo apartment on North Broadway in Yonkers.  And, whoa, there's my very first car.  A 1980 Toyota Corolla.  I loved that little brown peanut.  It gave me ten solid years of reliable transportation.  Despite the fact that it was always parked outside amongst the elements.  And took the brunt of snowfalls like this.

It's amazing how your perspective changes when you grow up in an area that endures snowflakes during the winter months. 

When you're a kid, you live through the delight of the Christmas season just as winter sets in.  Then, on January 2, you are likely headed back to jail AKA elementary school.  And the prospect of time off, prior to the regularly scheduled Presidential birthdays in February, is totally dependent upon some low pressure systems meshing with some Canadian cold front.  You'd anxiously await the weather report on the nightly news.  You'd gladly switch over from the Three Stooges on WPIX Channel 11 to hear WCBS weatherlady Carol Reed tell you to "have a happy" and then announce the prospects of a blizzard within the next five days. 

"70% chance of snow."

Hmmm, that's more than 50-50.  I'll take it.  I would immediately start to make plans about how late I would sleep in the morning.

Of course, school had to be officially cancelled first.  And, in Mount Vernon, New York, which was just north of the Bronx/NYC line, that wasn't so easy.    The New York City public school system was notoriously famous for not cancelling classes.  It really had to be a dire emergency.

"Due to the plague of locusts, New York City public schools will open at 10AM this morning."

Mount Vernon didn't like to cancel if New York City stayed open.  So, frequently, as the drifts piled up, we were screwed.  Still, we had hope.  If you knew that snow had fallen overnight, you would get up and prod your mother to tune to Westchester's official "school closing" radio station, WFAS-AM.  I don't think anybody ever really listens to WFAS unless it's snowing.  And you'd listen hopefully as the roll call of Westchester County school systems checking in.

"Mahopac schools closed."

Of course, they are.  Mahopac is right next to Alaska, correct?

"Rye Country Day School closed."

That sounds like such a nice place to be educated.  The Rye Country Day School.  Mom, can we move please?  Because they're closed today.

"White Plains schools closed."

Okay, gang, we're getting closer.

"Mount Vernon public schools............open."

F Me.

We never got a break. 

Now there was a back-up alert system that we always hoped would prove those WFAS frauds wrong.  The city of Mount Vernon had a set of loud fire whistles.  If there was no school, the siren would go off at 7AM and 8AM.  I would wait with baited breath.  Nobody make a sound, please.

Most of the time...nothing.

But, there were those days where the whistle went off and I felt glorious.  I also think they were going to use the same warning in the event of a nuclear attack so the last laugh could have been on me as I shimmied my way into my snow suit and/or a radioactive haze.

Not that my day was going to be completely full of leisure.  Invariably, I would be invited outside to help my father shovel out the driveway.  With the usual winter threat.

"Go help your father.  Do you want him to die of a heart attack?"

Okay, got it.

I'd amble outside and then perform my usual snowstorm chore.  I'd pretend to shovel.  If it was windy, the white stuff would blow back into my face.  Eventually, I had more snow on me than I had moved into a neat pile.  Within fifteen minutes, the potential coronary victim that was my dad had seen enough.

"Go inside.  You're just making a mess out here."

Okay, got it.

And that's how, every winter as a child, I managed to get out of shoveling snow.  A wonderful system.   And my father never did have that heart attack.

But, in retrospect, I probably could have used the practice.  Because as glorious as snow days were when you're a youngster, your viewpoints changes when you're an adult.

You don't listen to the school closings on WFAS-AM.

You don't get to wait for a fire whistle.

Unless, it's fifteen inches or more, you don't get to stay home.  You are expected to work.

So, you wake up in the AM and shovel out your car as you see in the photo above. 

It all sucked.

At my very first solo apartment on North Broadway in Yonkers, just leaving the premises in the snow was an ordeal.  First, you had to clean off the car.  If I was smart the night before, I had already taken the brush, shovel, and ice scraper out of the trunk.  Then you begin the process.  If it was really early and nobody was outside yet, I would simply push the crap onto the car in the next space.  Hell, he was a dirtbag anyway.

Now I had a real problem if there was a sheet of ice on the windshield.  Those of you not familiar with frozen tundra-like conditions have no idea how you defrost your car window.  To do it correctly, you ideally need to go out about a half-hour before you really want to leave.  You sit in the car and turn on the defroster.  And simply sit and wait.

Me?  I had little patience.  So I would try to help it along by spraying on the windshield washing liquid.  That would help speed up the process momentarily. 

Until that froze over even more.  Before I knew it, my car window could have served as the arena for the Stanley Cup playoffs.  And I never ever learned my lesson.

Of course, once you could see out your car window, you had to figure out a way to get up the huge slope of a driveway.  On lots of winter mornings, there were cars literally lined up waiting to take their turn up Mount Kilimanjaro.   People would rev their engines to get some momentum going and then start to speed up the driveway which had been barely cleaned.

