Len Speaks

If I Tweeted - February 2012

2012-01-31T06:41:00.000-08:00

I don't, you know. But, if I did, here's what I would tweeted...

#LenSpeaks I love winter in Los Angeles. Yesterday's forecast for today said "Sunday and colder. High around 65."

#LenSpeaks The guy on the radio just said it's never too early to think about Valentine's Day. Er, yeah, it is. For me, it's too early on February 15.

#LenSpeaks Betty White hit 90 and NBC saluted this by putting on an incredibly unwatchable tribute. More shows like that and she will personally make sure she doesn't hit 91.

#LenSpeaks Meanwhile, I love Betty, but she needs to take her name out of the running for all these TV awards. Candice Bergen did the classy thing after she won all those Emmys for Murphy Brown.

#LenSpeaks Betty, the password is "enough."

#LenSpeaks The only way to watch the Golden Globes. Tape it and then start watching an hour and 15 minutes. You can FF through commercials, anything that idiot Ricky Gervais has to say... TYou wind up with about six minutes of watchable content.

#LenSpeaks A real-life Titanic. An Italian cruise ship capsizes. The captain's reaction: "Thatsa no good."

#LenSpeaks You just know that, as they were evacuating the boat, some idiot was singing the song from Titanic.

#LenSpeaks If you're asking whether I will be watching the Super Bowl, please note that neither of my hands are up.

#LenSpeaks Giants, schmiants. I'll be checking out what's on Turner Classic Movies.

#LenSpeaks Watching the SAG Awards, I realized that, without Botox, most of them would.

#LenSpeaks Strange but true: An e-mail inviting me to back Obama for 2012 re-election fell into my spam folder. Wow, these computers are smart.

#LenSpeaks Screw standing at a podium. Let's just watch Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich engage in hand-to-hand combat.

#LenSpeaks Our President in 2013 could be named Mitt, Newt, or Barack. What the hell ever happened to George, Harry, and Bill?

#LenSpeaks P.S.: I don't care about Romney's tax returns or Gingrich's tax returns or Obama's tax returns. I care only about mine.

#LenSpeaks Thanks to Obamacare, I have friends whose doctors have quit the business. Meanwhile, my new health care deductible for 2012 is so high that I won't hit it till 2014.

#LenSpeaks Body parts being found all over the place in Los Angeles. Who says you can't get a head in Hollywood?

#LenSpeaks An elementary school in Los Angeles has been renamed after Michael Jackson. Please insert your favorite joke here _____________ .

#LenSpeaks How come Republicans can't be rich while Democrats like Nancy Pe-lousy can be multi-millionaires?

#LenSpeaks Sound bites from the former Speaker sound more and more incoherent. But, then again, you try to make sense with four inches of skin pulled back and tied in a knot in the back of your head?

#LenSpeaks Federally-approved school lunches are finding their way into cafeteria garbage cans all across the country? That would be "Fuck you, Mrs. Obama and your apple slices."

#LenSpeaks You know it's winter and germs are spreading all around. The flu is here and so is a new Katherine Heigl movie.

#LenSpeaks Watching the promos, I cannot wait for TNT's summer reboot of Dallas. It will be a lot more fun than watching the political conventions.

#LenSpeaks I saw the words "journalist George Stephanopoulos" in print and I couldn't stop laughing.

#LenSpeaks Waste of Money # 225: Stimulus money for a solar panel company.

#LenSpeaks The Dodgers are for sale. Going price: $1.5 billion. Well, let's hope that the Federal Government doesn't bail them out. Harry Reid would make a terrible general manager.

#LenSpeaks The First Lady spent approximately $50,000 in a shopping spree at a lingerie store. Does that mean they're charging more for undies that are sixed "XXL?"

#LenSpeaks Yeah, I did write that, but you look at photos of her from behind and tell me I'm wrong.

Dinner last night: Turkey meat loaf and succotash.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - January 30, 2012

2012-01-30T06:40:00.000-08:00

A wonderful and completely spontaneous moment from late night television years ago. This doesn't happen anymore.

Dinner last night: Risotto with chicken, spinach, and tomatoes.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - School Lunch

2012-01-29T03:48:00.000-08:00

There was some press this week about all the Federal money being thrown into providing school children with healthy and nutritious lunches. Of course, all of the First Lady's fervor about making sure kids eat better has been useless energy. I hear that most of the so-called government-approved school lunches are so inedible that they are quickly lining the bottom of Hefty bags in cafeterias all across the country.

I was bemused by it all. Mainly because, for the most part of my school years, I never got a school lunch.

Flashbacking to the Grimes Elementary School in Mount Vernon, New York, we didn't even have a cafeteria. Since this was a neighborhood school, most of the kids lived within walking distance of the place. None of us had any idea what the inside of a yellow school bus even looked like.

So, as soon as we were paroled around noontime, each of us would troop home for an hour. Our school was on 11th Avenue. My house was on 15th Avenue. Four relatively short blocks. But, being me, I would dawdle around. A stop at the grocery store for a pre-lunch Ring Ding. Or a meander around the neighborhood to see what was doing. All my friends were in school. What the hell was I looking for?

God and innocent youth only know.

By the time I arrived home, my mother would have lunch ready for me. It was very basic and simple and never changed from kindergarten to the sixth grade.

Two slices of white bread. Wonder only.

Several slices of a cold cut. Ham, bologna, or my personal preference, Taylor Ham.

A dab of mustard.

Cut into four equal square pieces.

A glass of milk.

And, alongside the sandwich on the plate, was my side dish. Five green olives stuffed with pimentos. Not four. Not six. Five.

How was that random number chosen to be the daily ritual? I have no idea. Another question that I forgot to ask my parents.

I'd sit in the living room with the prepared luncheon on the coffee table in front of me. There would also be some game show on the television. I'd eat slowly as if the hour break should never end. Once the sandwich was devoured, I'd systematically attack the five olives. I would first carefully suck the pimento out of the olive. Then I would nibble at the olive. Most people would pop them into their mouths whole. Not me. I wanted to savor every delicious morsel.

Bulletin: I was a weird kid.

Now, given that our school days were divided into two parts with the lunchtime break, the noon hour provided us all with a wonderful device if we just were not up to a whole day of mathematical word problems. From time to time, I would attempt the following.

"Mom, I don't feel so good."

Yeah, right.

She'd put her hand on my forehead for the ultimate diagnosis.

I wasn't warm. I was fine.

If I really, really didn't want to go back for the afternoon, I would suddenly turn into Lucy Ricardo. My brain would work overtime in developing symptoms.

I'd sneak into the kitchen and sprinkle a little pepper into my hand. Achoo!

"Gesundheit. You're fine."

I'd start to walk with a slight limp. Oh, boy, I must have sprained my ankle in that dastardly gym class.

"It's not swollen. You're fine."

Desperate times called for desperate measures. You want to feel my forehead, lady??

I'd go into my bedroom and close the door. We were a radiator household and, if it was winter, the heat source for my "fever." As much as it hurt, I'd lay my forehead across the radiator.

See, Mom! I have a fever! My head is burning up.

"And I can still see the indention marks that the radiator made on your skin."

Damn!

Off to school for the afternoon, I would go.

Except for the feeble attempts at feigning sickness, the lunch time pattern did not change for all the years at Grimes School.

And, suddenly, we graduated to Washington Junior School, which was further away from home. A whole four blocks further. Again, there was no cafeteria facility. At lunch, you were on your own. Cast adrift. Free from torture for a whole hour.

But, how was I to manage a walk home that was now, oh, God, five minutes longer???

I viewed the trek home as if American forces were being asked to land on Normandy Beach all over again. There could be no wandering off course. There certainly wasn't time for a pre-lunch Ring Ding. And, wait! To save precious time, I might have to cut down to four olives?

Bulletin: I still was a weird kid.

Okay, I wasn't exactly Abe Lincoln walking twenty miles to school every day, but this walk was sheer torture for me. I might as well have been crawling over broken glass while wearing shorts. To ease my pain, my mother had an ingenious idea.

"One day a week, I'll give you money and you can eat out on Fourth Avenue."

This was the main shopping district of Mount Vernon, New York. Two blocks away from my junior high school and just loaded with luncheonettes.

Hmmmm? If I price-shopped my meals, I could use a little of the cash for the purchase of a comic book. But, still, I thought....

I'd be away from home for an entire day?? How would that be?

Back then, I may have been only twelve years old, but parents were a lot more trusting of the surrounding environs than they would be today. My mother totally trusted me to feed myself well and manage to act like a semi-adult all by myself.

So, for one lunch hour a week, I was a big deal. My selection of my desired luncheonette for that day was something akin to filling out an Oscar ballot. Gee, I'm feeling like tuna salad today. Who does that better? The lunch counter at Woolworth's or the one at H.L. Green's? Decisions, decisions.

I'd feel like a Manhattan businessman there on that lunch stool. Letting the waitress cater to my every need. A perfect training ground for whatever career I would enter into. Because, frankly, any job is all about what you're having for lunch.

I'd gobble down my sandwich with some side potato chips and a pickle slice. I'd look around at the other patrons. Enjoying their post-meal cigarette or a cup of coffee. The waitress would saunter over and ask me if there was anything else she could get for me.

"Ummm, do you have any olives?"

Dinner last night: Roast beef and creamed spinach at the Whisper Lounge.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - January 2012

2012-01-28T01:16:00.000-08:00

A great movie filmed entirely in, gasp, the Bronx.

Dinner last night: Spare ribs, Chinese cole slaw, and beet salad.

The Bottomless Pit of Walmart

2012-01-27T07:08:00.000-08:00

The sad thing is that he probably knew the pants were ripped when he put them on.

You can't spell "thong" without the letters t-o-n.

Usually, the road kill is underneath your car.

A homage to that old Dan Aykroyd SNL sketch about the appliance repairman.

Perhaps that text message is saying "YOU WENT OUT LIKE THAT??"

This is what they call a "ghetto fix."

Now that's what I call bloomers.

Tu tu pathetic.

A little less attitude and a lot less potato chips.

This hair do really sucks.

Dinner last night: Baked ziti and meatballs.

Morons of the Month - January 2012

2012-01-26T06:59:00.000-08:00

At this point, the Presidential 2012 election campaign is in full swing. There have been more Republican candidate debates than there were episodes of "One Life To Live." All of their supporters have all dug themselves into their trenches, vowing that their guy (or, for a little while, gal) is the best person to sit in the Oval Office. Most refuse to hear dissenting opinions as lemmings in America are essentially the most intolerant people on Earth.

Here's a bulletin for everybody residing in somebody's political camp.

Most of the people running for President on the Republican side of the aisle? Scumbags.

The guy currently in the White House? A real scumbag.

Okay, so what's a reasonably intelligent citizen to do? As he stands amongst a bunch of jerks who really don't deserve the Constitutional right to vote.

There are clowns who will simply pull the lever of their party because their parents and grandparents told them to do so. How else can you explain such ridiculousness as the idiots of Delaware and Massachusetts who repeatedly re-elected schmucks like Joe Biden and Ted Kennedy to the U.S. Senate over and over?

There are dummies who will vote Democratic regardless of whether their candidate is qualified to do anything but count the number of paper clips in his or her desk. Most of these stooges are still voting against the vile and despicable Richard Nixon. They think the Watergate case is still open in the courts and that anybody even remotely Conservative is actively involved in the cover-up.

There are other loonies who vote and vote and vote based on sex or skin color or the size of a forehead mole or because they think that Barack Obama is going to pay their monthly cell phone bill. Most of them have never cracked an American history book in their lives. They don't know that anybody was President prior to Bill Clinton and think that World War II was nothing but a Sega video game.

Democracy is a grand and noble notion. If only it weren't being completely wasted on the stupid.

The more I watch the political landscape that unfolds before us, my father's words on our governmental leadership echo even louder than before.

"They all stink."

Yep, Dad, they do. And, unfortunately, in this polarized yet personally empowered world, so do the legions of dopes that follow them blindly off the cliff.

Just when you think that a candidate's supporting bloc couldn't be more dumber, there comes a group that even defies the limits of stupidity. This month's slamdunk nominees for "Morons of the Month."

Yes, that would be the Ron Paul supporters.

These folks are an amazing bunch. A lot of them are young. They are fanatics. They are working tirelessly to push the exploits of their proposed leader on the internet and social networks. They can't talk enough about "their guy."

They are as idiotic as they come.

Anybody supporting a raving lunatic like Ron Paul for the office of President should also be on a very short waiting list for lifetime accommodations at the Bellevue Hospital psychiatric ward.

Think about this man who is a complete and utter embarrassment. Listen to him speak for five minutes. He is incoherent. A blabbering fool who makes Ross Perot look like Benjamin Franklin on the eve of the discovery of electricity. While his views on the nation's economy are on target, his stance on America's position as a world leader is straight out of 1886. Paul wants us to go back to the "laissez-faire" attitude that the United States adopted as long as it could. Enter World War I and, frankly, that scud missile has now sailed.

Here's a man who is completely out of touch with the realities of the world in 2012. In his late 70s, Ron Paul's major goal in life should be to ensure that his nursing home features more than one flavor of Jell-o at dinner every night. And, even that decision might be a little too much for him. As the leader of the free world? God help our globe.

Try to tell that to one of his supporters who bloviate ad nauseum about how Ron Paul is the answer to all our problems. These are lunkheads who don't even know what our problems are. A lot of them look like their personal vistas have yet to expand past living in their mother's basement. Surfing the internet to sell their Star Wars action figures on e-Bay. They watch the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy at least five times a year. Bar soap is a luxury item.

And none of them have a sense at all about American history and the importance of the office of the Chief Executive. If they did, they wouldn't be wearing the campaign buttons of a full-fledged maniac, whose craziness is so immense that it has its own zip code.

Yet, march on, they do. Cheer on, they do. Push the envelope of insanity, they do.

Ron Paul has zero chance to be the Republican nominee for President. Actually, much less than zero. His fans remain undaunted. Well then, he can run as an independent third party.

Goofballs, your vote now counts for nothing. You might as well take that ballot, which was fought and bled over by American soldiers throughout the years, and use it to roll up your next doobie. Their sheer presence in the voting populace threatens to throw the election next November into a downward spiral that could be the penultimate nail in the coffin containing this once-great land.

I've said it before and I will say it again. In order to vote in this country, you need to pass a test.

And, if that were the case, every single one of the Ron Paul voting bloc would probably be disqualified.

Dinner last night: Boboli pizza with pepperoni.

This Date in History - January 25

2012-01-25T06:30:00.000-08:00

This is Henry the Eighth, not Sebastian Cabot. More coming below.

41: AFTER A NIGHT OF NEGOTIATION, CLAUDIUS IS ACCEPTED AS ROMAN EMPEROR BY THE SENATE.

It pays to have Scott Boras as an agent.

1348: A STRONG EARTHQUAKE STRIKES THE SOUTH ALPINE REGION OF FRIULI IN MODERN ITALY, CAUSING CONSIDERABLE DAMAGES TO BUILDINGS AS FAR AWAY AS ROME.

1348 and they're already calling it modern Italy???

1533: HENRY VIII OF ENGLAND SECRETLY MARRIES HIS SECOND WIFE ANNE BOLEYN.

So this really happened? It wasn't just a Herman's Hermits song?

1573: IN JAPAN'S BATTLE OF MIKATAGAHARA, TAKEDA SHINGEN DEFEATS TOKUGAWA IEYASU.

You type that sentence fast and see what happens.

1787: AMERICAN DANIEL SHAYS LEADS A REBELLION TO SEIZE FEDERAL ARSENAL TO PROTEST DEBTOR'S PRISONS.

#OccupyShays.

1791: THE BRITISH PARLIAMENT PASSES THE CONSTITUTIONAL ACT OF 1791 AND SPLITS QUEBEC INTO UPPER AND LOWER CANADA.

Did this divide a hockey franchise in half, too?

1858: THE WEDDING MARCH BY FELIX MENDELSSOHN BECOMES A POPULAR WEDDING RECESSIONAL AFTER IT IS PLAYED ON THIS DAY AT THE MARRIAGE OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S DAUGHTER AND FRIEDRICH OF PRUSSIA.

Some now confuse this song with Taps.

1881: THOMAS EDISON AND ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL FORM THE ORIENTAL TELEPHONE COMPANY.

Did they even know what country they were living in at the time?

1882: WRITER VIRGINIA WOOLF IS BORN.

Anybody afraid of this?

1890: NELLIE BLY COMPLETES HER ROUND-THE-WORLD JOURNEY IN 72 DAYS.

Can you imagine what she could have done with more vacation time?

1915: ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL INAUGURATES U.S. TRANSCONTINENTAL TELEPHONE SERVICE, SPEAKING FROM NEW YORK TO THOMAS WATSON IN SAN FRANCISCO.

So he finally got off that Oriental Phone kick.

1919: THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS IS FOUNDED.

With no designated hitter.

1919: JOURNALIST EDWIN NEWMAN IS BORN.

A journalist? What the heck is that?

1931: ACTOR DEAN JONES IS BORN.

And Herbie the Love Bug finally gets his driver.

1937: THE GUIDING LIGHT SOAP OPERA DEBUTS ON NBC RADIO.

