Woo hoo. A five Saturday month gives us the opportunity to enjoy a classic Broadway clip. This one, I was there for at the Hollywood Bowl's Sondheim tribute in July. Patti LuPone encoring her showstopping number from last year's "Company" revival...which I also saw.
Sadly, none of that got preserved. The hotel was demolished and now houses several different schools.
Dinner last night: Veal parm at Gianna's in Yonkers.
Oh, don't get me wrong. Anderson's films are interesting to look at. But try to figure out a plot and you wind up with a splitting headache. To make his movies even more challenging is the fact that he always manages to attract an all-star game. Look at the names on the poster above. Impressive, right?
And confusing to be sure.
Again, I sat through Asteroid City mesmerized by the sights and, at the same time, straining to make sense of it all. The film is about a small desert town but also a play about a small desert town. There are aliens from outer space, possible A bombs and actors playing two different roles.
Or maybe they're not aliens or A bombs or actors as two different characters. Now you see why I needed a Wikipedia fix.
Except that didn't help as the plot sounded even more confusing as I read about it. But, then again, all of Wes Anderson's flicks are like this so what was I expecting?
Good luck to you all. wikipedia.com.
LEN'S RATING: One star.
Dinner last night: Meat loaf at the NY apartment.
A classic weather report from noted meteorologist Paul Lynde.
When I was a youngster, I dreaded a visit to my pediatrician, Dr. Fiegoli. Because there was pain involved. Vaccinations, always in the most tender part of the arm. Sometimes a needle in the ass. And, with his Snidely Whiplash-like moustache and booming voice, it was tough to find a comforting moment while you were lying on that wax paper.
"OOOH, NOW THAT DIDN'T HURT, DID IT?"
I'd look at him with acute indignation. Are you fucking kidding me??? Or whatever the five-year-old version of that expletive is.
As I wrote a few weeks back, Dr. Fiegoli made house calls when I was sick at home. Even the doorbell heralding his arrival gave me shudders. But, when I was healthy and needed to see him for the annual physical or some school-mandated shots, I was dragged to his home. The waiting room was quiet. Serene. As comfortable as your grandmother's living room. The only thing missing was plastic slipcovers. But, beyond the door, there were sinister doings at hand. Enter past that portal and your body openings and extremities didn't stand a chance.
Yep, Dr. Fiegoli was going to take the simple act of looking into your ear and turn it into an act of pre-meditated violence.
My wails would start as soon as I was put on the examining table. Frequently, my mother was his appointed accomplice. Holding me down like Bruno Sammartino trying to pin Gorilla Monsoon on last Saturday night's episode of Heavyweight Wrestling. Now I eyed both of them suspiciously. Did they plan these manuevers in advance? Don't you realize I'm just a kid??
One visitation to Dr. Fiegoli's House of Horrors ended very differently, though. Usually, the bestowing of an all day sucker was performed after he was done probing the one-hour sucker that was me. But, oddly, my mom and I were led into his office. Have a seat, please. I was confused. And I only caught every other word out of his mouth.
"Should have...concerned...maybe a problem...surgery...Mount Vernon Hospital."
I looked at my mom. She had a worried look on her face. Obviously, Dr. Fiegoli was not talking to her about last week's episode of "Ben Casey." I surveyed the situation at hand and applied my kindergarten-grown logic.
I'M DYING!
My non-audible scream morphed into tears. I was consoled immediately. It would be okay, said Dr. Fiegoli. Oh, and, here, Mom, is the card of a recommended surgeon.
GASP! WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
At home, over the soothing influence of some Bosco-infused milk, my mother explained the issue at hand. To paraphrase for those of you with weak hearts, something in the groinecological area (thank you, Archie Bunker) had not happened as it normally would have in a BOY of my age. So, to prevent complications way down the puberty road, it was wise to have it taken care of now. With surgery. Back then, there was no such thing as an outpatient procedure. You were knocked out, cut up, sewed back together, and it all required an overnight stay. My mom got a little off-topic by starting to talk about all the ice cream I would get to eat after the operation. Er, excuse me, lady, we ain't talking tonsils here.
"Oh. Right."
The specter of this surgery hung over my head for a while. And then it was rarely talked about at all. In fact, it was pretty much ignored. The good news is that my parents never pressed the point. The bad news is that my parents never pressed the point. And, eventually, the visits to Dr. Fiegoli became infrequent. There were virtually no annual physicals. The problem was there. The problem wasn't there. Even I forgot all about it.
Until years later...
And how that's for a Sunday Memory Drawer cliffhanger. The saga continues next week.
Dinner last night: Kung pao chicken and shrimp at Wokcano.
Fifty years old this month. Where were you in '62? And '73?
Here's a real gem memory from my childhood. My mom was in love with this song and played the :45 constantly. Oddly enough, it turns out to be Vincent Gardenia's favorite song in the movie "Moonstruck." Enjoy Vikki Carr.
Dinner last night: Sandwich with prosciutto, mozzarella, and sun dried tomatoes.
It seems like Apple's "The Morning Show" has been around forever but it really just started its third season. The hiatuses between the first two seasons were long than usual thanks to COVID, which was actually used as a plot in Season Two.
Nevertheless, Season 3 just dropped its first two episodes and my initial question is...I was anxiously awaiting this?