Halfway up, you'd start to slide down.

Again.

Halfway up.  Slide back down.

Again.

Halfway up.  Slide back down.

Okay, if you failed the climb on the third attempt, common courtesy would be to step aside and let the next bozo try.

Halfway up.  Slide back down.

Again.

Halfway up.  Slide back down.

If somebody managed to keep going, everybody else would stand there perplexed trying to figure out how they did it.  That and, also, cursing the bastard for his success.

Once I got up to the main thoroughfare of North Broadway, I wasn't nearly finished.  I had to somehow maneuver my way gingerly down the mountains of Yonkers to the Metro North train station in Getty Square.  Driving behind other idiots trying to do the same thing but with tires that had not been rotated or replaced in a decade.

The usual ten-minute drive to the train often took an hour on those mornings.  And then, of course, you had no guarantee of transportation into Manhattan.  You'd arrive triumphantly on the train platform only to hear the scratchy announcement over the public address system.

"The 7:55AM to Grand Central...has been cancelled...due to equipment trouble."

Okay, there was another one in ten minutes.

"The 8:05AM to Grand Central...has been cancelled...due to equipment trouble."

And fifteen minutes later...

"The 8:05AM to Grand Central...is running...fifteen minutes later."

Duh.

Admittedly, the Metro North railroad has gotten their act together in the past two decades.   But, back in the 80s, you had a better chance of getting into the city if you waited for a sleigh to come by with Doctor Zhivago at the reins.

When you finally crawled into your office by 9:30AM or 10AM, you'd look around at complete emptiness.  And wonder in amazement how you managed to get to work from Westchester County but the person who lives ten blocks away on 57th Street hadn't arrived yet.

Yeah, writing this piece has given me an epiphany.

I don't miss that weather at all.  I am happy to spend the winter months in Los Angeles.  Where a 20 percent chance of showers prompts a "storm watch" on local TV stations.

Dinner last night:  Farfalle with prosciutto, tomatoes, peas in parmesan cheese sauce.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - February 2023

 Sixty years ago this month.   Screen seams by Cinerama.

Dinner last night:  Orange chicken and rice.

Len's Juke Box of the Month - February 2023

Time to put another quarter in.

One of the glories of living in LA is how you can end up alongside somebody who has made their mark in show business.  One of my church friends is named Phyllis and she just happened to tour for 16 years with Version 2.0 of the Fifth Dimension.  

And every time I see her, this song plays in my head.

 

Dinner last night:  French onion soup.

Hollywood Then and Now - February 2023

 I don't know about you, but I still miss Betty White.  Or at least knowing she was around.

A few days after she died, I took a ride past her Brentwood home.   Sort of a silent little homage.

Now doesn't that look like a house Betty White would live in?

According to her wishes, she wanted the home to be demolished after she died.  So a few short months later...

Well, for once, a drastic change occurs just as requested.

Dinner last night:  Caesar salad.

This Date in History - February 22

 

Live from New York, it's "Happy Birthday, Don Pardo!"  That is if they celebrate that stuff in heaven.

1371:  ROBERT II BECOMES KING OF SCOTLAND, BEGINNING THE STUART DYNASTY.  

If being king of some place where men wear skirts is your thing, go have at it.

1495:  KING CHARLES VIII OF FRANCE ENTERS NAPLES TO CLAIM THE CITY'S THRONE.

And pick up a large pepperoni pizza.

1632:  GALILEO'S "DIALGOUE CONCERNING THE TWO CHIEF WORLD SYSTEMS" IS PUBLISHED.

Yeah, but it wasn't one of Oprah's book picks of the month.

1797:  THE LAST INVASION OF BRITAIN BEGINS NEAR FISHGUARD, WALES.

The last invasion?  What was the Nazis in 1939?  A class field trip?

1819:  BY THE ADAMS-ONI TREATY, SPAIN SELLS FLORIDA TO THE UNITED STATES FOR FIVE MILLION DOLLARS.

And they have been sending their people to live there ever since.

1847:  DURING THE MEXICAN-AMERICAN WAR, 5,000 AMERICAN TROOPS DEFEAT 15,000 MEXICANS.

That's 3 Mexicans for every American soldier.  Meanwhile, I don't think this war is over yet.

1855:  THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY IS FOUNDED IN STATE COLLEGE, PENNSYLVANIA.

When were the boys' showers built?

1856:  THE REPUBLICAN PARTY OPENS ITS FIRST NATIONAL MEETING IN PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA.

Why are these political groups called "partys?"  They don't look like much fun to me.

1862:  JEFFERSON DAVIS IS OFFICIALLY INAUGURATED FOR A SIX-YEAR-TERM AS THE PRESIDENT OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA.