And it lasted on CBS television until September of 2009. That's a whole shitload of residuals for the original writers and creators.

1942: DURING WORLD WAR II, THAILAND DECLARES WAR ON THE UNITED STATES AND UNITED KINGDOM.

What were these idiots thinking? Mismatch!!

1945: THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE ENDS.

Woo hoo. We can have dessert again.

1947: GANGSTER AL CAPONE DIES.

It was a heart attack and not a tommy gun that got him.

1949: IN HOLLYWOOD, THE FIRST EMMY AWARDS ARE PRESENTED.

Regis Philbin was the host.

1961: IN WASHINGTON DC, PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY DELIVERS THE FIRST LIVE PRESIDENTIAL TELEVISION NEWS CONFERENCE.

Giving Edwin Newman something fun to do on his birthday.

1971: CHARLES MANSON AND THREE FAMILY MEMBERS ARE FOUND GUILTY OF THE 1969 TATE-LABIANCA MURDERS.

Apparently it was possible for a Los Angeles jury to get one right.

1971: IDI AMIN LEADS A COUP AND BECOMES UGANDA'S PRESIDENT.

Now there's a real charmer.

1990: ACTRESS AVA GARDNER DIES.

A stunning movie star and even more noteworthy because she was the only woman who actually could beat Frank Sinatra in a fistfight.

1996: BILLY BAILEY BECAME THE LAST PERSON TO BE HANGED IN THE UNITED STATES.

You should have listened. We told you to please come home.

1996: COMPOSER JONATHAN LARSON DIES.

He did "Rent" and now his lease is up.

2010: METS ORGANIST JANE JARVIS DIES.

She ran out of Mets to meet.

Dinner last night: Chicken breat with olives and capers plus brown rice with dried cranberries.

Saul and Heshe's Oscar Nomination Morning Breakfast

2012-01-24T05:54:00.000-08:00

Our two favorite Hollywood veterans, Saul and Heshe, didn't get up in time to hear the Oscar nominations this morning. But, I'm betting they're chatting them up over bagels, lox, and a schmeer at breakfast.

"Oy. It's so goddamn early. Why are we eating breakfast now? I didn't finish burping up my dinner."

"You on the Prilosec?"

"Nah, the Tums I pop like crazy. I should grind them in the Cuisinart and make them into a smoothie."

"It's the big Hollywood morning. The Oscar nominations and all that mishigoss."

"Big deal and excuse me for that last belch. Wow, that's last night's cucumber salad."

"Let's see. What have we got this year? Did you see the silent movie?"

"That Mel Brooks thing with Marty Feldman. It's on the Encore all the time."

"No, no, there's a new one and it got a lot of nominations. Made by the French and, you'll pardon the expression, that rat bastard Harvey Weinstein."

"If I wanted to see a silent movie, I think I still got Buster Keaton in my rolodex."

"He's been dead since 1965."

"So are most of the people in my rolodex."

"You should put all that personal stuff in one of those iPads."

"I need one of those things like I need another peptic ulcer. Just one more thing for the missus to break."

"Woody Allen is up again."

"Taking the Viagra?"

"No, he made that Midnight in Paris. I saw it. He's still got it in him."

"And he's still got it in the teenager. Taking the Viagra."

"What about The Help?"

"Mine stinks and she won't do laundry."

"I meant the movie. About all those housekeepers in the South."

"Oy. More hand wringing by the schvatzas. You never heard Hattie McDaniel bitch and moan when she was at the Oscars."

"That's because they made her sit in the kitchen at the Cocoanut Grove."

"Meryl Streep was Margaret Thatcher."

"Well, somebody had to do it and I guess Joanne Worley was busy."

"The Iron Lady."

"You mean the bitch that was my first wife."

"No, no, that's the name of the Streep movie."

"Clooney is nominated again for some movie set in Hawaii."

"Every year now for that little pisher. Who knew?"

"He must get laid a lot."

"Obviously, he never met the bitch that was my first wife."

"There is something called the Tree of Life."

"Yeah, the board game that Art Linkletter invented."

"No, it's really a movie. And it's like six days long."

"Just like the war in 1967. I'd rather sit through that than see this dreck with Brad Pitt Schmitt."

"He's nominated, too. For that Moneyball."

"Baseball movie. I swore them off since I saw Bill Bendix play Babe Ruth."

"Oy."

"Oy."

"Glenn Close got nominated for something called Albert Nobbs. Impersonating a man."

"Well, then, Albert had some knobs. Speaking of which, I wonder whatever happened to Pamela Tiffin."

"Oy vey iz mir. Your mind is wandering around like it's on the desert."

"I'd love to wander around the desert with Pamela Tiffin. Va-va-voom. And I would not need the Viagra, Wood-ila."

"Thank God this year none of that 3-D chazzerai is nominated."

"Oy."

"Oy."

"3-D, Schmee-dee. It don't work. And when I have those big friggin' glasses on, I look like Carlo Ponti."

"But the little kiddies like it. Me, it's a headache I wouldn't wish on my proctologist."

"At least Billy Crystal is hosting this year."

"Isn't he dead?"

"Not according to Imdeebeebeedee. Or whatever they call that mishigoss on the World Wide Web."

"I looked myself up on it. I'm still here."

"Me, too. L'chaim!"

Dinner last night: Chili.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - January 23, 2012

2012-01-23T05:30:00.000-08:00

If you always wonder why the U.S. Postal Service is losing money, watch this. More idiots on parade.

Dinner last night: Turkey salad sandwich.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Another Average Night in Hollywood

2012-01-22T01:36:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday, we flashbacked several decades to an innocent third-grade class in Mount Vernon, New York.

This week, the memory is a little fresher from a few years back. A name in the news prompted my thought pattern. Frankly, it's a story I thought I told before. My mind does tend to bring back to me rerun episodes. But, as it turns out, it's virgin material as far as this here blog is concerned.

Of another ordinary night in Hollywood. And it all started as a way to deliver a more unique Christmas present.

I don't know about you, but it has become next to impossible to give clever and original Christmas gifts to good friends. After many, many Yuletides, the novelty has totally worn off. You do run out of ideas eventually. These days, my pals have virtually eschewed the exchange of Christmas gifts and prefer now to use the dough to share a good meal at a really top notch restaurant.

But, about eight years ago, we were all still racking our brains and I was having a major struggle trying to find something really cool for my writing partner.

God brought me the answer. Well, actually, the lazy postman did.

As a card-carrying member of the American Cinematheque in Hollywood, I get invited to participate in special screenings and film events. Most of it I ignore. An opportunity to see a sneak preview of some new Japanese animation? Well, that's a yawn. But this letter gives me something to consider.

A SPECIAL SCREENING OF ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S CLASSIC "VERTIGO." QUESTION AND ANSWER TO FOLLOW WITH FILM STAR KIM NOVAK.

Hmmm?

The fine print below, however, was what hooked me. For an added donation to charity, you and a guest could attend an exclusive cocktail with Ms. Novak.

Hmmm squared. I could solve a Christmas gift dilemma and a tax deduction in one shot.

American Cinematheque, may I give you my credit card number now or later?

Now, truth be told, my writing partner probably would have preferred an audience with Ann-Margret, since he once drove up her driveway to take a photo of her garbage cans. But, hell, a Hollywood starlet is a Hollywood starlet. Plus my dad was a big fan. I remember once going to the Elmsford Drive-In with my father and one of Kim's films was on the double bill. Her first appearance in the movie was a stunner. And, in a rare display of testosterone, my father uttered one word.

"Wow."

That's also what my writing partner said when he found out where we were going.

The screening was held on a chilly January Saturday night at the legendary and impressive Egyptian Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. The place was sold out for the movie, but I scoped out the crowd and wondered how many of these suckers were getting to go to the after-party at the Cecil B. DeMille museum a half-mile away. The capacity of that venue was only about 100 people.

I suddenly became as self-important as everybody else in Tinseltown.

The head got a little larger when I got past the security guard for the "exclusive" gala two hours later.

Officially, this was my first real Hollywood party. A truly odd sensation. And that's where my snootiness would begin its quick decline down a very slippery slope. We were really non-entities. And we realized it pretty darn quickly.

You are standing with a drink. Somebody walks up and will stare you in the face for about 30 seconds. When they discover you’re a nobody, they walk away without saying a word. And, believe me, there were a lot of people staring and walking away.

Welcome to Hollywood.

The party was full of C list celebrities. Folks that don't get invited to the really big affairs and are more likely to be found eating a bowl of soup at the Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood. I spotted the alleged Mayor of Hollywood, Johnny Grant. He's dead now, but, on that night, he was all full of himself in the presence of Kim Novak. I decide to engage him in a conversation. I remembered that he had a small role in one of my favorite all-time movies, "White Christmas." So I mention this to him.

"God, who remembers that???"

And the Mayor of Beverly Hills walked away with his two cold shoulders.

My writing partner spotted actress Diane Baker standing by herself. And another dialogue is broached. He points to me and tells Diane that I'm a big fan of some dreary movie of hers called "The Best Of Everything." Supposedly, I watch it all the time. Ms. Baker looked at me quizzically.

"You watch that all the time? Why?"

I found it very surreal to be watching Tippi Hedren eat a piece of chicken and film buffs will get that inference. With her fingers all greased up, she totally avoided our overtures for a conversation.

Ms. Novak, however?

Incredibly gracious when we chatted her up. And insisted on a photo. This clearly is not the best photo of me. I look like an Office Depot night manager from Tarzana. But, you can focus on Kim Novak and understand why my dad uttered "wow" years earlier.

Seconds after this snapshot was taken, she ran her hand across my writing partner's chest and said "oooh, nice sweater."

He probably hasn't had it dry cleaned since.

So, two weeks ago, the usually reclusive Kim Novak gets her name back in the press when she is appalled by the use of the "Vertigo" love theme as part of the score of "The Artist." And the memory of this special and weird night bounces to the forefront and this blog all over again.

Yes, Dad, wow.

Dinner last night: Proscuitto and mushroom pizza at La Piazza.

Classic TV Theme of the Month - January 2012

2012-01-21T01:05:00.000-08:00

Nobody ever admits it, but lots of people I know watched this show. Including, ahem,......

Dinner last night: Panini wih proscuitto, provolone, and spinach.

Your Weekend Movie Guide for January 2012

2012-01-20T06:50:00.000-08:00

Now that's the way to see a movie. In Cinemascope 55. I'm sure that became Cinemascope 56 the very next year.

The way we see movies in 2012 is not nearly as much fun. Because the films are not nearly as much fun. But, if you insist on finding a flicker this weekend, here's your handy dandy guide to sorting out the junk playing in our multiplexes. I'll flip through the Los Angeles Times movie pages and give you my knee jerk reaction to what's out there ready to burn your retinas.

The Artist: Everybody's talking about it. Except me. And, of course, the people in the movie.

Carnage: I saw this screen adaptation of the award winning play "Gods of Carnage." I never saw it on Broadway. This is clearly an idea that works better on stage than on the silver screen. All the characters are so annoying that you would rather watch a Republican Presidential debate. Plus it runs an hour and 19 minutes. There are Disney cartoons that take up more time on the screen.

We Bought A Zoo: And, from what I can see, very few people bought tickets.

Contraband: To protect his brother-in-law from a drug lord, Mark Wahlberg heads to Panama to score millions of dollars in counterfeit bills.   What? He can't get enough from that syndication deal for "Entourage?"

The Iron Lady: On my list purely for Meryl Streep's supposedly bravura performance as Margaret Thatcher. Except I hear the movie is quite mediocre.

Mission Impossible - Ghost Protocol: Well, shut my mouth. Having hated the first one in the franchise and not seeing the sequels, I somehow wound up seeing this fourth chapter. And loved it. It was like two episodes of "24" tied together. But, have no fear, Keifer Sutherland. You can still act rings around the consistently one-note Tom Cruise.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: How did Len see this movie? I was waiting for Toyota to put two new tires on my car. I had three hours to kill and there's a movie theater right next door to the dealership. Timing wise, it was between this and Alvin and the Chipmunks - Chipwrecked. So, there. Meanwhile, this David Fincher swill is cold, dark, violent, and dirty. The Chipmunks never looked so good.

Alvin and the Chipmunks - Chipwrecked: Compared to the tattoo chick, how bad could you have been?

War Horse: I hear this is classic Spielberg over-directing to epic proportions. But, a good sign is that, for once, there are no sharks, dinosaurs, or Jews in a concentration camp.

Beauty and the Beast - 3D: I'm going on record. I don't think 3-D works. There. I said it.

Sherlock Holmes - A Game of Shadows: This got tons of American dollars over the holidays. None of it from my wallet, thank God. Anybody who enjoys this incarnation of the great detective is too stupid to read the original books by Sr. Arthur Conan Doyle.

Joyful Noise: Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah in what looks to be a cross between an episode of "Green Acres" and "Glee."

We Need to Talk About Kevin: Tilda Swinton as a mother who tires to come to terms when her son commits an unspeakable act. Finally getting a wide release after it opened briefly last year in Hollywood to enable Swinton to qualify for an almost-certain Oscar nomination. As for me, please don't make me see the film to find out what the unspeakable act is. I will gladly accept spoilers.

Carol Channing - Larger Than Life: A documentary on Broadway's legendary Dolly. Don't judge me if I go to see this.

Underworld - Awakening: When human forces discover the existence of the Vampire and Lycan clans, a war to eradicate both species commences. The vampire warrioress Selene leads the battle against humankind. So, there was another movie before this? People know who Selene is? Where have I been? Apparently not at any theater playing this shit.

Man on a Mission: A documentary that tells the story of legendary computer game developer Richard Garriott's spaceflight in October 2008.   Officially the dumbest idea ever for a documentary. Not counting, of course, anything by Michael Moore.

Coriolanus: A banished hero of Rome allies with a sworn enemy to take his revenge on the city.   Directed by Ralph Fiennes and a co-writing credit for William Shakespeare, who I didn't think was still working. He must be trying to keep his WGA health benefits.

The Adventures of Tintin: Please insert gaping yawn. What's worse than a Steven Spileberg over-directed epic? A Spielberg over-produced cartoon.

The Devil Inside: In Italy, a woman becomes involved in a series of unauthorized exorcisms during her mission to discover what happened to her mother, who allegedly murdered three people during her own exorcism.   Paging Father Merrin. This stuff was done much better years ago by director William Friedkin. Skip this and rent "The Exorcist" in Blu-Ray.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: Reviewed here earlier this week. If you have short term memory issues, can I suggest some Gingko Biloba?

Film Socialisme: This three-part film portrays scenes aboard a Mediterranean cruise ship, a French family home, and moments throughout human history. If that sounds weird, it was also directed by the over-rated Jean-Luc Godard. What's the French word for "nap?"

Red Tails: A crew of African American pilots in the Tuskegee training program, having faced segregation while kept mostly on the ground during World War II, are called into duty under the guidance of Col. A.J. Bullard.   Produced by George Lucas, who bitched to high heaven how much trouble he had getting a release for a smart movie about African-Americans. For that, he has to thank Tyler Perry, Martin Lawrence, and any film with the word "booty" in the title.

Haywire: A black ops super soldier seeks payback after she is betrayed and set up during a mission.   Directed by Steven Soderbergh and it stars Gina Carano. Yeah, I asked the same question. Who the hell is she???

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy: I hear the movie forgot to include one more occupation. Intepreter. I understand that folks are struggling to understand all the fast-talking Brits.

Loosies: A young pickpocket in the New York subways, living a fast, free, lifestyle is confronted by a woman with whom he had a one night affair.   From that plot description, it doesn't sound like I will love Loosies.

Miss Bala: The story of a young woman clinging on to her dream to become a beauty contest queen in a Mexico dominated by organized crime.   How will she be able to keep her tiara on as she hops the border fence?

The Flowers of War: The always hammy Christian Bale as a Westerner who finds refuge with a group of women in a church during Japan's rape of Nanking in 1937. Posing as a priest, he attempts to lead the women to safety.   If you're cooped up with a bunch of ladies, why would you pose as a priest? That takes all the fun out of this movie.

Young Adult: Jason Reitman directing and Diablo Cody writing the script. How could this go wrong? Well, trust me, it does. A huge, huge disappointment.

The Descendants: Soon to be riding the crest of Oscar nominations. As written here before, this is nothing but a Lifetime movie with a bigger production budget.

Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza from Maria's Italian Kitchen.

What's All This Fuss About Jesus?

2012-01-19T06:47:00.000-08:00

Well, by now, everybody knows.

God took the Patriots....and a whole lot of points.

Yep, Tim Tebow, the Denver Broncos, and probably the city of Nazareth lost big last Saturday and I guess that means this media frenzy is over for now. Praying can resume when training camp re-opens in July.

Frankly, I do believe, in my heart of hearts, that the young quarterback doesn't just wait for a touchdown to hit his knees and talk to the guy upstairs. This is a kid who has been raised with religion and is still incredibly in touch with his faith.

The horror.

I was astounded by the bashing Tebow took over his thanking God every time he managed to allude some tackle for a score. How dare he rub our faces into his beliefs? Some of these comments come from the same people who are always hysterically amused at the gyrations of some players in the end zone after scoring a touchdown. Did you see the way some of those common ass wipes on the New York Giants carried on during their victory against the Green Bay Packers?