For those not in the know, "The Morning Show" really started as a retelling of a Matt Lauer-like sexual harassment story on a show that very much resembles the...wait for it..."The Today Show." Seasons 1 and 2 were brilliant as this story played out to its necessary...spoiler alert...and tragic conclusion.
Still, with that saga wrapped up, there was plenty of juice from remaining stars Jennifer Aniston and Reese Witherspoon to keep a viewer re-engaged. But, instead of using one orange for that juice, they are using something short of fifty oranges. The first two episodes of Season Three tried to hit the headline of every New York Times edition over the past year.
Crammed into the story are the following:
Billionaire flights into space.
January 6.
Abortion rights.
Cyber hacking.
Homosexuality.
And that's just the first two weeks. Whereas the first two seasons concentrated on one subject, Season Three is attacking everything. And it's exhausting.
To make matters, Jennifer Aniston has clearly had some facial work done that now makes her sound...well...different.
Oh, I'm sticking with it, but I am hoping for a more streamlined approach in future episodes. But, for now...
Cue Cat Stevens.
Dinner last night: Leftover pork.
So what is this quick consuming treat? Bacon wrapped pork tenderloin. Here's how easy and fast it is?
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Get a two pound pork tenderloin. Cross stitch it with six to eight rashers of bacon.
Bake for 45 minutes. Remove and brush on your favorite BBQ sauce. Put back in the oven for another 15-20 minutes.
A side of red cabbage is perfect.
Also the shortest review you will ever see in Blog Land.
Dinner last night: Leftover...well...you know.
This is how "Everybody Loves Raymond" opened their season in September, 2001. Boy, that was a month we needed some laughs.
Forty years ago this month, this misguided sequel had its premiere. Why?
The bad news? There's still a lot of crummy movie theaters playing the latest junk from Hollywood. You know the monthly drill, folks. I'll sift through the movie pages of the LA Times and give you my knee-jerk, gut reaction to what's polluting our local screens.
As for the Nimoy getting ready to open? Live long and prosper.
The Nun II: I didn't know there was a Nun I. Does she sing?
The Equalizer 3: Denzel Washington now pretty much looks to make a quick buck. And screw a new babe on set.
My Big Fat Greek Weeding 3: Didn't the second one come out like 30 years ago? Does anybody care?
Barbie: Still mystified by the attention this piece of shit got.
Blue Beetle: All I know is that the Spanish kid from Cobra Kai is playing the title role.
Gran Turismo: Does that come with a side of penne?
Bottoms: A movie title that certainly will get the attention of West Hollywood.
Oppenheimer: Still waiting for a ten hour window in which I can see this long, long movie. Everybody I know says they slept through half of it.
Strays: Recently reviewed in this blog. Foul talking dogs and I wish it were funnier.
A Haunting in Venice: Kenneth Branagh is the latest to make a career out of Inspector Hercule Poirot. Truth be told, I am a sucker for these movies.
A Million Miles Away: The first migrant worker to go into space. Well, that's one way to get over the border.
Camp Hideout: A wacky summer camp movie. So why release it in the middle of September?
Dumb Money: Comical Wall Street story about how Gamestop became a hot company. FYI, Mets owner Steve Cohen is being playing by Vincent D'Onofrio.
Dinner last night: Grilled Taylor Ham.
Wrong. Dead wrong.
As I wind up my physical therapy that followed my left knee replacement, I will truly miss my therapist. I will see him once a month for maintenance but the two-a-week experience with his magic hands will be missed.
His use of the Graston Technique on me? Not missed. At all.
When he pulls out this tool, I have learned to cringe. And a tear or two form. I curse Graston whoever the hell he or she is. It's like Sweeney Todd approaching with the shears.
I know that the next five minutes of my life will be horribly bad.
You see, post-knee replacement, there is nasty scar tissue that looks to form and dominate your nerve endings. The Graston Technique is used to smooth out those areas and prevent the scar tissue from expanding.
It hurts. By connecting with every nerve ending, you are essentially touching every nerve ending.
And it hurts.
The longest five minutes of every session.
Trust me. I would much prefer the Grafton Technique to be a spy novel on my night stand.
Dinner last night: Salad.
Jimmy Fallon is the latest target. Apparently, Rolling Stone Magazine (does anybody still read a magazine?) has published an expose on how Fallon's Tonight Show is a toxic workplace. Frankly, the words "toxic" and "workplace" go together 99,9 percent of the time.
But I digress...
Fallon has been called out on this and now he's a villain, too. Whatever.
Truth be told, I pretty much stopped watching late night television when Johnny went into the sunset. It's all become cheap humor and endless plugs. Yawn. Zero of the spontaneity you got with Carson.
As the current lot goes, I think Fallon is probably the least offensive, so I question how bad a guy he is. Meanwhile, on ABC....
I wait patiently for the day when somebody has the balls to nail professional scumbag Jimmy Kimmel. You see, I know people who have worked there. Toxic Workplace doesn't even begin to describe Kimmel and his nefarious and evil antics.
But he always gets a pass. As the darling of super liberal Hollywood, Jimmy Kimmel never comes off as anything but a hero.
Yet he is far, far, far from it.
If the herd needs to experience more thinning, this is the sacred cow I want out next.
Dinner last night: Leftover steak.