A six-year-term?  Yikes.  For me, four years is way too long if the guy stinks.

1872:  THE PROHIBITION PARTY HOLDS ITS FIRST NATIONAL CONVENTION IN COLUMBUS, OHIO.

Prohibition?   That is definitely not a party in my book.

1879:  IN UTICA, NEW YORK, FRANK WOOLWORTH OPENS THE FIRST OF MANY FIVE AND DIME WOOLWORTH STORES.

And, on this day only, you probably could buy something in there for fifteen cents.

1889:  PRESIDENT GROVER CLEVELAND SIGNS A BILL ADMITTING NORTH DAKOTA, SOUTH DAKOTA, MONTANA, AND WASHINGTON AS US STATES.

Well, that probably added about 27 people to the country's population.

1907:  ACTOR SHELDON LEONARD IS BORN.

Psst, hey, buddy....

1907:  ACTOR ROBERT YOUNG IS BORN.

Father knows best...and, in this case, also drinks most.

1915:  DURING WORLD WAR I, GERMANY INSTITUTES UNRESTRICTED SUBMARINE WARFARE.

You mean it was once restricted? 

1918:  BASEBALL OWNER CHARLIE FINLEY IS BORN.

Is it redundant if I call him a jackass?

1918:  TV ANNOUNCER DON PARDO IS BORN.

He worked till he was 90.   Hopefully, it wasn't because he had a lousy pension plan at NBC.

1924:  US PRESIDENT CALVIN COOLIDGE BECOMES THE FIRST PRESIDENT TO DELIVER A RADIO BROADCAST FROM THE WHITE HOUSE.

So he was officially the first one not to have anything to say.

1930:  SINGER MARNI NIXON IS BORN.

Really not a big deal until the day that Audrey Hepburn and Natalie Wood were born.

1932:  POLITICIAN TED KENNEDY WAS BORN.

Can you imagine the labor pains when little Rose had to push this fat load out?

1942:  DURING WORLD WAR II, PRESIDENT FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT ORDERS GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR OUT OF THE PHILIPPINES AS JAPAN'S VICTORY BECOMES INEVITABLE.

That's an awful quick hook, if you ask me.

1958:  EGYPT AND SYRIA JOIN TO FORM THE UNITED ARAB REPUBLIC.

The last moment of unity ever in the Mideast.

1965:  JUSTICE OF THE US SUPREME COURT FELIX FRANKFURTER DIES.

Hot dog!

1974:  SAMUEL BYCK TRIES AND FAILS TO ASSASSINATE US PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON.

Talk about blowing your chance at immortality.

1976:  SUPREME FLORENCE BALLARD DIES.

She was stopped...in the name of love.

1980:  IN LAKE PLACID, NEW YORK, THE UNITED STATES HOCKEY TEAM DFEATS THE SOVIET UNION HOCKEY TEAM, 4-3. 

Do you believe in miracles??  Nah!

1983:  THE NOTORIOUS BROADWAY FLOP "MOOSE MURDERS' OPENS AND CLOSES ON THE SAME NIGHT.

That's what I get for buying tickets for February 23.

1984:  DAVID VETTER, THE BOY IN THE BUBBLE, DIES.

Symbolically, he died during the closing credits of the Lawrence Welk Show.

1985:  VIOLINIST EFREM ZIMBALIST DIES.

77 Sunset....no, wait, this is the father.  Never mind.

1987:  ARTIST ANDY WARHOL DIES.

In his memory, I ate a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup.

1995:  ACTOR ED FLANDERS DIES.

He killed himself.  Sad.  A terrific performance on one of my favorite TV shows of all time, St. Elsewhere.

1997:  IN SCOTLAND, SCIENTISTS ANNOUNCE THAT AN ADULT SHEEP NAMED DOLLY HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY CLONED.

So, well, hello...  Any need to finish this obvious joke?

2002:  CARTOONIST CHUCK JONES DIES.

That really is all, folks.

2016:  SONGWRITER/SINGER SONNY JAMES DIES.

From Young Love to Old Corpse.

Dinner last night:  Leftover pork tenderloin.

Excessive Excess

 

I wish I coined the title of today's entry but a good friend of mine did when he told me his thoughts on the movie "Babylon."  I can't say I disagree.   At a running time of 3 hours, every single scene goes on way too long.   Didn't some director know how to say the word "cut?"

Since "Babylon" comes from the same creative team that brought us the wonderful "LaLa Land," I had high hopes for this one.  Plus it was about the world of Hollywood during the years where studios transitioned from silents to talkies.  This had to be great, right?

Dead, dead wrong.

"Babylon" is about Tinsel Town through the eyes of several characters.  Brad Pitt plays an heart throb/actor struggling to stay relevant.  Margot Robbie is a would-be starlet who will do anything to get a part.   There's a Mexican waiter dying to get into the business and a Black jazz musician who has to smudge his face with burnt cork to make himself even darker just to get work.   Plus the always welcome Jean Smart has a few good scenes as a Hollywood gossip columnist.