Yeah, we live in a world where it's okay to be a moron, but not a person who "talks" to God.

Shameful.

And, as if this is something new?

Last week, the MLB Network was running a lot of clips from the 1988 World Series, which was the last time the Los Angeles Dodgers played in (and won) the Fall Classic. Orel Hershiser is pitching and gets the last out in Game Five to close down the series victory. So, what does he do? He hits his knees and prays. For perhaps no longer than ten seconds, but he genuflects nonetheless. A private moment between him and his Lord and Master---the one not named Tommy Lasorda.

I don't remember the flurry of disdain upon Hershiser. As a matter of fact, I don't recall a single word of dissent. Now, I'm fully expecting that history will repeat itself if current Dodger pitcher Clayton Kershaw ever gets to achieve the same feat. Kershaw's deeply religious and even goes to Africa every January to work with his Christian missonary wife amongst some needy villages. Clayton will no doubt thank God as well. Expect hand wringing to ensue.

So, what's changed in the 26 years between Orel Hershiser and Tim Tebow? Little, you say? A lot, I say.

Let's face it. America's almost maniacal need to be all things for all people has now fatally backfired in all of our faces. Suddenly, you cannot practice your own Christian religion for fear of offending somebody else. Because, you know, we need to be conscious of that mosque being built around the corner. Or the temple that is meeting in the basement next door. Every religion but Christianity seems to be getting a hall pass to roam the campus freely.

A young quarterback kneeling down in the end zone? The nerve.

This all comes on the heels of my own Christmas Eve service at church, where my screwball-of-a-liberal pastor felt a need to include elements of interfaith in the celebration. Come on, I don't begrudge anybody's religious beliefs, but I'd also appreciate it if you didn't infringe upon mine either. I'll make a deal, please. You stay out of my way on Christmas Eve and I'll steer clear on Yom Kippur and any of those Allah-based holy days that are too numerous to mention.

Every one asks "can we all get along?" I ask "can't we just leave each other alone?"

Don't get me wrong. Tebow is obviously a Fundamentalist Christian and those folks can get in your face a bit. Some of the "John 3:16" coincidences were dragged out ad nauseum. Gee, did you know that Tebow had $3.16 in his locker at the time he scored the winning touchdown? Come on. Enough. And, personally, I do take issue with some of the basic tenets of their faith, especially in regard to ethnicitiy, sexual preference, and abortion. And I certainly can make similar arguments with other religions as well. Last time I heard, those terrorists weren't exclaiming "I'm coming home to you, Jesus" when they flew those planes into the Twin Towers on 9/11.

But that, my friends, is old business. Once again...

There is no one single religion that is right or wrong. It all works for the same purpose. To help keep somebody grounded and on the righteous path, regardless of who is doing the final judgment at the end of your mortal days.

Isn't that what it's supposed to be?

You want to achieve world harmony? Let everybody do what they need to do. In their own way.

I pray that this can happens in my lifetime.

No, wait. Can I say that?

Dinner last night: Tortellini with chicken and pesto.

This Date in History - January 18

2012-01-18T06:36:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Ollie!

350: GENERALLUS MAGNENTIUS DEPOSES ROMAN EMPEROR CONSTANS AND PROCLAIMS HIMSELF EMPEROUR.

Generallus Magnentius? Sounds like something you take for constipation.

474: LEO II BRIEFLY BECOMES BYZANTINE EMPEROR.

Briefly translates to...

474: BYZANTINE EMPEROR LEO II DIES.

He probably didn't even get to try out the throne.

1126: EMPEROR HUIZONG ABDICATES THE CHINESE THRONE IN FAVOR OF HIS SON EMPEROR QINZONG.

Tough day to be an emperor anywhere.

1520: KING CHRISTIAN II OF DENMARK AND NORWAY DEFEATS THE SWEDES AT LAKE ASUNDEN.

Or a Swede, for that matter.

1535: SPANISH CONQUISTADOR FRANCISCO PIZARRO FOUNDED LIMA, THE CAPITAL OF PERU.

And I suppose the Lima bean.

1670: HENRY MORGAN CAPTURES PANAMA.

Obviously he wasn't content to simply have a seat on the "I've Got a Secret" panel.

1778: JAMES COOK IS THE FIRST KNOWN EUROPEAN TO DISCOVER THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS, WHICH HE NAMES THE SANDWICH ISLANDS.

Hold the mayo...and the pineapple.

1782: STATESMAN DANIEL WEBSTER IS BORN.

Say hello to the Devil.

1871: WILHELM I OF GERMANY IS PROCLAIMED THE FIRST GERMAN EMPEROR IN THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES. THE EMPIRE IS KNOWN AS THE SECOND REICH TO GERMANS.

Yeah, well, the third one was the real killer.

1886: MODERN FIELD HOCKEY IS BORN WITH THE FORMATION OF THE HOCKEY ASSOCIATION IN ENGLAND.

And the first fight was...?

1892: COMEDY STAR OLIVER HARDY IS BORN.

Well, here's another fine mess you got yourself into.

1896: THE X-RAY MACHINE IS EXHIBITED FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Prior to this, broken bones were simply unhappy surprises.

1903: PRESIDENT THEODORE ROOSEVELT SENDS A RADIO MESSAGE TO KING EDWARD VII---THE FIRST TRANSATLANTIC RADIO TRANSMISSION ORIGINATING IN THE UNITED STATES.

First message was "please send moustache trimmer."

1904: ACTOR CARY GRANT IS BORN.

The birth certificate read "Archie Leach."

1913: ACTOR DANNY KAYE IS BORN.

I never quite understood his appeal.

1916: A 611 GRAM CHONDRITE TYPE METEORITE STRIKES A HOUSE IN STONE COUNTY, MISSOURI.

They were looking to put in a sky light anyway.

1933: INVENTOR RAY DOLBY IS BORN.

He's the reason we cover our ears at the movies.

1941: DURING WORLD WAR II, BRITISH TROOPS LAUNCH A GENERAL COUNTER-OFFENSIVE AGAINST ITALIAN EAST AFRICA.

Talk about picking on the smallest kid in the school playground.

1941: SINGER BOBBY GOLDSBORO IS BORN.

Honey, I miss you.

1952: STOOGE CURLY HOWARD DIES.

Hey, look, Moe, it's the Grim Reaper.

1954: ACTOR SYDNEY GREENSTREET DIES.

Road closed.

1955: ACTOR KEVIN COSTNER IS BORN.

If your water breaks, he will come.

1958: WILLIE O'REE, THE FIRST AFRICAN CANADIAN NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE PLAYER, MAKES HIS NHL DEBUT.

First African? Come on, Wikipedia! He was Black. Deal with it.

1967: BOSTON STRANGLER ALBERT DESALVO IS CONVICTED OF NUMEROUS CRIMES AND SENTENCED TO LIFE IMPRISONMENT.

He could look at the bright side. He didn't have to watch the Red Sox anymore.

1969: UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 266 CRASHES INTO SANTA MONICA BAY KILLING ALL 32 PASSENGERS AND SIX CREW MEMBERS.

Wow....that happened like right down the road.

1978: THE ROOF STRUCTURE OF THE HARTFORD CIVIC CENTER COLLAPSES AFTER A SIGNIFICANT SNOWFALL.

Fittingly, the Ice Capades was appearing there at the time.

1978: ACTOR CARL BETZ DIES.

Judd no longer for the defense.

1983: THE INTERNATIONAL OLYMPIC COMMITTEE RESTORES JIM THORPE'S OLYMPIC MEDALS TO HIS FAMILY.

Available on e-Bay the very next day.

1990: WASHINGTON DC MAYOR MARION BARRY IS ARRESTED FOR DRUG POSSESSION IN A FBI STING.

All of you who voted for him should be ashamed.

1990: ACTOR RUSTY HAMER DIES.

Make room for Daddy's son.

1993: MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. DAY IS OFFICIALLY OBSERVED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ALL 50 STATES.

Go to J.C. Penney's for their annual White Sale.

1995: UMPIRE RON LUCIANO DIES.

You're out.

2000: THE TAGISH LAKE METEORITE IMPACTS THE EARTH.

Hopefully this one didn't land in Missouri.

2011: POLITICIAN SARGENT SHRIVER DIES.

Peace Corpse.

Dinner last night: Ginger chicken and rice from P.F. Chang's.

Pleasantly Surprised and A Bit Confused

2012-01-17T06:42:00.000-08:00

Granted this was a book first, but the title of this movie lends to all sorts of gags for film reviewers. How many of them used a variation of it for the headline over their review? Well, at least one of them. Look at what's at the top of today's blog entry.

From the trailer and some of the negative reviews, I had resolved to avoid "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close," citing that most of the buzz was that it was extremely manipulative and incredibly heavy-handed. Indeed, how can you not be when the 9/11 incident, termed by young Oskar in the movie as the "worst day ever" is the focal point of the whole film. As time wears on, we are likely to see more and more movies devoted to how people reacted on that fateful morning.

Eventually, we'll get more and more comfortable with the inherent drama and we may even wind up with a dark comedy around the event. Who knows? Maybe there will be a film where the collapse of the Twin Towers is completely thwarted by Jason Statham in a gaggle of special effects. My guess is there's such a script in development as we speak.

Nevertheless, the wounds are still fresh so we'll get plots like this book and movie, which are a bit stilted and overly sentimental. Mallets when small hammers will do just fine.

Trust me, "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" is stilted and overly sentimental. But, somehow and some way, I liked it. Despite of itself. Indeed, its heart is in the right place, although several of the valves get easily clogged with blockages of fat and sugar. As do most films these days, the director here, Stephen Daldry, can't decide on one single ending so he includes all of its choices. As a result, the movie is about a half-hour too long, but, then again, so are most films in 2012.

You may be aware that "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" tells the tale of young Oskar, whose dad is fatally trapped in one of the World Trade towers on 9/11. A year later, the kid, still badly in need of some grief counseling, finds a key in an envelope his dad labelled simply "Black." He sets out on a journey across the five boroughs of New York to find which of the 240 plus people named "Black" in the metropolitan area matches up to the key. Talk about your needle in the proverbial stack. But, that's this boy's way of keeping his father alive, so I can't quibble. My own father let behind for a locked suitcase. When I opened it, the valise was full of light bulbs. Certainly not an anecdote that inspires a whole movie treatment, but you get the idea.

Young Oskar is a bizarre little chap with enough psychological issues to keep Dr. Phil on the air for enough three seasons. His multiple quirks and tics make you wonder if he grows up to be Sheldon Cooper on "The Big Bang Theory." As annoying as he is, the movie hangs completely on the child and it's to actor Thomas Horn's credit that you like him and actually root for him during his quest for mailbox closure.

The acting all around is top notch. Bloated Tom Hanks plays the dad and, of course, gets very little screen time for which lots of us are extremely glad and incredibly grateful. Never has one Hollywood actor been as overrated as the pompous Hanks. Meanwhile, Max Von Sydow scores mightily in a supporting role which will net him an Oscar nomination shortly. This is noteworthy since he does not utter a single word of dialogue during the entire movie.

And, stop the presses, Sandra Bullock does her best acting ever as Oskar's confused or maybe not so confused mom. I've never liked her, since her emoting actually lets you physically see her acting. Not so in "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." She is tempered, nuanced, and organic in her scenes. This role is worthy of an Oscar, not that manic dribble she gushed with in "The Blind Side" several years back.

But it is young Horn's picture. It's always risky to put the entire success of your movie on a child. While certainly no Mickey Rooney, Thomas answers the bell with a more difficult subject matter. But then again, nobody ever bothered to make "Andy Hardy Meets A Terrorist."

Glowing words aside, there are problems with "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." Besides the fifteen or sixteen false endings, I came away asking about inconsistencies in the plot. Why did? How did? How come? And, since Oskar is self multilating himself during his grief, I'm a bit confused how his mother did not see this on his body. A whole year and Mom didn't see her young son with his shirt off even once? Hmmm? I'm thinking there are whole chunks of dialogue that were mysteriously lost someplace, much as was the case with lives on 9/11.

So, you'll come away extremely puzzled and perhaps even incredibly annoyed. But, nevertheless, the film holds you firmly in its grasp and perhaps one of the dozen or so endings will grab you in the throat and squeeze out a tear or two. "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" is dying to do just that.

And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Dinner last night: Roast beef sandwich from Clementine's.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - January 16, 2012

2012-01-16T01:59:00.000-08:00

In honor of MLK Day, here's the wonderful Lawanda Page cutting up at a George Burns roast.

Dinner last night: Salad bar at Gelson's.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Third Grade Class Picture

2012-01-15T03:13:00.000-08:00

One picture can prompt a thousand words. And two thousand memories.

With a gracious cap tip to my long time friend and fellow elementary school classmate Cheryl (back row, second from right, the blonde with the blue dress), this photo transports me back to the third grade at Grimes Elementary School in Mount Vernon, New York.

And the floodgates of my mind open again...

First of all, our teacher is there at the far left. Mrs. Rita Popper. I'm including her whole name here in the event she ever shamelessly Googles her own name. And she'll learn that I thought she was a fox. Pure and simple. The best looking of any teacher that I had throughout all my school years. But, I have written of her before. Remember?

There was my third grade teacher. Mrs. Popper. Fresh out of teacher college. New to the game. And an incredibly hot chick. Or however a third grade student would describe a fine looking lady.

Other than her smoking hot legs, there are two things I remember distinctly about Mrs. Popper. Inexplicably, our homework one night was to watch the Academy Awards. Why? Who knew? Except the next day we spent an hour in class discussing who won, who lost, and whether the winning movie was really the best picture of the year. We had never done anything so interesting in school yet. This was not math or English or social studies. My very first notion that learning, yes, could be fun.

One day, I had aced a test. Mrs. Popper was particularly pleased with me and let my mother know when she came to pick me up after school. Out on the playground, Mrs. Popper was telling my mom what a model student I was. She was so enamored that she gave me a bear hug and then kissed me on the cheek.

You're kidding, right??

I blushed at the attention. The shade of red darkened when I immediately realized that half my class had seen this display of affection.

"WHOA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I dreaded going back to school the next day. I would be getting all sorts of shit about this. In the middle of the night, I started to sweat profusely. Was I that worked up?

No, I was coming down with chicken pox. My next day back at school wouldn't happen for another two weeks.

And, then, there was another nagging thought. It was the first time ever that a teacher had kissed me and I wound up with a disease. During my nighttime prayers, I asked for God's help.

"Please don't let Mrs. Popper get the chicken pox, too."

Just so you know that the Google search can cut both ways, I myself did an internet hunt on said teacher when I first ran the above piece. I tracked her down to the borough of Manhattan, where she apparently is some sort of, ahem, "community activist." I doubt she'll parlay this into a Presidential career, but she'd get my vote if she was on the ballot.

Moving on....

You can find me in this snapshot. Second row, third kid from the right. On a zoom view, I am wearing a purple shirt with a belt that almost matches. Thanks, Mom. You've created the very first preppy and the earliest edition of a metrosexual. I'm seeing half the guys in ties and the other half not. Did the memo not reach everybody?

The dude in the red shirt on the end of the second row near me is Russell and he was probably my best male friend in the class. It wasn't hard for us to connect if you look at the composition of the group...ahem. He used to come over and play at my house on Saturday afternoons. He was another one of those kids who had the TV show "Combat" on the brain. We'd head off to a vacant lot and re-enact the Battle of Anzio or whatever he had seen Vic Morrow do earlier that week. Somebody told me a few years ago that he wound up with a life-long career in the military and I wish I had bet those odds. Whenever I hear of some Army lifer going postal at a place like Fort Hood, I wonder for a second where Russell wound up.

My other two chums in class were the aforementioned Cheryl, who offered up this photo and Diane in the back row on the far left and standing next to our teacher/sex symbol. Again, when you look at the photo, you can figure out how we matched up...ahem anew. Back in those days, degrees of friendship were dictated by very simple criteria. In the case of Cheryl and Diane, I had both their phone numbers. Okay, gang, this was the third grade so we're not talking THAT. But, we used to burn up the wires all the time. Ostensibly to share homework, but most usually to gossip or talk about what we were going to watch on television that night.

Cheryl has the dubious/unlucky/historical/heroic distinction of being in the same school as me for every year from second grade all the way to senior year at Fordham University, although I probably only saw her once on campus the entire four years. Yet, she and I have never had a Christmas without sharing cards and I even got to see her family in Los Angeles about a dozen years ago.

Diane is a recent and wonderful re-connection, compliments of the new town square called Facebook. From what I can see in photos on Facebook, she seems to have dozens and dozens of grandchildren and I'm going to ask her if she'd be willing to rent me a couple.

As for the rest of the faces, I'm drawing mostly blanks. The names will come to me in the middle of the night and watch for those memories to show up here on future Sundays. Truth be told, this was the third grade class but about a third of them disappeared for large chunks of the day. They went and had their lessons in a special classroom down in the basement. They were in what we called the "PAD" class. I don't recall what "PAD" really stood for, but we quickly made up her own translation for the letters.