Now all of the performances are fine.   And if the filmmakers had stuck to showing up the industry at work, "Babylon" would have worked --- sort of like the non-musical plot of "Singin' In The Rain," and clips from that play into the "Babylon" story.   But every time it's interesting, we cut to twenty minutes of a Hollywood party full of decadence and debauchery and a lot of vomit.  

It turns this film from a decent one to an awful one.   And that's a damn shame. Deep down, there is a good movie here.   And with about 45 to 60 minutes of partying cut, "Babylon" would have been that good movie.

But, alas, no.   Because, as I said, the excess was excessive.

LEN'S RATING:  One stars.

Dinner last night:  Leftover Orange chicken.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - February 20, 2023

On President's Day, let's celebrate the current one.   Or not. 

Dinner last night:  Pork tenderloin.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Mom's Favorite Sportscaster

 

I've written this before on these blog pages, but sometimes breaking news prompts a rerun.

You see Tim McCarver passed away this week at the age of 81.  And, if you watched the New York Mets during the 80s and early 90s, you lost a friend.

Oh, I know there are his detractors who hated every time he showed up for a national baseball telecast.  Not me.  Never.  Despite the fact that I always appreciated the honesty, the integrity, and the knowledge we brought to every game he worked, there is one reason why I will never ever forget the work of Tim McCarver.

He provided a bond to my mother.  The older I got, the less connected we were.   And, then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue and orange, we found our way back to each other.  The connective tissue was baseball.  The surgeon who performed this intricate procedure was Tim McCarver.  I told the story several years back on a Mother's Day.  Tim's passing makes it worth repeating today.

When I was a kid and a completely rabid baseball fan, there was little intertwining between me and my mother when it came to the sport. From time to time, my fandom prompted some conflicts when I had commandeered the then-only TV set to watch a Met game. Mom had other visual destinations.

"Merv Griffin's on."

But...

I invariably lost out and had to resort to the radio play-by-play. Shortly thereafter, I did get my own portable TV for my bedroom. But still, I preferred to commandeer the only-color TV set in the house to watch a Met game. 

Another maternal skirmish ensued.

"Mike Douglas is on. Go watch in your room."

But, that's only black-and-white.

I never won.

There was one summer evening where I was watching a Met game on the Zenith Color TV console in the living room. Tom Seaver was going into the ninth inning against the Chicago Cubs with a perfect game. I was beside my self with euphoria. 

Enter Mom intent on turning the channel and finding out what Merv and Totie Fields were up to. I had to sell the importance of the baseball event through to her.

"Tom Seaver's pitching a perfect game."

Mom looked at me quizzically.

"Is that good?"

As my dad had explained to me several years earlier when we listened to the ninth inning of Jim Bunning's perfect-o against the Mets in a cemetery, I relayed the importance of such a feat to Mom. It was enough to keep the TV tuned to WOR Channel 9. And she watched along with me.

Five minutes later, Jimmy Qualls got a single, broke up Tom Seaver's bid for immortality, and ruined my evening and perhaps my life. It was rare for me to do so in front of a parental unit, but I let out an expletive.

"Shit."

Or something like that. Mom didn't totally get the moment or the significance or the pain.

"It's over. Channel 5, please."

And that was the sum total of combined activity for me, my mother, and baseball for the next several decades. Once I had my Saturday Plan seats at Shea, the only time the sport came up with her in conversation was with the same exchange. Over and over.

"Mom, I have a Met game Saturday.'

"That's nice."

Over and over.

"Mom, I'm watching the Met game tonight."

"That's fine."

Over and over.

Until it happened.

I don't know exactly when the world spun off its axis. But it took me completely by surprise. I was an adult by then. Calling the parental units once a day to check in and make sure they hadn't done anything to themselves. One night, in the middle of the most mundane of mundane conversations with my mother, she dropped her version of Enola Gay.

"Did you watch that Met game this afternoon?"

Who is this? And what have you done with her?

"That new announcer the Mets have. Tim McCarver. She's good looking."

No, seriously, where is she? Where is my mother?

She went on about the game. And did so the next day. And the day after. And the week after. And, most amazingly, she was starting to make sense. Slowly, she was picking up the intricate nuances of the game. And virtually parroting Tim McCarver.

"There's no way Mookie should have been bunting in the eighth inning."

"What was Davey Johnson thinking? I don't bring Doug Sisk in from the bullpen in that situation."

"Ron Darling walks way too many batters."

Huh?

I wrote Tim McCarver a note and told him what he had done to my mother. He took the compliment graciously. Except he had no idea how far off the beam she got. She was tuned to every game on TV. If they were playing on a weekday afternoon, she had the radio on at work. And she could recite their uniform numbers. I remembered that this particular feat was one of my earliest claims to fame when I had become a Met fan years before.

The circle of life had come full circle.

It helped that, in the mid 1980s, the Mets were a pretty good team whose bandwagon my mother had jumped on. These were the days of Gary Carter, Keith Hernandez, Jesse Orosco, and Darryl Strawberry.

And my mother's favorite Met of all time. Dwight Gooden. My mom's keen interest in the Mets had reached its full maturation in 1984, which was Gooden's rookie season. She took to the young pitcher as if he was her own son. 

While her Met fandom rarely wavered, it peaked significantly every five days or so when he was on the mound. Again, I was confounded by this all. Why Dwight Gooden? Why the Mets. Why now?

During the championship year of 1986, Mom's TV set went on the fritz right in the middle of the playoffs. She went from apartment to apartment in her building, looking for an available TV set and couch. Ultimately, she went to one of those furniture rental stores and leased a portable TV for the next three weeks.

The following season, when Gooden was suspended for cocaine use, my mother's world crumbled. I actually saw her cry over this. Tears that I had never seen when some relatives had died. Indeed, once I got used to this amazing human transformation, I was quite pleased. Mom had recently retired. Or actually had been unceremoniously retired. Other senior citizens tended to fall into funks when the work world is removed from their orbits. But, my mom didn't have time to get bored. She had the Mets.

There was only one more ribbon that needed to be tied around this package. It took a while, but she finally asked.

"I want to go to one of your Saturday games with you."

I realized I had uttered a similar phrase to my dad years earlier. In some ways, my mother's fandom was equal to what I had gone through when I was ten years ago.

Whereas my very first impression of Shea Stadium on a stormy Friday night was one of dampness and darkness, my mother's emergence from the tunnel into the Loge Section 7 stands was idyllic. The sun was shining. The weather was warm. The field shone like the most exquisite of jewels. And she enjoyed herself. To a degree.

"I like it better on TV. I miss Tim McCarver."

And, for that very reason, she never went to another game. With me. Or with anyone else. But, at least, there was that one special Saturday.

And, for that reason, I will never forget Tim McCarver.

Dinner last night:  Orange chicken.

Classic TV Theme Song of the Month - February 2023

 Hard to believe this had just premiered fifty years ago.   Dig the groovy guest stars.

Dinner last night:  Grilled beef sausage.

Your Weekend Movie Guide for February 2023

Thirty years ago, "Groundhog Day" opened.   What is interesting to me in this ad is how many of the theaters I would frequent in Westchester are gone now.   The only cinema that was playing this movie in 1993 still open is the Bronxville Cinema.  And, in Manhattan, the Ziegfeld is also kaput.

So much sadness in one advertisement.  But we press on.   Hopefully, there's a theater open near you this weekend.   Hopefully, there's something good playing there.  You know the monthly drill, gang.  I'll sift through the movie pages of the LA Times and give you my knee-jerk reaction to what's out on the big screen.

If there's a big screen at all...

80 For Brady:   The Golden Girls go to the Super Bowl.  Yet one more collaboration for Jane Fonda and my pal Lily Tomlin.  I hear it is surprisingly good.

Knock At The Cabin:  A country vacation turns into the end of the world.  Or perhaps there's no bucket in the ice machine.

Magic Mike's Last Dance:  The third installment of male stripping.  The audience is 100% single women in their 40s or gay guys of all ages.

Puss N Boots - The Last Wish:  Have I mentioned I hate cats?

M3gan:  Still intrigued by the title.  But not enough to go see it.

A Man Called Otto:  Tom Hanks is now playing crochety old guys.   Because he is one?

Missing:  Mom disappears and the daughter tries to find her via social media.  So Instagram has effectively replaced the police?

Avatar - The Way of Water: Hated the first one, so connect my dots.

Titanic - 25th Anniversary Edition:  It still sinks.   Just saying.

Plane:  Or with peanuts.

Heart of a Champion:  A teenage girl falls in love with a horse.  Hey, anything goes these days.

Amazing Maurice:  Another cartoon about a cat.  Please make them stop.

The Fabelmans:  Reviewed here recently.   I liked it, but it does have its detractors.

Women Talking: Men avoiding.

The Whale: Brendan Fraser may win an Oscar for appearing so fat on screen.  Spoiler alert:  I think it was prosthetics.

Infinity Pool:  Another vacation gone wrong.   Don't they all?

Living: Bill Nighy stars and he is certainly an acquired taste/

Maybe I Do:  A romcom, so perhaps I don't.

All Quiet on the Western Front: Nominated for 9 Oscars, but I still think this remake was unnecessary.

Swallowed:  Teens taking drugs.  Welcome to the Fentanyl era.