"People Are Dumb."

Now, back in this day of grade schooling, there was a lot going on in the world. Tons of chatter about busing and integration and segregation.

Take a look at this picture and you can see why all that stuff was lost on us. Not only was the Grimes School fully integrated, the so-called White kids were way outnumbered. This was life in racially divided Mount Vernon, New York. The New Haven railroad line that cut through the center of the city effectively created two distinctly different halves of a community. On the north side, you had mostly White and Italian or Jewish families. On the south side, you had a smattering of White families amidst mostly Black households.

Guess where I lived?

Of course, none of us really knew the difference so everybody lived together in the classroom pretty harmoniously. Once in a while, a rumor would cut through the school hallways about an impending battle at 3PM. Two schmucks were going to solve their problems by smashing each other around the schoolyard. When it was ready to erupt, you would hear the chant go up.

"A fight, a fight, a Nigger and a White."

Hey, I'm just writing what I heard.

For the most part, my world there at Grimes was peaceful. We all got along and probably could have been one of the earliest benchmarks of racial harmony. It would help that, usually, the official class mother was either my mom or Cheryl's mom or Diane's mother. You don't want to piss off the kid whose parent was showing up on Halloween with some really tasty cupcakes.

Yep, it was all comfortable.

Although....

I'm thinking back to a class project. We all had to break off in pairs and build something "geographic." My partner wound up being a kid named Thomas. If memory serves me correctly, he is the third kid from the left in the second row. The one who looks like an eight-year-old version of Malcolm X.

Thomas' big claim to fame was he could play the piano and wound up doing so at most assemblies. For all I know, he wound up working in a supper club and accepting dollar tips in a martini glass. But, at this time in this school year, he and I had something to build. We were going to construct a volcano. Complete with flowing lava.

Production values that were definitely too ambitious for either one of us.

Nevertheless, we pressed on and needed to meet after hours to decide how we could recreate Krakatoa-East of Java. I offered up a place where we could spread out with our art materials that were destined to be adorning our clothes sooner than later. The logical place of origin for our spectacular volcano was my basement. We settled on a Saturday afternoon when I wasn't necessarily landing on Normandy with Russell.

After about an hour in the cellar, Thomas and I decided we had bitten off way more than we chew. And, speaking of which, let's go upstairs to my house and get something better to eat.

Up the stairs we bounded. And ran right into my father.

Who was not aware that I was entertaining a school friend.

Who happened to be Black.

In a life of facial memories of my parents, I will never forget the look on my dad's face that afternoon. It was one I still can't describe. But, clearly, it wasn't conveying the emotion of "hot diggity dog, I just hit the Daily Double at Yonkers Raceway." Thinking back, Thomas may have been the first Black person to step inside our home. Not counting, of course, the guy who delivered Grandpa's beer every Wednesday morning or the Jehovah Witnesses who showed up on the porch like clockwork every Sunday afternoon.

Dad simply nodded and walked away. He never mentioned the moment ever again. And I certainly didn't bring it up as a fond memory. It would just reside in quiet silence for the rest of eternity.

A different time. A different place.

It was okay for us to stand side-by-side in unison for the school class picture.

For my father, that's as far as the unity would go.

Dinner last night: Bacon and mushroom turkey burger at Go Burger.

Classic Newsreel of the Month - January 2012

2012-01-14T01:02:00.000-08:00

It's January. What do you expect? Of course. A newsreel about snow in New York.

Dinner last night: Chicken piccata with brown rice and broccoli.

Today's Guest Joke Writer - The Federal Government

2012-01-13T07:15:00.000-08:00

Hey, I can't do the funny stuff every day. I'll let the comedy be written today by our own Federal Government. With these wonderful examples of how our tax dollars were spent in 2011.

Oh, I won't be completely silent. I'll have something to say after each one.

IN 2011, 2.6 MILLION DOLLARS WERE SPENT ON PROGRAMS TO HELP CHINESE PROSTITUTES TO DRINK MORE RESPONSIBLY ON THE JOB.

Me, here. I had no idea that alcoholism was so high amongst Chinese hookers. And, frankly, what difference does it really make? Drunk or not drunk, she's not going to love as long as she said she will.

IN 2011, FEDERAL EMPLOYEES EXPENSED $146 MILLION DOLLARS TO UPGRADE TO BUSINESS CLASS ON AIRPLANE FLIGHTS.

I'm back and this one really hits me in the ole bread basket. I spend lots of dough out of my own pocket to do the same thing. And I'm not asking you to supply with dollars for extra leg room and food that is edible.

OVER ONE RECENT 18 MONTH PERIOD, AIR FORCE AND NAVY PERSONNEL USED GOVERNMENT-FUNDED CREDIT CARDS TO CHARGE AT LEAST $102,400 ON ADMISSION TO ENTERTAINMENT EVENTS, $48,250 ON GAMBLING, $69,300 ON CRUISES, AND $73,950 ON EXOTIC DANCE CLUBS AND PROSTITUTES.

A-ha, so that's why they want to make sure the hookers are sober. They're costing a shitload of money. And we wonder why President Obama just made all monetary cuts in spending for the military?

THE U.S. COVERNMENT SPENT 3 MILLION DOLLARS TO ADD NEW SAND TO AMERICAN BEACHES.

I guess it's too easy to simply import sand at a lower price from the Mideast.

THE U.S. GOVERNMENT FUNDED $550,000 FOR A DOCUMENTARY ON HOW ROCK MUSIC CONTRIBUTED TO THE END OF THE SOVIET UNION.

How about some money for a documentary on how wasteful government spending will contribute to the end of the United States?

THE U.S GOVERNMENT SPENT 1.8 MILLION DOLLARS TO BUILD A PRIVATE GOLF COURSE IN ATLANTA, GEORGIA.

Par for the course.

THE U.S. GOVERNMENT SPENT $60,000 AN HOUR TO PHOTOGRAPHERS CREATING PHOTO OPS OF AIR FORCE ONE IN FRONT OF NATIONAL LANDMARKS.

I have an easy solution for this. One word. Photoshop.

THE U.S. GOVERNMENT SPENT $10 MILLION TO DEVELOP A REMAKE OF SESAME STREET FOR PAKISTAN.

Wow, this is important. Because we all know lots of terrorists are harbored there. And we certainly want to teach their kids how to count. 3, 2, 1,........EXPLOSION!

THE U.S GOVERNMENT PROVIDED ALMOST ONE MILLION DOLLARS FOR A RESEARCH STUDY ON HOW PAYING ATTENTION IMPROVES JOB PERFORMANCE.

My father told me to pay attention all the time. I did. I never gave him a dime, but did take him out to dinner on Father's Day.

THE U.S. GOVERNMENT DISTRIBUTED 2.5 MILLION DOLLARS OF STIMULUS CHECKS TO 10,000 AMERICANS WHO JUST HAPPEN TO BE DEAD.

And I'm going to be really pissed if I wind out my parents got one.

THE U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPORTIONED 3.4 MILLION DOLLARS TO BUILD A WILDLIFE ECO-PASSAGE IN FLORIDA TO TAKE ANIMALS SAFELY UNDER A BUSY HIGHWAY.

But road kill is a part of America. How dare you deny us the right to see a squirrel wearing some Goodyear radials across his furry back? So, in Florida, they've made it easier for critters to get from one place to another. Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, there's a bus system that's not fit for either man or beast.

FOUR MILLION DOLLARS SPENT WITH TAXPAYER DOLLARS FOR OBAMA FAMILY CHRISTMAS VACATION IN HAWAII.

Now I certainly don't begrudge a President's vacation during the holidays. They all do it. But, the difference is that most other Chief Executives go home to their own compounds. This guy runs up a hotel or condo tab. Can I suggest that the Obamas consider a nice Christmas celebration in their home district of South Chicago? Oh, wait. With the worst crime rate in the country, that might not be a good idea. As if he didn't already ignore that fact when he was running the place years ago.

I wish I could say I'm making this stuff up. But, sadly....

Dinner last night: Gnocchi with proscuitto and peas.

No More Life to Live

2012-01-12T06:22:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make and please don't judge me.

I have, from time to time, watched a daytime soap opera.

I will pause for ten seconds while you gasp.

Oh, I don't DVR Monday through Friday episodes and watch them non-stop on the weekend. But, if I am flipping the dials just before bedtime, I do wander over to Soapnet on an occasional basis and check out "One Life to Live."

So, now, you know.

The good news is that, if this has prompted you to change your original opinion about me as a human being, I won't do this anymore after tomorrow.

After 43 years on ABC, "One Life to Live" is going off the air. The latest soap opera victim of dwindling, aging audiences and even lower advertising revenues. Like "All My Children" which bit the dust a few months back, "OLTL" is being replaced by another how-to show. The former was supplanted by a program designed to help you eat better. "OLTL" is being dumped for a show that will help you how to lose weight. Perhaps, it will tell you not to eat what you saw on the food show. The bottom line is that those types of programs are much cheaper to produce and that's always the bottom line in media these days.

How did I wind up watching "OLTL?" Well, as with many things you read on this blog, the genesis goes back several decades.

Grandma.

She loved her daytime "stories." First, she would take her daily nap. Well, she would call it her "beauty rest." From 1PM to 2PM. Then she'd pop up off the couch and hit the TV dials for the trials and tribulations of OLTL's Llanview and whatever city "General Hospital" was set in. I never got suckered into those folks. But, somehow and almost magically, I found myself hooked with her on OLTL.

I was off for the summer and doing nothing much. My mind was available. A diversion was needed. I wandered past Grandma in front of the tube. There was a woman crying on a witness stand. I asked simply who she was.

"She's a tramp."

That's all it took.

To give you an idea how long OLTL has been on the air, my grandmother will be dead thirty years this July.

The amazing thing is that, as I would check into the show infrequently over the ensuing three decades, I'd see some of the same actors and characters that I first met with Grandma. There's Erika Slezak and Robin Strasser and a bunch of others who contribute to a wonderful consistency and you understand how a daytime soap opera becomes a member of your family.

Oh, sure, some plotlines are implausible. Let's face it, Erika's "Viki Buchanan" went to Heaven and met God three different times. Dead characters suddenly resurfaced as twins whenever departed actors want to return to the fold. And the local hospital should be closed given the number of times babies were switched.

But, still, it's pure entertainment and an art form that goes back to the days of national radio in the 30s and 40s. At one point, there might have been ten or twelve daytime soaps on network television. With this latest departure, the number will be down to four and that may go down even further soon. Television programmers say the audience has changed. Perhaps. But, given the replacements, how riveting is it to learn the number of different ways you can serve an artichoke?

There had been a chance that OLTL was going to move on-line with this internet company named Prospect Park. It was so assured of happening that the writers included several cliffhangers in their ABC closing episode. After production shuttered, the on-line opportunity dried up when they couldn't get agreement with unions repping the actors, writers, and directors. The sad thing is that OLTL now wraps up with loose ends as they didn't have time to go back and reshoot.

It's never a good thing when actors and crews are put out of work, especially after several decades of a steady paycheck. I am sure most of the cast will wind up with gainful employment. Hell, I'm looking at two of them myself for an idea we are working on. But, yet, for the sake of a few saved dollars, another broadcasting icon bites the dust. There should be room for all sorts of entertainment, regardless of the age or the size of the audience.

Nevertheless, I have DVRed the past two weeks of OLTL and will certainly watch the end tomorrow. Good job, folks. And that goes to all those actors, writers, and directors who carried on the art of good soap opera as long as they could. A cap tip to all.

And I bet my grandmother would agree.

Dinner last night: Homemade tomato sauce.

This Date in History - January 11

2012-01-11T06:18:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Grant Tinker. Some of us remember you for stuff other than shtupping Mary Tyler Moore.

630: MUHAMMAD LEADS AN ARMY OF 10,000 TO CONQUER MECCA.

And so the Muslim juggernaut begins.

1503: ITALIAN ARTIST PARMIGIANINO IS BORN.

A lot of his work was cheesy.

1569: FIRST RECORDER LOTTERY IN ENGLAND.

Hello, duck, can you get me a couple of those bloomin' scratches?

1693: MOUNT ETNA ERUPTS IN SICILY, ITALY. A POWERFUL EARTHQUAKE DESTROYS PARTS OF SICILY AND MALTA.

Instead of doughnuts, the Red Cross handed out cannolis.

1759: IN PHILADELPHIA, THE FIRST AMERICAN LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY IS INCORPORATED.

Whereas, previously, there was no great payout if you managed to kill your wife.

1787: WILLIAM HERSCHEL DISCOVERS TITANIA AND OBERON, TWO MOONS OF URANUS.

Whose anus?

1805: THE MICHIGAN TERRITORY IS CREATED.

And immediately had the highest unemployment rate in the country.

1843: WRITER FRANCIS SCOTT KEY DIES.

No longer can he see by any light whatsoever.

1861: ALABAMA SECEDES FROM THE UNITED STATES.

Drinks would have been on me.

1863: DURING THE CIVIL WAR, GENERAL JOHN MCCLERNAND AND ADMIRAL DAVID DIXON PORTER CAPTURE THE ARKANSAS RIVER FOR THE UNION.

Bang, I shot a river.

1908: THE GRAND CANYON NATIONAL MONUMENT IS CREATED.

A fancy way of saying "big hole in the ground."

1919: ROMANIA ANNEXES TRANSYLVANIA.

Dracula, welcome home.

1922: FIRST USE OF INSULIN TO TREAT DIABETES IN A HUMAN PATIENT.

Previously tested on several diabetic chimps.

1925: TELEVISION PRODUCER GRANT TINKER IS BORN.

A genius amongst broadcast executives. And not primarily because he had the good sense to once have a thirty minute phone conversation with me.

1927: PRODUCER LOUIS B. MAYER ANNOUNCED THE CREATION OF THE ACADEMY OF MOTION PICTURE ARTS AND SCIENCES.

So, how come the Oscar wasn't called the Louie?

1928: TELEVISION PRODUCER DAVID WOLPER IS BORN.

Another genius amongst broadcast executives. And he did not have the good fortune to have a thirty minute phone conversation with me.

1935: AMELIA EARHART IS THE FIRST PERSON TO FLY SOLO FROM HAWAII TO CALIFORNIA.

"Don't worry about me flying by myself all the time. I'll be fine."

1942: MUSICIAN CLARENCE CLEMONS IS BORN.

And just died. Five or six wives later.

1943: DURING WORLD WAR II, THE UNITED STATES AND ENGLAND GIVE UP TERRITORIAL RIGHTS IN CHINA.

So when does China wind up with the territorial rights in San Francisco?

1943: ITALIAN-AMERICAN ANARCHIST CARLO TRESCA IS ASSASSINATED IN NEW YORK.

The only good anarchist is the dead anarchist.

1949: FIRST RECORDED SNOWFALL IN LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.

Traffic must have really been a bitch that day.

1960: HENRY LEE LUCAS, ONCE LISTED AS AMERICA'S MOST PROLIFIC SERIAL KILLER, COMMITS HIS FIRST KNOWN MURDER.

So, since ABC is cancelling "One Life to Live" this Friday, does that make the network a serial killer as well?

1964: THE U.S. SURGEON GENERAL PUBLISHES A LANDMARK REPORT SAYING THAT SMOKING MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO HEALTH.

It took that long?

1965: BASEBALL PLAYER WALLY PIPP DIES.

Well, at least, he beat Lou Gehrig in one category.

1972: EAST PAKISTAN RENAMES ITSELF BANGLADESH.

Pass the mashed potatoes.

1979: ACTOR JACK SOO DIES.

Dead. Soo? Si. Who? Soo? Si.

2000: BASEBALL PLAYER-MANAGER BOB LEMON DIES.

No way Billy Martin was going to replace him this time. He was dead already.

2011: ACTOR DAVID NELSON DIES.

Here are the Nelsons. No, wait, there were the Nelsons.

Dinner last night: Evelyn's Favorite Pasta at the Cheesecake Factory.

I Won't Be Silent About This

2012-01-10T07:01:00.000-08:00

Let me tell you something right upfront.

I love silent movies. I rent them. I own them. I tape them regularly on Turner Classic Movies, which is the only network outlet that dares to run them. I can tick off several of my absolute favorites.

Seven Chances with Buster Keaton.

The General with Buster Keaton.

Safety Last with Harold Lloyd

City Lights with Charlie Chaplin.

Birth of a Nation by director D.W. Griffith.

The Crowd by director King Vidor.

Modern Times by Charlie Chaplin.

Speedy with Harold Lloyd.

I could go on and on.

So, naturally, the news that there is a new and Oscar-worthy silent movie currently playing on 2012 screens would be welcomed by yours truly. Okay, I'm a little skeptical that the big award buzz might be the handiwork of producer Harvey Weinstein, who once crammed the dreadful "Shakespeare in Love" down the throats of Academy Award voters. But, still, a silent movie that is new and apparently exceptional? When can I pay for my ticket?

After seeing "The Artist," when can I get my money back?