Marlowe:  The famous private eye.  This time played by Liam Neeson who makes a movie a week.

Winnie the Pooh - Blood and Money:  This ain't Walt Disney's little bear.

Ant-Man and The Wasp:  More super hero crap.

Devil's Peak: Billy Bob Thornton sells meth in the Appalachians.   Obviously, there's no CVS nearby.

Dinner last night:  BLT sandwich at Art's Deli

Len's Recipe of the Month - February 2023

When you look at as many food videos as I do, it is inevitable that you will wind up in some You Tube algorithm and receive other food videos under that ubiquitous category.

"You Might Also Be Interested In..."

Such is how I suddenly was inundated with recipes for Mississippi Pot Roast. What the hell is that, you may ask?  Well, I was curious enough to dive in and then make the big trip down the food hole and tried a recipe myself.

Now, as I detail it below, it will sound sort of normal pot roasty to you.  But there are two very specific ingredients that turn a regular pot roast into Mississippi Pot Roast.   And, by the way, it's quite tasty.

Start with a 2 to 3 pound chuck roast.   Salt and pepper it liberally and let it sit for an hour or so.

Pre-heat your oven to 325 degrees.  Slice up one large onion and two carrots.

In a Dutch oven, add two tablespoons of vegetable oil and get it nice and hot.  After patting the meat dry, put it in the Dutch oven and sear it nicely on all sides.  About four to five minutes per side.  Remove the meat.

Add another tablespoon of oil and lower the heat to medium.   Scrape up all the brown bits on the bottom and then add the onions and carrots.   Let them cook for about five minutes.

Now pour in 1 1/2 to 2 cups of beef broth.  Add a packet of au jus gravy seasoning.  Add three tablespoons of flour.   Stir it in till it dissolves fully.   

Add one-half stick of butter (4 tablespoons).   Nestle the meat back into the pot.

And now here are the two WTF ingredients.   

Add one packet of ranch seasoning.

And then open up a jar of pepperocinis.   Add about ten of them to the pot along with about a 1/4 cup of juice from the jar.  This adds a nice little kick to the pot roast.

Cover and put in the oven for three hours.  Midway through the oven process, give it all a stir and flip the meat.

Serve over mashed potatoes or egg noodles.   Or do what I did...over German spatzle.

This is a hearty meal for a chilly night in Mississippi.   Not that I've ever been there.

Dinner last night: Salad.
 

This Date in History - February 15

 

As Jack Barry used to say...."Joker, Joker, Joker!"

1113:  POPE PASCHAL II ISSUED A BULL SANCTIONING THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE ORDER OF HOSPITALLERS.

The major note here is that there actually was a Pope Paschal the First.

1493:  WHILE ON BOARD THE NINA, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS WRITES AN OPEN LETTER DESCRIBING HIS DISCOVERIES AND THE UNEXPECTED ITEMS HE CAME ACROSS IN THE NEW WORLD.

The first ever blog.  ColumbusSpeaks.com.

1637:  FERDINAND III BECOMES HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR.

And that's no bull.

1764:  THE CITY OF ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI IS ESTABLISHED.

They had to put that arch someplace.

1804:  THE SERBIAN REVOLUTION BEGINS.

Serbs them right.

1820:  SUFFRAGIST SUSAN B. ANTHONY IS BORN.

Some men have already decided what the "B" stands for.

1862:  DURING THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, GENERAL ULYSSES S. GRANT ATTACKS FORT DONELSON, TENNESSEE.

All by himself?

1879:  PRESIDENT RUTHERFORD B. HAYES SIGNS A BILL ALLOWING FEMALE ATTORNEYS TO ARGUE CASES BEFORE THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES.

On Susan B. Anthony's birthday.  A nice touch.

1882:  ACTOR JOHN BARRYMORE IS BORN.

The Great Profile who was likely drunk by the same date a year later.

1898:  THE U.S.S. MAINE EXPLODES AND SINKS IN HAVANA HARBOR IN CUBA, KILLING MORE THAN 260.  THIS EVENT LEADS THE UNITED STATES TO DECLARE WAR ON SPAIN.

Remember the Maine....and all those wasted cigars that burned up along with the wreckage.

1907:  ACTOR CESAR ROMERO IS BORN.

One of Batman's classic villains.  He always looked like he got laid a lot.  You just never knew if it was with women or men.  Or both.

1916:  ACTRESS MARY JANE CROFT IS BORN.

"I Love Lucy's" Betty Ramsey.  I met her once.

1927:  COMEDIAN HARVEY KORMAN IS BORN.

I lit his candle once at Christmas Eve service.

1933:  IN MIAMI, FLORIDA, GIUSEPPE ZANGARA ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE PRESIDENT-ELECT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT, BUT INSTEAD SHOOTS CHICAGO MAYOR ANTON J. CERMAK, WHO DIES OF HIS WOUNDS SEVERAL WEEKS LATER.

Zangara was not the smartest assassin.  He was aiming at FDR's spine, so the guy would be crippled for life.

1944:  DURING WORLD WAR II, THE ASSAULT ON MONTE CASSINO, ITALY, BEGINS.

I don't think it's really a gambling place, but, at least, this is when Italy starts to cash in their chips.

1947:  ACTOR RUSTY HAMER IS BORN.

Make Room for Daddy's Kid.

1948:  DODGER RON CEY IS BORN.

I never met him.  I never lit his candle at Christmas Eve service.

1952:  KING GEORGE VI IS BURIED IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL AT WINDSOR CHAPEL.

Let's hope that we don't read he died in 1954.

1954:  SIMPSONS CREATOR MATT GROENING IS BORN.

D'oh!

1961:  SABENA FLIGHT 548 CRASHES IN BELGIUM, KILLING 73, INCLUDING THE ENTIRE UNITED STATES SKATING TEAM.

Well, there goes the 1963 edition of the Ice Capades.

1965:  A NEW RED-AND-WHITE MAPLE LEAF DESIGN IS ADOPTED AS THE FLAG OF CANADA.

So what did the Toronto hockey team wear before that?

1965:  SINGER NAT KING COLE DIES.

Hack, hack, hack, I'm sorry, hack, hack, hack.

1971:  THE DECIMALISATION OF BRITISH COINAGE IS COMPLETED ON DECIMAL DAY.

Which make this February 1.5.

1973:  ACTOR WALLY COX DIES.

Underdog is really under now.

1984:  BROADWAY STAR ETHEL MERMAN DIES.

Everything's now coming up Ethel.

1989:  THE SOVIET UNION OFFICIALLY ANNOUNCES THAT ALL OF ITS TROOPS HAVE LEFT AFGHANISTAN.

They cleared out just before it started to get fun.

1996:  ACTOR TOMMY RETTIG DIES.

Now buried alongside a lot of Lassie's bones.

1996:  ACTOR MCLEAN STEVENSON DIES.

This time, it was for real and not the result of a salary dispute with Twentieth Century Fox.

2000:  INDIAN POINT II NUCLEAR POWER PLANT IN NEW YORK STATE VENTS A SMALL AMOUNT OF RADIOACTIVE STEAM WHEN A STEAM GENERATOR FAILS.

I still would like to own a wig store in this area of New York State.

2002:  JOURNALIST HOWARD K. SMITH DIES.

K as in Kaput.

2004:  ACTRESS JAN MINER DIES.

Madge, it's Palmolive.  You're soaking in it.

2013:  A METEOR EXPLODES OVER RUSSIA, INJURING 1500 PEOPLE.

No joke here.   Just in case they are monitoring this blog over the internet.

2016:  ACTOR GEORGE GAYNES DIES.

No paynes, no Gaynes.

2019:  SOCIALITE LEE RADZIWILL DIES.

Related to Jackie Kennedy and one of those Grey Garden kooks.

Dinner last night:  Leftover spaghetti,

Don't Let This Happen To You

Because I let it happen to me.  

When this film opened to rave reviews last fall, I was clamoring to see it.  Unfortunately, one thing happened after another and I never got around to the theater.

So, recently, "The Banshees of Inisherin" scored nine Oscar nominations.  Now I wanted to see it even more.  And the good news is that it was airing on Netflix.

All of the above is evidence being presented to the judge that finds me guilty of falling for Hollywood hype.  Because this movie is a complete piece of shit from the opening Fox Searchlight logo to the very last thank you in the closing credits.

Never in my filmgoing life have I been so led astray by the buzz generated by this movie.  I thought I was getting a nice peek at friendship set on a lovely Irish coastline.   Well, to me, this coastal village never looked drearier.   And the two main characters essayed by Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson could be the most unlikeable people you have ever seen on the big screen.

The plot starts well and lures you in comfortably.  These two guys are friends and neighbors, hanging out regularly in a pub.  Then, one day, Friend B decides he no longer likes Friend A and doesn't want to be buddies any more.  Friend A is confused and keeps pressing the issue.  Friend B gets so annoyed that he tells Friend A if he presses the point one more time, he will cut off one of his own fingers.

A does and then B does what he promised and this is compromising because B plays the fiddle.

A persists and B keeps lopping off his digits.  

The end.

Well, not really.  But it might as well have been because the movie then meanders around until it finally rolls over and dies...like the donkey in the film that chokes on one of said fingers.

I looked at the list of nominations this mess got and I am now firmly convinced that the Motion Picture Academy suffers from cataracts.   There is not a single positive moment in this film.  If there is one, I would hope somebody would point it out to me.

But that would require a finger.

LEN'S RATING:  Zero stars.

Dinner last night:  Grilled beef sausage.
 