You want to talk overhype? This is the poster child for excessive movie promotion. And perhaps one of the most hackneyed gimmicks ever attempted on film. If you are going to do a silent movie for the 2012 filmgoer, you need to make sure there is something to watch after the first minute. Sure, when you listen to Tiny Tim sing "Tiptoe Thru the Tulips," your attention is riveted for the first stanza. But who listens to the whole song? The same goes for "The Artist." It's a movie that's like that house for sale. The one with great curb appeal, but, when you go inside, you discover that the builders forgot to include a kitchen or a bathroom.

Yep, "The Artist" is badly in need of a toilet. So we can flush it all down. This movie is a piece of crap.

I shouldn't be that surprised given that some Parisian hacks are the brains behind this "merde." Leave it to the scummy French film industry to put together this rip-off of about five other movies. After all, movies from this spineless country are overrated to begin with. Remove Catherine Deneuve and Louis Malle and what have these "imbeciles" produced of any worth? Let's face it. They adore the work of Jerry Lewis. Votre membres de jure, je rest my case. The whole production is a mystery. Not a whodunit, more like a "whybotherwiththat."

There is not an original or organic moment in "The Artist." The filmmakers have concocted a souffle that refuses to rise. It contains a little bit of "A Star is Born," a little bit of "Sunset Boulevard," a little bit of "Lassie Come Home" and a whole lot of nothing.

Meanwhile, the so-called "original music" by composer Ludovic Bource is shamelessly lifted in whole chunks from memorable other movies. The last ten minutes is nothing but a cover orchestration of the haunting love theme from "Vertigo" by Bernard Herrmann. They do acknowledge the original work, but you have to stay till the very end of the credits to see that. Besides me, who does that? Well, "Vertigo" co-star Kim Novak did and she is pissed. Rightfully so. But there are so many problems with "The Artist" beyond this cinematic pilfering.

The plot of "The Artist" is as threadbare as the front tires on your 1927 Model T Ford. George Valentin is a "Douglas Fairbanks" silent screen star who falls apart when sound enters the picture. Yet, before he hits the inevitable skids of booze, poverty, and an inability to get a secure table reservation at Musso and Frank's, George discovers the perky Peppy Miller, a young ingenue. He puts a birth mark on her cheek with a Sharpie and, voila, she is a star. He spends the rest of the picture running up a liquor tab at Gil Turner's, watching his old movies like Gloria Swanson, and hanging around the house with his pet dog who might be the son of Eddie on TV's "Frasier." The knuckleheads behind the camera couldn't even be original about that. Is the only dog breed that can be used on film a Jack Russell Terrier? What? A Beagle's not good enough for you?

That's the movie, gang. And, if you can correctly identify the ten or twenty movies that this reminds you of, there's a chocolate croissant with your name on it. There are several so-called plot surprises that I saw coming ten minutes ahead of time. Of course, I knew that Peppy was the secret benefactor when Valentin had to auction off his belongings. I knew what was on the reel of film that he clutched during a fire. The only unexpected surprise was that anybody in the theater actually stayed to the conclusion of the movie.

Much has been made of the acting by the two leads, who both should be given a one-way ticket out of this country via Air France. Jean Dujardin is George Valentin and his dramatic choices exclusively require the use of raised eyebrows. His level of emotion is geometrically proportional to how high they go. His eyebrows are used so much that he ultimately will come down with arthritis of the forehead.

As bad as Dujardin is, Berenice Bejo is even worse. She is as horrible as the conditions during your last incarceration at the Bastille. Every once in a while, she flails her nostrils like a race horse and I want to remind her that they already made a movie about Secretariat. Try to watch her on screen and not get nauseated by her teeth, which make Freddie Krueger's biteplate look like he's been treated with Invisalign. These two stooges ham it up so much that you become convinced they were schooled at the Hormel School of Acting.

The rest of the supporting cast is American-based and should be in litigation with their agents shortly. Penelope Ann Miller, Ed Lauter, and James Cromwell are completely wasted in small roles and are simply waiting for their paychecks to hit direct deposit. John Goodman lumbers around as the studio head and seems to be reliving his angers from days on the sitcom set with Roseanne Barr. Indeed, the dog winds up being the best actor in the film. Except, can somebody tell me what the pooch's name was? How do you have a canine character that is prominent and not let the audience know what his name is??

That's just how sloppy "The Artist" is. For the record, it was produced by Harvey Weinstein, written and directed by Michel Hazanavicius, and released by mistake. You'll probably read soon about Oscar nominations up our French wazoos and none of them will be justified. I've heard tales that audiences are applauding wildly at the end of "The Artist." Well, the sold-out crowd I was with barely clapped at all. Everyone filed out in a fitting silence usually reserved for the state funeral of General Charles de Gaulle. But, still, it will be revered and hoisted up on a Louvre-like pedestal.

Mon dieu!

You want to see a good silent movie? Well, I'm already given you a list up above to start with. Get cracking.

Dinner last night: Bobboli pizza with sausage and peppers.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - January 9, 2012

2012-01-09T05:40:00.000-08:00

The season of fun in the snow...and broken limbs.

Dinner last night: Steak with mushrooms and onions and a spinach salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Mother's Friend, Marie

2012-01-08T07:11:00.000-08:00

The goal of these Sunday Memory Drawers is to provoke a stream of thoughts about the past.   Flitting from one historical moment to another. Talking to my grandmother on those cold winter Sundays did just that. A memory from 1942 morphing into one from 1962 and then back to 1928. It was the genesis of the Sunday Memory Drawer on Len Speaks. And so, in these blog entries, I ping pong as well.

Putting together last week's homage to Dad's photographic slides of my parents' basement parties, I found a picture of somebody I hadn't given two thoughts about in practically three decades. But, there she sat and I rerun the photo again above. My mother's friend Marie chatting up my grandfather.

And a mental keg was tapped, necessitating a blog entry devoted solely to her. A veritable flood of remembrances of this lady who seemed to play a major role in my mother's life. For a while, she was omnipresent.

And here I am, now declaring in the year 2012...boy, was she a bitch!

Of course, thinking about it all at this juncture, I can make that pronouncement. But, back when I was a kid, I could never put all the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle of a woman together. In retrospect, Marie had a definitive impact on my mom and our family. Most of it, not in a good way.

Truth be told, I have no idea how Mom originally met Marie, although I think it might have been when both lived in Yonkers' Leake and Watts Orphanage. That would mean they were childhood chums and this carried over to their years as single women and then young married wives. When I first became aware of Marie, she was already married to some pile of muscle named Rich and they had a kid, Richie, who was about six months older than me.

As I have written before, any adults in my folks' circle, regardless of whether they were family or not, I would address as "aunt" and "uncle." Yet, Marie and Rich never got that salutation from me. As a matter of fact, Mom would insist on it.

"Just call them Marie and Rich."

Hmmmm. How come these people don't count? I never understood this exception to the rule. Did this mean that Marie and Rich were even more special? Or were they simply not worthy of the loftier honor? How to Confuse a Five-Year-Old in Ten Easy Steps.

Marie stood out like a lightning bolt. While Mom and the other female "aunts" all dressed nicely, Marie always seemed to kick it up a notch. Her dress was always a little tighter, a little shorter, and a whole lot brighter. It was like she was electrically powered by Con Edison. Meanwhile, her make-up choices also were on the showier side. Lots of lipstick, make-up, and mascara all of it probably viewable by a Project Mercury astronaut orbiting the Earth.

Yep, Marie was flashy in both appearance and attitude. Back then, to me, she was my mother's fanciest friend. Today, thinking back, I'd have a different perspective. Phony, pompous, and hello, your wardrobe and your age need to meet.

Whenever Marie would visit, she would suck the air out of the house as soon as she rang the doorbell. And she'd always sneer just a little at where my folks at I were living upstairs in my grandparents' house.

"When are you getting your own place? This is so small. You need to be in our building."

Uh huh.

In their apartment complex just south of downtown Yonkers which today is what we lovingly refer to as "projects." A neighborhood you don't want to be walking alone in after...well, you never want to be walking alone there. I drove past it a year or two ago and the place was a dump. But, years ago, Marie liked to present herself as living in Trump Tower.

But that was Marie. As I think back, we were all planets revolving her in the Universe Known as Marie.

Of course, as Mom continued her friendship with Marie, she liked to plan outings between our two families. Since Marie apparently thought we were living on Tobacco Road over there in lowly Mount Vernon, we'd almost always go over to visit them on their home field. While the two women gabbed away, my dad and I were uneasily thrown together with our counterparts in Marie's world. And they were not perfect fits to say the least.

My father and Rich seemed to have nothing in common. I remember them talking briefly and then sitting in cold silence as the topic of weather was exhausted quickly. Rich was big and brawny and probably had the brain of somebody from the Ozarks. In comparison, he'd make Jethro Bodine look like cafe society. I could tell that my dad certainly wanted to be any place but with anyone else but. I wondered if he knew that I felt the same way.

Because I was stuck with their lummox of a son, Richie.

Hey, Mom, what am I supposed to do there all day?

"You can play with Richie in his room."

Uh-huh.

Richie was a few months older but light years behind in social graces. Virtually every toy he had involved the military and some form of combat from World War II.    With game and play scenarios that might have been concocted in General Dwight D. Eisenhower's war room.

"Okay, you're the Kraut soldier and you have to hide under the bed until I invade and then kill you."

May I also add that his method of "killing" always included punching me in the arm. Excessively. The Nazis on Normandy Beach got off easier than I did in Richie's stalag of a bedroom. Can we play something else, please?

"Okay, you're the Jap hiding on this beach. Take your shirt off, hide under the bed until I land in my helicopter and then kill you."

Take my shirt off? Years later, I am thinking that there were issues with Richie that ran a lot deeper than the blood shed on Midway Island. I'd wait for the words from my mother that never came soon enough.

"We're going home."

Whew.

In this mess of a relationship, I started to notice another nuance. Marie didn't particularly like my dad. And, many moons later, I would learn that he couldn't stand her either. Back when I was a wee captive in Richie's dungeon, we would ultimately break for dinner. And, since Marie's idea of cooking generally included the words "Swanson" and "Frozen," we'd all get dragged out to eat. To the same place that Marie knew would rankle Dad.

"We're going to the House of Lee and eat Chinks."

Yeah, Marie was a real progressive gal.

My father hated Chinese food. Marie knew it. And didn't care. The scene played out almost every time we got together. My dad would counter if there was another restaurant option.

"No, Harold, we're eating Chinks...or we're not eating at all."

Yep, that was Marie. And it may have explained why Rich Sr. and Rich Jr. were as fucked up as they were. If only Dr. Phil had been a fly on that Yonkers wall...

To this day, I have no clue what the bond was between Marie and my mother. But, certainly, Mom looked up to her friend as some benchmark of style and what she should be doing in her life. I noticed it in very small ways.

Suddenly, the coffee table and lamps we had in our living room were almost identical to the ones in Marie's "penthouse."

When Richie got a new desk and book shelves in his room, I wound up with the exact same setup.

When they went on a vacation to Niagara Falls, so did we, rain slickers and all.

I began to wonder.....

Hmmmmmm. There's six months difference in age between me and Richie.

Nah, couldn't be. Or maybe.....

Luckily, as the kids got older, the get togethers for mortal hand-to-hand WWII combat and moo shu pork became rarer. My mother started to recognize that there was no way in hell that Richie and I would even be acquaintances, let alone the bestest of friends. There was no reason in the world to push this alliance.

And, in a rare stroke of genius for Bluto, Rich must have realized the same thing. I remember the day Marie called my mom and told her she had caught him with another woman.

What a bastard, my mother probably thought.

Smart guy, my father and I probably thought.

After her divorce, Marie focused more and more on securing Victim #2. As a result, she saw my mother less and less. Eventually, we heard that Marie had made a conquest. Some rich guy named Irv who ran an accounting firm in Manhattan.    The second news item announced that Richie had been packed up for a long stay in a military school which would be loaded with lots of kids he could kill when they're hiding under his bed with their shirts off. But, certainly, Richie's departure from the scene for "scholastic" reasons was a smokescreen.

Yep, with a new Mr. Moneybags, Marie clearly thought her son was in the way.

Now, much to Marie's disdain, my mom went back to work as soon as I turned ten. She would always work in and around Mount Vernon, usually doing some sort of light factory work at places like Union Pen Company or Kulka Electric. She made new and certainly less haughty friends at those places. Until one day, after a long absence, Marie returned like a bad cold.

"Irv has a bookkeeping job for you in Manhattan."

Mom hemmed and hawed. Manhattan??? Wow, that's far. We only went there to see the Easter and Christmas shows at Radio City Music Hall. I recall my mother declining the offer. Except Marie didn't let up as if she was getting a commission from an employment agency.

"How long are you going to be a factory girl in Mount Vernon?"

She badgered my mom into taking this job. She worked in Manhattan for the next twenty years and I don't think she enjoyed a day of work ever again.

Marie had struck again.

Long after my parents had both permanently retreated to their respective corners in the boxing ring of marriage, I once asked my dad about the weird connection between my mother and her friend Marie. The response back was like many others.

"It's a long story."

One never told. And that tale, like many others, remains in eternal seclusion in the walls of Ferncliff Cemetery. The narrators are gone.

And, likely, so is Marie. Off to that great Elizabeth Arden in the sky.

Dinner last night: Panini with proscuitto, mozzarella, and kalamata olives at Fabiolus Cafe.

Classic TV Commercial of the Month - January 2012

2012-01-07T01:01:00.000-08:00

I'd see these TV ads for Dr. Pepper and get so pissed because you couldn't buy it in New York.

Dinner last night: Garden medley salad at BJs.

Happy New Mug Shot 2012

2012-01-06T06:34:00.000-08:00

Cry me a river...as you travel up it to Sing Sing.

Er, no, apparently, you can't.

She claims she was framed...as she slides out of this one.

Yeah, prison showers are a hotbed for germs.

You can get arrested for selling bad rice.

Pick a hair color please.

I hope he wasn't the winner in that fight.

She can pick up Direct TV HD programs with this contraption.

How come we never see any criminals wearing Mitt Romney sweat shirts?

And you'll exactly like that during your first prison shower.

Dinner last night: Macaroni and cheese.

Yay! I Finshed Another Book - The Importance of Being Ernie by Barry Livingston

2012-01-05T06:33:00.000-08:00

Here's one on the express track from the "I Can't Believe You Read This, Len" department.

Yes, I read Barry Livingston's recently published memoirs. And I'm happy to report it's one of the more entertaining books in this genre. After being thoroughly bored to crocodile tears by that exhaustive gasbag James Garner's take on his own life, who knew that the goofy kid who played bespectacled Ernie Douglas on "My Three Sons" could provide such a captivating and even funny tale?

Now, I'm intrigued before I even hit page one. Let's face it, "My Three Sons" was one of my favorite shows as a kid. It was the Saturday night program that I used as major leverage to get my own portable TV for my bedroom, thereby saving me from "The Lawrence Welk Show" which was being seen on not one, but both television consoles in my house.

"If you get me my own TV, I can stop sqawking about missing 'My Three Sons'"

Yep, that did the trick.

Of course, I loved the Douglas clan, mainly because there were great siblings to play with when I had none. I wanted to be part of that family and I bet that no one in that house forced Robby, Chip, and Ernie to watch the Lennon Sisters sing ad nauseum every Saturday night.

Cracking the spine of Livingston's book, I'm also interested in the lives of TV child stars. From my days in the basement acting out my own sitcom amongst Grandma's girdle hanging on the clothesline, I wanted to be pals with Opie Taylor and Ritchie Petrie and Ernie Douglas. Heck, I wanted to do even more that with Angela Cartwright from "Make Room for Daddy," but that's a saga for another blog entry.

For all these reasons, I dove head first into Barry Livingston's book. And came out on the other side with a smile on my face.

Because, indeed, Barry Livingston wound up...well, normal. And, even better, he's still toiling at his craft because he wants to be an actor to this day.

There's a little bit of a misconception when it comes to TV child stars. Most think that they wind up strung out on cocaine in a West Hollywood gutter, in jail for punching out their girlfriend in the Century City mall, or holding up a liquor store in Encino. Truth be told, those are really the exceptions and not the rule. While most don't manage to stick around the business, a lot more than you think continue to be solid citizens living in that craftsman cottage out in West Hills.

I've actually connected twice in my life to former child actors. When I was putting together a church production several years ago, I had need to get some information from Paul Petersen, formerly of "The Donna Reed Show" and now a staunch advocate for the rights of children in show business. Paul was very gracious in an extended e-mail exchange and went over and beyond to help me get what I needed.

And, of course, my financial advisor here in Los Angeles happens to have been a co-star on a long-running sitcom of the 80s and 90s. Another good and grounded guy who manages my portfolio and I actually trust him with my social security number. I always tell him that, if he ever steals a dime, my first call will be to People Magazine.

So, in short, you don't need to have a laundry list of DUIs to your name to have an interesting tale to relate about being a TV child star and Barry Livingston does just that. Sure, he has had some hard times and did dabble a bit in the drug culture. But, overall, he comes off as sensible and somebody you'd like to have as your next door neighbor.

Barry is honest and clever, as he unspools amusing yarns about Fred MacMurray, William Frawley, Lucille Ball, Ozzie Nelson, and William Demarest. I was surprised to know that, during his acting career, there were also moments he could share with such luminaries as Elizabeth Ashley, John Cassavetes, and even Myrna Loy. While entertaining, Barry's memories of these folks are never mean, titillating, or the slightest bit gossipy. He simply tells us what he experienced.

What impressed me particularly about Barry's book is his crisp, concise, and funny writing style. In a totally selfish comparison, his work here reminds me a good deal of my own Sunday Memory Drawer on this blog, especially when he tells stories about his parents and growing up in Hollywood. Even though he was working in television at the age of five, his experiences from that era are very much like mine. Even though he was being viewed weekly by millions of people, Barry still managed to be as normal as you can get.

As mentioned earlier, Barry Livingston is still out there. Auditioning for roles. Nailing some and being disappointed by others. But he continues to press on as a professional actor and, heck, I'm tempted myself to contact him with an idea. In the meantime, he adds "book author" to his resume and the result is a captivating look at how one can survive it all in Tinseltown.

Dinner last night: Meat ravioli at Maria's Italian Kitchen.

This Date in History - January 4

2012-01-04T06:30:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Winnie the Pooh. Well, sort of. You'll have to read on, Macduff.

46 BC: JULIUS CAESAR DEFEATS TITUS LABIENUS IN THE BATTLE OF RUSPINA.

Big lossius.

1490: ANNA OF BRITTANY ANNOUNCES THAT ALL THOSE WHO WOULD ALLY WITH THE KING OF FRANCE WILL BE CONSIDERED GUILTY OF THE CRIME OF LESE MAJESTE.

My friend's dad used the expression "lese majeste" all the time. I accused him of making it up. I lose.

1642: KING CHARLES I OF ENGLAND SENDS SOLDIERS TO ARREST MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT, COMMENCING ENGLAND'S SLIDE INTO CIVIL WAR.

If England still owned us, would they arrest members of Congress? A boy can dream, can't I?

1643: PHILOSOPHER ISAAC NEWTON IS BORN.

Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.

1649: DURING THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR, THE RUMP PARLIAMENT VOTES TO PUT CHARLES I ON TRIAL.

How good a government body can they be if they are named after such an inferior cut of beef?

1717: THE NETHERLANDS, GREAT BRITAIN, AND FRANCE SIGN THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE.

Being friends with France, the Brits will pay for this dearly over 200 years later.

1762: GREAT BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON SPAIN AND NAPLES.

This such is a popular date for the United Kingdom, isn't it?

1785: FOLKLORIST JACOB GRIMM IS BORN.

Since when does "fairy tale writer" translate to "folklorist?"

1809: BLIND TEACHER LOUIS BRAILLE IS BORN.

And thanks to him, we can actually feel what floor our elevator has stopped on.

1847: SAMUEL COLT SELLS HIS FIRST REVOLVER PISTOL TO THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT.

And, somewhere, Charlton Heston was smiling.

1854: THE MCDONALD ISLANDS ARE DISCOVERED BY CAPTAIN WILLIAM MCDONALD.

Oddly enough, his crew would lunch that day at Burger King.

1865: THE NEW YORK STOCK EXCHANGE OPENS ITS PERMANENT HEADQUARTERS ON WALL STREET.

The original Occupyers.

1884: THE FABIAN SOCIETY IS FOUNDED IN LONDON.

Not to be outdone, Italy also establishes a Frankie Avalon fan club.

1885: THE FIRST SUCCESSFUL APPENDECTOMY IS PERFORMED BY WILLIAM W. GRANT.

Which sounds like there were a shitload of unsuccessful ones before this.

1896: UTAH IS ADMITTED AS THE 45TH U.S STATE.

The Osmonds had to live someplace.

1903: TOPSY, AN ELEPHANT, IS ELECTROCUTED BY THOMAS EDISON DURING THE WAR OF CURRENTS CAMPAIGN.

Rhetorical question: just how many volts do you need to kill an elephant?

1905: ACTOR STERLING HOLLOWAY IS BORN.

He was the voice of Winnie the Pooh. Sorry to make you wait for nothing.

1930: FOOTBALL COACH DON SHULA IS BORN.

Ninth months after his father apparently "went long."

1937: ACTRESS DYAN CANNON IS BORN.

Later on, she was married to Cary Grant for a couple of days.

1941: MAUREEN REAGAN IS BORN.

I found out later on that she used to live across the street from my old apartment and that the Secret Service used the house next door to mine as their headquarters. That's a long sentence to explain that I have nothing else to say about Maureen Reagan.

1948: BURMA GAINS ITS INDEPENDENCE FROM THE UNITED KINGDOM.

That was a close shave.

1951: DURING THE KOREAN WAR, CHINESE AND NORTH KOREAN FORCES CAPTURE SEOUL.

If there was a railway there, would it be the Seoul Train?

1958: SPUTNIK I FALLS TO EARTH FROM ITS ORBIT.

If Sputnik falls in the forest, does it make a noise?

1960: PHILOSOPHER ALBERT CAMUS DIES.

How absurd is that??

1965: PRESIDENT LYNDON JOHNSON PROCLAIMS HIS "GREAT SOCIETY" DURING HIS STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS.

His opinion only.

1974: PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON REFUSES TO HAND OVER MATERIALS SUPPOENAED BY THE SENATE WATERGATE COMMITTEE.

Yeah, he had nothing to hide.

1998: ACTRESS MAE QUESTEL DIES.

The voice behind Betty Boop and Olive Oyl is silenced. One would argue this is a good thing.

1999: ACTOR IRON EYES CODY DIES.

He was the Indian who cried when you threw trash on the side of the road. He must have sobbed when Sputnik crashed someplace.

1999: WRESTLER JESSE VENTURA IS SWORN IN AS GOVERNOR OF MINNESOTA.

He had beaten his opponent by hitting him over the head with a folding chair.

1999: GUNMEN OPEN FIRE ON SHIITE MUSLIMS WORSHIPPING IN AN ISLAMABAD MOSQUE.

You can't spell these Muslims without either the word "shit" or "bad." Just sayin'.

2001: BANDLEADER LES BROWN DIES.

His band is no longer renown.

2007: NANCY PELOSI IS ELECTED AS THE FIRST FEMALE SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE IN U.S. HISTORY.

A dark day in American History. But a wonderful advertisement for Botox.

2011: MUSICIAN GERRY RAFFERTY DIES.

Major pothole on Baker Street.

Dinner last night: French dip sandwich.

My Annual Physical or When Knees Attack

2012-01-03T01:50:00.000-08:00

Why the dual title? You'll see.

My holiday week off means a bit more than just cutting the cords of work on a yearly basis. Yep, sometime between Christmas and New Years, I give myself the annual gift of health. That's when I have my annual physical.

I have some friends who wonder why I subject myself to this smack in the middle of the holidays.

"What if it's bad news? You've ruined your Christmas!"

I opt for the flip side. I'll assume it's good news and start my new year off right.

So, I head off last week to my wonderful and extremely young internist in Los Angeles. He's so youthful that I'm thinking Doogie Howser may have babysat him. Nevertheless, the guy is terrific because he's obviously read a magazine or two and can actually get on the computer, as opposed to those other practitioners who remember when Lucy Ricardo gave birth in prime time. I have three friends who just had their family doctors die of old age. Not me. I want a guy who didn't vote for FDR in any of the four election years he ran.

Of course, my physical was preceded a week earlier by extensive blood work. This way, my doctor can analyze the results with me in-person, making our session so much more productive than just "inhale, exhale."

Well, the naysayers to my annual physical timing during holiday week can be "harumphed" one more time. I passed with flying colors. The cholesterol count? Best in years. The HDL and LDL and NHL and all those other abbreviations nobody can make sense of? Best ever.

Organ-wise, everything plays the right notes when they have to. My weight actually went up five pounds. Normally, this is nothing something I want to hear, but he notes that the gain was all fat converted to muscle, thanks to my physical training twice a week. Still, I want to go down and not up, so future sessions will include a bit more cardio-vascular.

Overall, my grade for the 2011 physical was....98.

You may be asking. Len, with all that perfectness, what the hell did you lose two points for?

Well, straight from the "perfect timing department," my annual exam happened to coincide with the painful manifestation of my most recent physical training mishap. Regular readers will know that I originally began that training as a means to strengthen my cartilege-less and acutely arthritic right knee and stave off as long as possible that hinge replacement surgery you get at either St. John's Hospital or the Home Depot. So far, this has paid off.

Except now a particular exercise involving squats on a gravity rack is having the opposite effect.

It's screwing up my left knee.

Periodically, the squat rotation makes my left joint a bit "dodgy" as the Brits might say. A bit inflamed and difficult to bend. The biggest nuisance during one of those flare-ups is the pain-laden inability to sit on the one seat in the house into which all nature flows.

Okay, so I had one of these muscular arsenals last week as I was seeing Doogie Howser MD Jr.. A rare happenstance, indeed. How many times do you go into the car mechanic about that funny noise that magically seems to stop when they've got your hood open? Well, I got lucky. Not only was my knee making that funny noise but it also was swollen. No mystery here.

Well, the diagnosis was....the onset of arthritis in my left knee.

Kill me now.

Years of being the one good leg that was acting as sole support for the bad leg that has bothered me since high school finally took its toll on the healthy hinge. Now, I face the rest of my life with two bum wheels and I probably need to start paying more attention to those Hoveround wheel chairs they sell on day time television in the middle of those Matlock reruns. And back in consideration after an extended absence are the magic acupuncture needles of Dr. Gua in Encino.

So, my contingent of Negative Nellies in the friendship department are vindicated slightly. You got your bad news, Len, right in the middle of the holidays.

As for me, I will suck it all up and enjoy the 98 score I got overall. Today is another day and another year. I head off to personal trainer Christina this afternoon and we will figure out some way to beat this and get those two damn points back in my column.

Dinner last night: A slice of apple pie since I had a late lunch at Ye Olde King's Head---a British BLT sandwich.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - January 2, 2012

2012-01-02T01:12:00.000-08:00

Starting the year off right with this hilarious clip of Groucho Marx out of control as a panelist on "What's My Line."

Dinner last night: Kobe beef hot dog at Blue Plate.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - New Year's Eve in My Basement - A Photo Essay by My Dad

2012-01-01T00:32:00.000-08:00

Marking the turn of the year on this soon-to-be-five-year-old blog, I have told stories before the two consecutive New Year Eve celebrations that my parents concocted for friends and relatives in our cold and musty basement. I've written how they simply put up paper curtains to hide tool shelves and storage areas, set up some beach chairs, hauled down the high fidelity record player, and a party broke out like magic.

I've also waxed eloquently in the past about how this innocent six-year-old shown above acted as the family bartender and proceeded to get everyone in the family completely snockered. Even with those awful specs, I couldn't tell just how much scotch was too much in Uncle Fritz' glass. Sorry, you're not driving home, are you?

These galas fell during the period where my father loved to play with his Argus Technicolor camera, taking snapshots of anything and anybody. Over the many decades since, Dad's photographic slides have been transferred first to video tape and then DVD. Time, of course, has impacted the quality of these pictures. You certainly understand why film studios do painstaking work to preserve history.

Nevertheless, I include them here as a tribute to those two parties. And as a homage to my father on the end of the lens. His own photo essay on the internet. I put them up on this blog and I can hear his voice as I hit "send" on the keyboard.

"Why do you want to do something stupid like that?"

In the background, you can see those paper curtains hung to hide Grandpa's numerous monkey wrenches. And dig that crazy linoleum. The woman on the left is my mother's sister, who looks totally bored. Or perhaps she's drunk already. Dad always said she "had a hollow leg." It took me a while to figure out that this didn't necessarily mean she had once battled Moby Dick.

My father's cousin, Aunt Ollie, just passed away. But, here, somebody is pouring a drink in her shoe. When I thought years later about acting stupid at some party, I didn't realize that my folks were doing the exact same thing two decades earlier.

Hmmm. My mother dancing with some guy I don't recognize. It ain't my father and he apparently didn't care, since he's taking the damn picture.

Do people even dance at house parties anymore? Or, in this case, collapse at house parties. I had no idea Kate Smith had been a guest in our home.

On New Year's Eve, an exercise class breaks. I'm noting that my mom has already ditched the high heels for some house slippers.

Of course, it's not a party until a couple of guests get liquored up and attempt to do the Can-Can. Follies Bergere comes to Mount Vernon, New York.

As I look at this photo of my dad's brother, Fritz, I just realized that this may have been his last New Year's Eve. If my calculations are right, he died the following September.

This is either the Charleston or somebody who ate some bad creamed herring.

Dad didn't shy any from taking pictures of anything. Even semi-discrete ass grabs. Woo hoo! It's hard watching your parents' generation when they're a trifle oversexed. I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Sometimes, folks kept their hands to themselves.

Eventually, Grandma would get up and cut a rug with her sister-in-law, Tante Emma. So, where was my grandfather?

No dummy, Grandpa was busy chatting up my mother's hotsy-totsy, fast-running, hard-boiled gal pal, Marie. I remember that she always wore the most lipstick of any woman I knew. Make-up by Benjamin Moore and she put it on with a spatula. She got married twice and who knows what else? Our resident floozy and every family unit has at least one.

Like clockwork, somebody would drag out those "Sing Along with Mitch Miller" records, which came complete with the words for all to share. Sobriety had left the party an hour earlier.

Even worse, these were some sing-along records of German beer drinking songs. All of a sudden, we were transported to downtown Munich. Here, Tante Emma is either singing "Ein Prosit" or checking out the racing form for the next day's card at Aqueduct. By the way, Tante Emma, you might want to hit the cymbals...if you know what I mean.

It's likely now past midnight, because the party is starting to get silly. Somebody discovered you can do dirty stuff with balloons.

Uh-huh. I told you I was putting too much whiskey in those sours.

So, everybody had to get a turn with those balloon genitals. I bet this got the attention of Mom's friend, Marie.

My mom on the right is loving this just a little too much for my taste. This is the stuff you don't want to think your parents doing. But, then again, how the hell did we get here?

Thanks, Dad, for the visual memories that lasted several lifetimes.

Happy New Year to all. Let's all have a terrific 2012!

Dinner last night: New Year's Eve at Jar---pot roast.

New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T01:11:00.000-08:00

Let's all say goodbye to 1957 as CBS newsman Robert Trout and Guy Lombardo usher in 1958!

Dinner last night: Turkey reuben at Blue Plate.

If I Tweeted - December 2011

2011-12-30T02:13:00.000-08:00

I don't, you know. But, if I did, here's what I might have tweeted this month.

@LenSpeaks Sixth Avenue in Manhattan has become Hollywood Boulevard. Cartoon characters on every corner, all available to pose for a photo...if you tip them.

@LenSpeaks Oh, look, Minnie Mouse is yelling at somebody in Spanish!

@LenSpeaks Thanks to Smart Phones and text messages, there are all sorts of new ways in which you can accidentally walk into people in midtown Manhattan.

@LenSpeaks Merry Christmas and look alive, Stupid!

@LenSpeaks Ever wonder why the White House never makes a public comment about people beating the shit out of each other over $180 Air Jordan sneakers?

@LenSpeaks Yeah, you know the answer to that question. It's just polite to say it because, well, it's considered racist.

@LenSpeaks Look at the pictures of those riots and you'll have the answer.

@LenSpeaks I bet Nike sent the President complimentary pairs of those shoes for the entire family. Because you know we don't want a world leader camping out on line and getting his ass kicked.

@LenSpeaks After being in Manhattan for a week, I realized that, if I had still lived there, I would be dead today.

@LenSpeaks In the mens room prior to my second visit at "How to Succeed," the guy next to me is peeing and singing...yank my doodle if I'm dandy.

@LenSpeaks My health care plan is changing for 2012 and getting much more expensive. But, at least, I'm happy that some welfare slob can get free care for their kid who's got the sniffles.

@LenSpeaks Who knew Kim Jong was Ill?

@LenSpeaks My mail usually shows up at 4PM every day. So, how come, on Christmas Eve, they can manage to deliver it by 11AM?

@LenSpeaks   There were so many reaction shots of the Obamas during the Kennedy Center honors that I'm wondering when they're changing the name on the outside of the building.

@LenSpeaks Meanwhile, the First Family's Hawaii vacation is costing taxpayers four million dollars.   Can we please get them the Priceline link?

@LenSpeaks   My new pet peeve during the holidays: Christmas cards with all those little crystal particles.   Hello, folks, these are now all over my sweaters and my rugs.

@LenSpeaks   How many shoplifting days till Kwanzaa?

@LenSpeaks My holiday week off project? Watching the Harry Potter movies. Three down, 157 to go.

Dinner last night: Ham sandwich.

No Holiday for Cynics

2011-12-29T04:23:00.000-08:00

Enjoy this snapshot of my church altar on Christmas Eve. Beautiful and peaceful. Befitting the evening.

Yet, somehow, on this very special and holy night, the world got past the front door. Even when you look for solace and calm that one evening a year, you can still get slapped in the kisser by reality.

So much for peace on Earth and good will toward men.

Now, I'm going to come off here as the ultimate cynic, but I am thinking that there may be one or two of you out there who will read what I write and understand what I feel. It's not that complicated.