Monday Morning Video Laugh - February 13, 2023

In honor of Valentine's Day, there is no better example of a rom com than "Pillow Talk" with Doris Day and Rock Hudson.

Dinner last night:  Spaghetti in butter tomato sauce.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Another Trip Around the Sun

 

I don't want to be completely self-serving here, but, then again, this is a blog and that, in itself, is self-serving in nature.

Yesterday was my birthday.

If you just uttered a greeting, thank you.  It was a lovely day and, as usual, I had a great dinner with friends.  That's what the usual annual celebration has become.

Things were always a little different in the past.

Take a look at me in the photo above.  A poor child completely overwhelmed by this birthday turn-of-events.  Am I receiving a surprise gift?  Or perhaps the unrecognized girl next to me is sticking a plastic knife in my gut?  Whatever, there's nothing pleasant going on here.

Yep, there are birthday memories for February 11s gone by.

There are some nice ones.  Like the year that "Mary Poppins" opened at the Parkway Theater in Mount Vernon, New York on my special day.  Mom took me and a couple of school friends to see it on opening night.

There was the birthday year where I came over from school to find my one-and-only dog Tuffy greeting me for the very first time in our kitchen.  I got my very own Beagle.  Forget the fact that my mother and I had been angling my dad for a Schnauzer.  He got a deal from the pet shop he used to deliver heating oil to.  I don't regret having Tuffy in my life for a single moment.

Okay, there were some horrors, too.

There was the year where my college friends all gathered together in a restaurant to surprise me.  P.S., I hate surprise parties.  My opinion was expressed and duly noted by all that evening.

There was all the memorable birthday when a then-girlfriend took me out to a very expensive Manhattan restaurant.  The food poisoning hit about five minutes after we left.  My vomit lined the sidewalks of Greenwich Village.  There is something very ignoble about public upchucking in the middle of a blizzard.

And there were birthday parties like the one shown above.  Hateful little events that were orchestrated by adults without a single thought given to the kid's wants and needs.

A birthday party at that age should have been a grand ole time.  Were some of my neighborhood buddies like Leo invited?  Nah.  Were some of my school pals invited?  Of course not.   

Nope, the guest list were relatives and the children of my mom's friends...none of whom I was particularly friendly with myself.

Yee ha, that's fun.

My cousins would show up and I could feel their pain in pictures that I have seen.  For the most part, they were all several years older than me and this was the last place they wanted to be.  My celebration was pulling them away from looking at photos of Roger Smith and Edd "Kookie" Byrnes from "77 Sunset Strip."  Instead, they were forced to sit with me, who certainly looked nothing like those detectives, especially with that stupid bowtie you see above.

Looking at some of the snapshots, I literally don't recognize many of the kids at my very own birthday party.  We all sat there, smiling aimlessly with crumbs of strawberry shortcake dotting our lips.  You would never see a more disconnected and disjointed bunch.  Nobody wanted to be there.  But, heck, the mothers had a rip-roaring time.

I always got the sense that there was a bit of a competition between the moms over who could throw the best birthday party.  And it certainly wasn't focused on making it a nice day for the celebrant.  Nope, the real ones that always needed to be impressed were the other kids.

I remembered this one year on my birthday.  My mom was once again keeping up with the Joneses...or whatever this other folks' names were.  She decided to lay in a lot of prizes for the requisite party games.  All of a sudden, my mother had morphed into Bob Barker and she wanted to give our guests an opportunity to win the big Showcase on "The Price is Right."  I surveyed the toys selected as prizes.  Crap, this is good stuff.  And, wait!!

My eyes fixated on an almost spiritual image.  One of the winners would get...

The new Willie the Weatherman Colorforms set!

Hey, I want that!!!

It was scheduled to go to the winner of "Pin The Tail on the Donkey."

That winner, I decided, needed to be me.  None of these other lunkheads was going to go home with a toy that I truly wanted.  Not on my watch.

I quickly ran possible schemes through my five-year-old noggin.  How can I finagle this?

Pish tosh, it was oh, so simple.

When my turn came, I simply scrunched up the blindfold enough so there was a sliver of light that got through.  Just enough to see perfectly that ass' ass.

I scored a direct hit.  A Preparation H suppository couldn't have landed as accurately.

"Look, I won!!!"

My mother didn't buy it.

"How did you do that?  You cheated."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

Well, yeah, I did.  But desperate measures were always used by yours truly when Colorforms entered into the equation.

This Shakespearean drama was playing in front of our party guests.  Come on, lady, just give me the damn Colorforms and we can call it a day.

Reluctantly, my mother bestowed me with Willie the Weatherman.  And I didn't need him to forecast the chill that I would be getting from my mother over the next several days. 

And that was the last birthday party we ever hosted.   Thank God!

Dinner last night:  Eggplant parm at Cecconi's.