I have very special memories of church on a Christmas Eve. Back to the days when I ventured down to 219th Street in the Bronx for the 8PM service. Sometimes, my parents joined in. Usually, it was just me and my dad's cousin, Aunt Ollie, who has graced these cyberpages before. Nevertheless, nothing ever got in the way of this night which would be the most intimate spiritual touchstone I would have all year.

I left churchgoing for many years, only to return when I moved to Los Angeles. And, conveniently, Christmas Eve service was right where I left it. And it still held the same glory for me that it did decades before. There wasn't a single carol out of place.

Until this year...

Backtracking a second, I must tell you that my church has become more of an interfaith center for the community. In an effort to pay our bills, we rent out space to a temple, a mosque, several AA groups, a few Al Anon folks, and even some food and sex addicts, who may or may not be meeting separately. Truth be told, I'm cool with this all. I'm the church treasurer and I don't care where the cash comes from as long as it shows up once a month. Whether it be Allah, Johnny Walker Red, or a Snickers Bar, I'm fine with whatever hits your worship needle.

As long as it stays away from mine...

Easier said than done. Especially when the Jewish Journal (yes, there is such a publication) features a cover story that extols the virtues of all these religions coming together under one roof, complete with my pastor's kisser planted firmly on page one. The article itself is a little visit to Fantasyland as it talks about joint worship events that never happened. At the same time, I don't worry since the circulation of the Jewish Journal is mainly the free publication rack at the local car wash, which is where I found my copy.

So, despite being a cynic straight out of Frank Capra's Pottersville, I'm cool with all this. Frankly, I don't believe that three female congregation leaders on the west side of Los Angeles are going to achieve world peace simply by joining hands, but I suppose you have to start someplace.

As long as it stays away from mine...

On Christmas Eve, it didn't. Oh, the music during the service was terrific and the best in years. But, the specter of that Jewish Journal article hovered over us all like mistletoe. It was the primary focus of our pastor's sermon. And, then, almost inexplicably, she invited the temple rabbi up to say a few words as well.

Huh?

The rabbi stated that, for the first time in her life, she was attending a Christmas Eve service. Okay, I admire the courage. Except that it really didn't have to be stated. Or brought up in front of a congregation, many of whom were visitors. It all sounded wrong.

On that one evening where I wanted to be alone with my faith, I wasn't. Even the most holiest of nights had become another in a long series of now never ending "kumbaya" moments.

When does this stop?

But, wait, as God might have said on the fourth day of creation, there's more.

The world intruded in yet another way.

Prior to the service, I was standing at the door and greeting folks as they entered. A couple approached and I noticed their attire. Sweat pants and shirts. Thanks for dressing, I thought. Even I've got a tie on for the first time this year. The male of the visiting equation mentioned that he and his wife often walked past the church and wanted to see what our service was all about.   And, oh, by the way, we live in a tent up the block.

Huh again?

As they passed by, I wondered about their back story. Were they perma-campers? Down on their luck with an upside down mortgage? Or perhaps they were part of a protest against those crafty one-percenters who live in Bel Air? I wasn't happy that I took the most cynical approach, but I couldn't help myself.

Especially when I noticed them telling their story to whoever would listen inside.

I thought whether I would do the same thing. Advertise to the world that I was forced to live in a tent?  Would anybody do that?

Hello, Cynicism all over again.

Naturally, their saga swept through what was supposed to be a Protestant Christmas Eve service faster than that night when Jesus himself was found in a manger. This couple became renowned without the use of a mega-star in the sky.

After the service, my pastor ran in and scooped up a lot of the loose cash that was in the offering plates. She chased after Mr. and Mrs. Ragamuffin and gave them their own Christmas miracle. I envisoned these two slothes going up the mountain and telling all their friends---for a free handout, head on down to the Village Church.

Later on, someone did vouch for these two who apparently are living in a tent somewhere in the hills near the church. Okay, the ultimate Christmas thing to do.

And, yet, I thought about them. What were the circumstances that led to their new and exclusively outdoor dwelling? While I'm totally aware that times are tough and the economy has been a killer for many of us, was that truly the case here? Were these folks really meeting bad luck at all turns? Or perhaps they are suffering now because they lived and spent way beyond their means? When did their problem become our problem? And how legit was it all?

I didn't feel good thinking about any of this. But, sadly, this is the state of our world today. Poverty, squallor, and pain. As well as theft, scams, and a myriad of ways to beat the system.

Unfortunately, I couldn't help myself. On a single night where I really wanted to think about what Christmas means to my faith, I had to think about everybody else.

And, to think that all I wanted to do was hear "O Come, All Ye Faithful."

I'll answer my own question---the one I asked several paragraphs ago.

It never does stop.

Dinner last night: A wonderful holiday dinner at good friends---ribeye steaks, potatoes au gratin, and asparagus.

This Date in History - December 28

2011-12-28T02:49:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Charlie Weaver. Hopefully, somebody gives you a new tie for the occasion.

1065: WESTMINSTER ABBEY IS CONSECRATED.

When did they do the same for Winchester Cathedral?

1612: GALILEO GALILEI BECOMES THE FIRST ASTRONOMER TO OBSERVE THE PLANET NEPTUNE, ALTHOUGH HE MISTAKENLY CATALOGUED IT AS A FIXED STAR.

A common mistake I make all the time.

1795: CONSTRUCTION OF YONGE STREET, FORMERLY RECOGNIZED AS THE LONGEST STREET IN THE WORLD, BEGINS IN YORK, CANADA.

Galileo mistakenly thought it was an avenue.

1832: JOHN C. CALHOUN BECOMES THE FIRST VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES TO RESIGN.

And you all thought it was Spiro Agnew.

1836: SPAIN RECOGNIZES THE INDEPENDENCE OF MEXICO.

Funny because I don't.

1846: IOWA IS ADMITTED AT THE 29TH US STATE.

If we hadn't, where would we be holding those caucuses?

1856: 28TH PRESIDENT WOODROW WILSON IS BORN.

The only President to have a stroke in office. At least the only one they told us about.

1867: THE UNITED STATES CLAIMS MIDWAY ATOLL, THE FIRST TERRITORY ANNEXED OUTSIDE CONTINENTAL LIMITS.

No wonder why they defended it so much during World War II.

1895: THE LUMIERE BROTHERS PERFORM FOR THEIR FIRST PAYING AT THE GRAND CAFE, MARKING THE DEBUT OF THE CINEMA.

And who was the very first movie patron to stick gum on the bottom of a seat?

1895: WILHELM RONTGEN PUBLISHES A PAPER DETAILING HIS DISCOVERY OF A NEW TYPE OF RADIATION, WHICH LATER WILL BE KNOWN AS X-RAYS.

Before x-rays, physicians would simply guess...

1905: ACTOR CLIFF ARQUETTE IS BORN.

This is Charlie Weaver. Pay attention, gang.

1912: THE FIRST STREETCARS TAKE TO THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO.

Invented because they needed a place to put all the Rice-A-Roni advertisements.

1915: POPS STAPLES, DAD OF THE STAPLES SINGERS, IS BORN.

And the man was never in need of paper clips.

1934: ACTRESS MAGGIE SMITH IS BORN.

There is nothing like this Dame...

1944: MAURICE "ROCKET" RICHARD BECOMES THE FIRST PLAYER TO SCORE EIGHT POINTS IN ONE NHL HOCKEY GAME.

Ironically, he was nicknamed "Rocket" by his wife.

1945: THE UNITED STATES CONGRESS OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZES THE PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE.

Unless, of course, if you 're in a public school the last ten years.

1954: GAYLE KING IS BORN.

I couldn't find a good adjective to add to her name. Actress? Personality? TV Host? She's really nothing. Oh, wait, how about "Oprah Bedmate?"

1954: ACTOR DENZEL WASHINGTON IS BORN.

I've got a good adjective for him. Professional Shithead.

1958: IN THE GREATEST FOOTBALL GAME EVER PLAYED, THE BALTIMORE COLTS DEFEAT THE NEW YORK GIANTS IN THE FIRST NFL SUDDEN DEATH OVERTIME GAME.

Eleven years later, the Jets will avenge the Giants' loss for all of New York.

1971: FILM COMPOSER MAX STEINER DIES.

Now, Corpse.

1973: THE ENDANGERED SPECIES ACT IS PASSED IN THE UNITED STATES.

If they had done this two years before, this would have included Max Steiner.

1983: ACTOR WILLIAM DEMAREST DIES.

Uncle Charlie!!!!

1983: GOLFER JIMMY DEMERET DIES.

How weird is that to happen on the same day? Two names that were probably confused all the time.

1983: BEACH BOY DENNIS WILSON DIES.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

1984: DIRECTOR SAM PECKINPAH DIES.

Riding off into the sunset.

1992: BASEBALL PITCHER SAL MAGLIE DIES.

The Barber shaves his last customer.

1999: ACTOR CLAYTON MOORE DIES.

Instant poll: The Lone Ranger was buried with or without the mask?

2000: RETAIL GIANT MONTGOMERY WARD GOES OUT OF BUSINESS.

So much for those Christmas returns in 2000.

2004: ACTOR JERRY ORBACH DIES.

Law and Order: Special Funeral Unit.

Dinner last night: Cervalet sandwich.

Harry Potter and the Holiday Week Off of Len

2011-12-27T01:04:00.000-08:00

I can be strange.

Ever since college, I have taken off the week beginning Christmas and New Year's Eve. It is one of my annual and traditional vacations. A perfect time to do nothing but check up on those things you have put off for a year or maybe more.

So, in December 2011, I am...

...cleaning out a walk-in closet.

...paring down several dresser drawers.

...and, as a result, making several drop-offs at Goodwill.

...seeing my dentist about getting Invisalign to straighten my lower teeth which are getting a little squished together. This, however, wound up in a repair of a cracked tooth.

---having my annual physical, which is my holiday gift of health to myself.

And, for some mystical reason known only to me and other wizards, I am going to try and dive into the Harry Potter film series.

Yes, I know. Where have I been?

Let's flip the calendar pages back to when Harry Potter first showed up on the shelves at Barnes & Noble. Those bygone days where there were actually book stores you could browse and maybe even purchase the damn things. I got sucked into, like many other folks, the very first installment of Master Potter. I joined the frenzy that swept the nation.

Except it didn't exactly sweep me in.

I read the first book on a flight from Los Angeles to New York. And I was thoroughly underwhelmed. To me, the whole plot was nothing but the onset of a migraine headache. And, with all the made-up words, everything looked to me like J.K. Rowling needed to run the galleys through Spell Check.

Okay, so then I went to see the first movie. Maybe a visual look at the tale would explain it all to me. And I could finally find out how some of those big words were actually pronounced.

Uh huh. And I was thoroughly underwhelmed.

Which explains why my life the past ten years has been relatively Potter-less. While people clamored to get on line to be the first to read the new pages or see the new movies, I sat on the sidelines with a broom that didn't get an inch off the ground. Miraculously, I survived the decade without Harry Potter being a part of my existence.

Okay, so the saga is now over and all the movies are already available in one complete boxset of DVDs and/or BluRays. And I'm still disconnected.

Except, in 2011, I became a fan of star Daniel Radcliffe, having seen him twice in a tour de force performance starring as J. Pierpont Finch in the latest Broadway revival of "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." This is now in my history books as one of the best musicals I've seen. And I marveled at the talent of the once-bespectacled Radcliffe. The kid can sing, dance, act, and perhaps move a mountain from the Rockies to the Adirondacks.

Yours truly is now wondering why I missed with all that Harry Potter business.

So, courtesy of a Netflix queue as well as Direct TV video on demand, I decided to go back and see what all the Hogwarts fuss was about. Don't look for reviews as I tackle the films one at a time in succession. It would be useless for me to comment on a movie that everybody except maybe me and Kim Jong Il I saw ten years ago. Just know that it is possible. It might take me a while, but Len can still catch up to the rest of the universe.

Wish me luck. Or, however, it's spelled in the world of Harry Potter.

Dinner last night: Leftover ham sandwich, potato salad, and cole slaw.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - December 26, 2011

2011-12-26T01:47:00.000-08:00

You got Christmas leftovers? So do I in the video department.

Please be kind to that retail clerk behind the counter when you're doing your Christmas exchanging. A classic scene with Jack Benny and Mel Blanc.

Dinner last night: Christmas dinner---ham, potatoes, veggies, yams, and cranberries.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Christmas Trees, Traditions and Other Oddities of the Day

2011-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

Here's a snapshot of this year's edition of the Los Angeles Christmas tree. By including it here, I am tipping my Santa cap one more time to my Dad. For a period of five years when he loved to play with his Argus Technicolor family, he ran around taking pictures of everybody's trees. Like this one...

Or this one at my cousin's house...

Or this one downstairs at Grandma and Grandpa's. They went for the table model.

Even though they got talked into a bigger one...

If there was a flash bulb and a Christmas tree, you could count on my dad being nearby.

In our house, when you weren't being blinded by a camera, Christmas presents were opened in the morning. I'd run into the living room and immediately assess my haul for the year.

Like the year when my parents apparently hoped that I would turn into either Liberace or a Disney Studios employee. Neither has materialized.

Or the year when the message was in the bi-polar opposite direction. A Zorro play set and an Army tank.

My inventory didn't take long. I was then told to go downstairs and see what Santa left at Grandma's.

It was always easy. A crisp ten dollar bill in an envelope. When it came to what Santa left me on the first floor, it was always ATM-centric. Or whatever passed for a cash machine back then.

I was done collecting it all in an hour. And then, basking in a sea of new toys, there were those years where my mom would give me the ultimate buzz kill.

"Get dressed. We're going to spend the day at Aunt Helen's."

Or Aunt Anne's. Or Aunt Midge's. No kid wants to spend Christmas Day being immediately separated from all the wonderfulness that came as a result of a year's worth of good behavior.

Damn those years.

So, you can see that our traditions were pretty straight forward and simple. Perhaps not unlike yours. But, inexplicably, there were two years that my mother tried to establish a new one. She would read me to sleep on Christmas Eve. With a well-done recitation of "Twas The Night Before Christmas." This didn't last more than two years and I don't know why she stopped. Maybe a lack of interest on my part.

Nevertheless, that memory came back to me several years back. And I revisited the poem in its totality. And I waxed comically on the verses.

Okay, I'm a day late. Yesterday was techinically "the night before Christmas." But, with all the goofiness in this Clement Moore poem, are you really going to quibble with me?

So, just imagine us in front of a warm Christmas Eve fireplace. Snug as bugs in rugs. And I open this book to read it aloud to all assembled. How utterly delightful! How comforting! How could I possibly get through the whole thing without making a bunch of snarky comments?

Back to Len Speaks of 2009, we go...

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

Okay, it's me now. An ignoble start to this Christmas chestnut, because right from the get-go, you find out they've got rodents in this place.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Giving rise to another horrible childhood nightmare when Monte, my "alleged friend" up the block who liked to spew a lot of Catholic hate my way, told me that St. Nicholas was obviously Catholic and didn't visit Protestant homes.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

I have never dreamt of fruit. Even once.

And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

Bedtime headwear? The only person I ever saw in a nightcap was Fred Mertz. And what's with the nonsense about a nap? When you go to bed at nighttime, it's not a nap. It's called "going to sleep!"

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

If there ever was commotion in our neighborhood, we didn't immediately think it was Santa Claus. It was probably Vicki's mom next door coming home drunk from the local gin mill. Once, she fell right through my grandmother's lilac bush.

Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash.

"Threw up the sash?" You never should have tried to eat it in the first place.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,

If I was reading this as a kid, I would have started to giggle at the mention of "breast" and probably not get through the rest of the poem. I'm just saying...

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

This is one of the only Christmas passages that gave you any perspective on the size of the reindeer. Were they babies? And, if so, is this not animal cruelty? Making these things run all over the world in one night??

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

Had we no prior experience with Christmas, would we immediately know it was St. Nick? On any street corner in December, there are tons of imposters. There are myriad ways that a scam artist could bilk thousands of unsuspecting children on Christmas Eve. After all, nobody is awake to demand proper identification.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!"

Okay, no mention of Rudolph. When does he get invented? And perhaps he was nothing more than a urban legend designed to get Gene Autry a couple of Gold albums. And don't you wonder just a little about Vixen? With a name like that, I wonder which of the other reindeer she was doing. The smart money is on Dasher.

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!

I typed that just as Clement Moore wrote it originally. What's with the inability to capitalize properly?

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

Dry leaves? How do these turn up in a winter poem? My guess is that Moore started writing this in September or October and simply got sidetracked during the process. I know just how deadly writer's block can be. Who knows? Maybe this was supposed to be "Twas The Night Before Halloween."

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

So is this proof that Santa only brought toys? That runs contrary to some other images we have. Of Mr. Claus riding a Norelco razor up and down some snowdrifts. And Santa was prominently displayed on that carton of Kent cigarettes my mother always got as well as the box of Canadian Club my dad got from his friends around the corner.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

The way our roof was arched, there was absolutely no way that the sleigh and reindeer could have kept their balance. At least, three of those suckers would have tumbled off. Right into Grandma's lilac bush, lying next to Vicki's drunken mother.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

You see, this always presented a major problem in our house. There was one chimney fireplace. In Grandma's dining room. And it was sealed with cement. I once asked her how Santa Claus could get in. She told me not to ask a lot of stupid question.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soots;

Dressed in fur? Are we absolutely 100% sure that there was a Mrs. Claus? Because the image I'm getting is Liberace. Except no gay guy allows himself to get this dirty ever.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

You see a sprightly old gentleman? I'm seeing a homeless bum down in Santa Monica.

His eyes---how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

Possibly warning signs of rosacea or even high blood pressure.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

One verse later, we have our medical diagnosis. "Mouth drawn up like a bow." He's had a mild stroke.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

A stroke brought on by heavy smoking.

He had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

I never understood. Do me a favor. Take a jar of jelly and empty it into a bowl. It doesn't shake. It just lies there. Inert. Now, if Moore had known about Jell-O at the time, this reference would have worked. But, then, you have the rhyme problem. Jell-O, bellow, hello, mellow. The whole poem falls off the proverbial map.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

Another misnomer. Fat people are not always happy. Most are depressed, having eaten themselves into a coma for deep seeded psychological reasons.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

Or maybe I did. An old guy winking and making overt gestures. Hello, Pedophile.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

Head twisting. Body jerking. I'm thinking Parkinson's. What about you?

And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

Once again, I'd ask my grandmother how Santa could get out with a sealed up chimney in our house. Once again, I'd hear, "You ask too many stupid questions."

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle,

I never knew what a thistle was, let alone how much down you got from one. And, how about the noise this bunch generates as they leave? For what purpose? Aren't they simply going to fly over to the house next door?

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Yeah! Me, too!

AND A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF YOU AS WELL!!!

Dinner last night: German salami sandwich and side salad.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - December 2011

2011-12-24T03:02:00.000-08:00

An underrated Christmas classic. Worth a look when it shows up on TCM this holiday season. I watch it every year.

Dinner last night: BLT sandwich at Blue Plate.

We Wish You an Awkward Christmas

2011-12-23T05:34:00.000-08:00

Must be a photo from England. Obviously, it's Boxing Day.

Happy Holidays from Lenscrafters!

Bad wallpaper doesn't necessarily translate to bad pajamas.

I'd like to return them, please.

Santa's planning a home invasion robbery.

She's outsourced her husband.

Obviously, there was nothing he really wanted.

The dog is the brightest thing in this picture.

The Birth of Chucky...and Christmas.

If somebody was in need of one of those Christmas shavers from Norelco...

Dinner last night: Hamburger at Mr. Marcel.

The Five Christmas Movies I Must Watch Every Year

2011-12-22T03:46:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more refreshing than that moment when you have finished your holiday preparations. You sit down with your favorite adult beverage and dive into one of those Christmas movies you watch year after year. The perennials.

Yet, as the years go by, they start to get a bit, well, overplayed. While most of them are terrific, the repeated air plays start to get as heavy as rancid egg nog.

For instance, about twenty years ago, somebody discovered that "It's A Wonderful Life" fell into public domain. So, it got played by television stations and networks everywhere. I swear I saw it once dubbed on Korean television. And some of the prints were just awful. More blemishes than Joan Van Ark on the day before her next Botox treatment. I also got personally bored with the Frank Capra saga about six years ago after I produced and directed a live stage production of the script. After two weeks of living and breathing the dialogue, I was ready to shove that bell down Zuzu's throat.

The overkill factor also goes into effect for "Miracle on 34th Street." It's shown in color. It's shown in black and white. It's shown and shown and shown. If only Natalie Wood had surfaced as much...

The TNT Channel has also done a terrific job in sucking the life out of "A Christmas Story." Now, this is a marvelous holiday movie that should be seen on a big screen. But, TNT loves to play these marathons where the film is shown on a loop. For two days running. Their programmer is the one who truly needs to have his eye poked out.

So, my suggestion is that movies like those mentioned above should be rested for a few years. Give them a breather. If you skip them for, say, five years, they will still work just as well when you pop them back in your DVD once again. And guess what? George Bailey won't jump off that bridge. Edmund Gwenn will get bubble gum all over his beard. And that stupid kid will still get his tongue stuck on that frozen metal pole.

That said, there are five Christmas movies that I never ever will skip. Must-sees that get my holiday season just right. Luckily, in Los Angeles, there are even opportunities to see them on a big screen during the Yuletide festivities. Some are choices you have heard of. Others are not even considered "Christmas" fare. But, this week, I will be watching...

Christmas in Connecticut: This is a mid-40s classic from the Warner Brothers back lot. In fact, they don't even get off a soundstage. For a movie from that era, it is still surprisingly modern. Because star Barbara Stanwyck plays a character very similar to Martha Stewart. A magazine writer who specializes in being an expert on hearth and home. And supposedly the greatest cook on the planet.

Her publisher hits on a publicity stunt where Stanwyck will provide a home-cooked Christmas meal for an injured soldier. Except nobody knows the woman can't cook and hasn't got one single domestic talent. The plot spins out into several directions from there, but it is all delicious screwball-y fun. And any movie that features S.Z "Cuddles" Sakall is okay in my book. This is a perfect film to watch while wrapping gifts on Christmas Eve day.

Love Actually: Forget "Fred Claus," and any other Yuletide crap that Hollywood has passed off the last few years. The best Christmas movie to be produced in the last ten years is "Love Actually." It's one of those ultra-episodic scripts where about 15 characters have different storylines that may or may not be connected. It's a little confusing at first, as you meet practically the entire London phone book. But, hang on and you will get a wonderful present.

Sure, there are about five characters and three storylines too many. But, they will scoot by quickly and you can revel in the more compelling tales. Laura Linney as a secretary who can't commit to any romance. Liam Neeson who is trying to be a parent to his young stepson as they both experience their first Noel without the recently-died Mom. The shaky marriage between Alan Rickman and Emma Thompson, who breaks your heart as she listens to a Joni Mitchell CD version of "Both Sides Now." I even liked Hugh Grant as a Tony Blair-like British Prime Minister. And there is a rendition of "All I Want for Christmas is You" that gives you goose bumps. If you've ever wanted to spend Christmas in London, this is the ideal virtual way to do so.

The Man Who Came to Dinner: This is technically not a Christmas movie, but it should be, since all the action happens around the holidays. This 1941 movie is another one that never leaves a Warner Brothers soundstage, but it really doesn't have to. You may know that this was originally a big hit on Broadway as written by Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman. And two members of that cast, Monty Wooley and Mary Wickes, reprise their roles in the movie, which features the most razor sharp dialogue ever captured on celluloid.

There's not one unclever moment in the entire six reels. Who can't identify with the holiday guest who just won't leave? In this case, it's renowed critic and lecturer Sheridan Whiteside, who sprains his ankle and then sets up camp in somebody else's house for the holidays. As portrayed by Wooley, Whiteside is loosely based on Alexander Woolcott and he has one great barb after another. He's described this way: "He would have his mother burned at the stake if that was the only way he could light his cigarette." I wish people talked like these characters in real life.

When Whiteside's nurse (Mary Wickes) forbids him from eating some candy, he retorts, "My great Aunt Jennifer ate a box of candy every day of her life. She lived to be one hundred and two, and when she had been dead for three days, she looked better than you do now." If that's not enough, throw in the fact that this is the only movie in history that co-starred Bette Davis and Jimmy Durante! Grab a box of your own candy and savor this great Christmas treat.

Since You Went Away: Yeah, yeah, you've never heard of it. I did list it as #25 on my list of Top 25 Favorite Films of All Time, but perhaps you missed that entry. And you say it's not a Christmas movie??

Oh, pish and tosh. The film opens and ends on Christmas day one year later. Good enough for me. And it embodies everything that Christmas is all about. As I have written before...

"Since You Went Away" came out in 1944 and it is 100% devoted to the homefront during WWII. For what "Mrs. Miniver" and "Hope and Glory" did for the London bombings (and I have a good friend who lived through that), "Since You Went Away" wonderfully depicts life in the United States when most men were overseas someplace and completely out of touch with their family and loved ones. David O. Selznick produced it and hoped to do for World War II what his earlier effort "Gone With the Wind" did for the Civil War. Yes, it's almost three hours long, but it sails by and, for me, is a big screen version of the best macaroni and cheese you can ever eat.

Claudette Colbert plays the mother of Jennifer Jones and Shirley Temple (here, she's a teenager and Bill Robinson-less). The family is semi-well-to-do and lives in Everytown, USA. Hattie McDaniel, who was obviously highlighted in Selznick's phone book for all servant roles, is their housekeeper and there is not a single stereotypical note to her performance. You never see the father as he has just left for active duty on Christmas Eve as the film opens. What follows is a year in the life of the Hilton family with Dad gone.

You visit USO dances. You experience food rationing and scrap metal drives. You watch as neighbors lose loved ones in battle and then sense the uneasiness as others in the community grapple to find the right words to comfort them. It is probably the truest picture of life in our country as that war raged on in Europe and the South Pacific. The courage. The resiliency. The dread. It is all here in this terrific slice of Americana.

The tearful railroad goodbye scene between real-life lovers Robert Walker and Jennifer Jones is still referenced by film historians today. And Claudette Colbert was so warm and inviting that I wished I was part of the family. And, in a way, I was.

I came to see this movie for the first time about 15 years ago. I've probably seen it once a year ever since and always during Christmas week. For me, it is a annual reminder of my grandmother, who was a mother during World War II. And she shared virtually all of the stories that are portrayed on screen. On cold winter Sunday afternoons, I would sit in her living room and hear about rationing and community dances and the fear that wrapped around you when a letter from the government arrived in the mail. She lost a son in France in 1945---I was named after him. This movie gives me more than a history lesson. It gives me back my grandmother one more time.

"Since You Went Away" turns up on Turner Classic Movies. It is worth three hours of your time. I defy you not to well up at the end of Act 1 or just prior to the finale. I double defy you.

White Christmas: Sadly, "White Christmas" is starting to fall in that category which I was grousing about in the opening of this entry. The Christmas movie that is starting to look like your tree on January 15. Dried out and ready for the dumpster. You can thank some cable networks like the woefully annoying AMC for playing it over and over and over. Last week, I caught them showing it three times in succession.

Gee, thanks, idiots. Because you're destroying another movie that landed on the list of my Top 25 Favorite Films of All Time at slot #23. Sure, after repeated viewings, this film starts to look like "Off White Christmas." But, still, it holds a special place in my heart and I've even gotten to see it on a big screen here in Los Angeles where the Vistavision sings almost as well as Rosemary Clooney.

Yeppers, here comes another flashback. As I have written before...

Those of you who get Christmas cards from me may recognize that I have been sending a card with the poster to the right for several years. I think I still have a few boxes left, so don't be surprised if it turns up again in your mailbox sometime this December. Besides, they were on sale.

Here's another movie I came to later than most. From a distance, it always looked a little plastic. And it stars Danny Kaye, an actor and comedian whom I have never understood. Add to that my general ambivalence to Bing Crosby, who I consider, when he is sans Bob, rather Hope-less. For the longest time, I listened to all the critics, who said that, if you're looking to hear Bing sing "White Christmas" in a movie, you should go to "Holiday Inn" from 1943. And I did. "White Christmas" just never looked to be my cup of egg nog.

And, then, about 20 Christmases ago, I saw it.

Maybe it was a direct result of some things going on in my life at the time. Perhaps, it was a serendipitous moment in that particular holiday season. But, it hit me like a thunderbolt. Now, I could never envision going through the annual Christmas traditions without watching it. Last year, I got to see it for the first time on a big screen in a packed theater with an exurberant audience. And it roped me in all over again. Right from the moment that Paramount's Vistavision logo exploded onto the screen to the last frames of the movie when the Pine Tree Lodge is celebrating a snowy Christmas Eve.

One more time. I was moved to tears.

I can certainly understand why the critics always scoffed. The plot is so tired that even a Vitamin B-12 injection couldn't revive it. Bing and Danny are two Vegas-like performers who wind up, for a bunch of silly reasons, camped out at some heat wave-plagued Vermont ski lodge and pursuing this singing sister act, played by Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen. Rosie plays the older sister, despite being younger than Vera-Ellen, but who cares? The women steal the picture right out from under Bing and Danny. The two actresses add such incredible vitality as soon as they come onto the screen you would think the reels were suddenly infused with a double shot of caffeine at your local Starbucks.

With supporting players Dean Jagger and Mary Wickes adding, respectively, some choice poignant and comedic moments, you suddenly find yourself standing in front of a tray of the most delicious cinematic Christmas cookies.

You sit for two hours watching everybody put on one of those Mickey-and-Judy barn musicals while they all wait for the inevitable Christmas Eve snowfall. And it all blends together perfectly, as if somebody finally got you just the right tie to match a new shirt.

Songwriter Irving Berlin obviously emptied out the bottom of his lyric trunk to come up with 11 or 12 songs for the movie. But, besides the title song, ditties like "Sisters," "Count Your Blessings," and "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" are so warm and inviting, the producers of the film should have marketed a complimentary blanket for home viewing.

Watch for up-and-coming George Chakiris, years before "West Side Story," among the dancers. His wordless close-up during one number apparently had women across the nation swooning and they subsequently flooded the Paramount fan letter office. And how Rosie Clooney fills out a black velvet cocktail dress should be shown in Webster's Dictionary as the official illustration for the definition of "eye candy."

If it all sounds a bit hackneyed, so be it. I'm not alone. I understand that "White Christmas" was the highest grossing film of 1954 and that says something for a movie that came out at the end of the year.

Once again, my initial appreciation might be jaded. I was ripe for the comforting arm of a good movie. I had both my parents housed in separate hospitals with illnesses. Unfortunately, my dad was in the final stages of his cancer and this year would be his last Christmas. My mom was sequestered elsewhere dealing with one more smoke-provoked bronchial episode. I spent the holiday season shuttling between semi-private rooms located on opposite ends of Westchester. And I felt incredibly alone.

"White Christmas" gave me a little bit of hope and brightness for some darker days that would come. And it still shines for me every year.

Watch these five movies this weekend and your life will be better for it. My Christmas gift to you.

Dinner last night: Cervelat sandwich and side salad.

This Date in History - December 21

2011-12-21T03:00:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday, Winch. And you're not just putting words in my mouth.

1140: CONRAD III OF GERMANY BESIEGED WEINSBERG.

That Germans vs. Jews stuff started earlier than we thought.

1620: WILLIAM BRADFORD AND THE MAYFLOWER PILGRIMS LAND ON WHAT IS NOW KNOWN AS PLYMOUTH ROCK, MASSACHUSETTS.

And immediately went to Target for the day-after sale.

1832: EGYPTIAN FORCES DECISIVELY DEFEAT OTTOMAN TROOPS AT THE BATTLE OF KONYA.

The Battle of Konya. Now that's one that never shows up as a category on Jeopardy.

1861: PUBLIC RESOLUTION 82, CONTAINING A PROVISION FOR A NAVY MEDAL OF VALOR, IS SIGNED INTO LAW BY PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Even then, this brilliant President had the foresight to know that, years later, John F. Kennedy would need to get some award for PT 109.

1872: HMS CHALLENGER, COMMANDED BY CAPTAIN GEORGE NARES, SAILS FROM PORTSMOUTH.

Hopefully, this Challenger fared better than the one in the second half of the next century.

1879: THE WORLD PREMIERE OF HENRIK IBSEN'S "A DOLL'S HOUSE" IS HELD IN COPENHAGEN.

The mark-up on Stubhub was ridiculous.

1913: THE FIRST CROSSWORD PUZZLE IS PUBLISHED IN THE NEW YORK TIMES.

If it was a Sunday, you can bet it was hard.

1922: VENTRILOQUIST PAUL WINCHELL IS BORN.

Oddly enough, Jerry Mahoney was born one year earlier.

1926: FOOTBALL COACH JOE PATERNO IS BORN.

He think this was his birthday. He never really told us.

1935: TV HOST PHIL DONAHUE IS BORN.

Still, to this day, the best interviewer ever. Yes, folks, even better than Larry King.

1937: "SNOW WHITE AND THE SEVEN DWARFS," THE WORLD'S FIRST FULL-LENGTH CARTOON, PREMIERES AT THE CARTHAY CIRCLE THEATER IN LOS ANGELES.

This was allegedly one of the grandest movie palaces ever built. It's now an office complex.

1937: ACTRESS JANE FONDA IS BORN.

Could have been the eighth dwarf born the same day. "Hippie."

1940: MUSICIAN FRANK ZAPPA IS BORN.

Speaking of hippies. The hell with his musical legacy. This kook actually named his kids Moon Unit and Dweezil.

1940: WRITER F. SCOTT FITZGERALD DIES.

Any guesses on the alcohol content in his autopsy?

1948: ACTOR SAMUEL L. JACKSON IS BORN.

And speaking of bad actors. No, wait, we weren't.

1954: TENNIS STAR CHRIS EVERT IS BORN.

Back in the day, I would string her racket if she asked.

1957: COMEDIAN RAY ROMANO IS BORN.

Everybody, including me, loves Raymond.

1960: NEW YORK MET PITCHER ROGER MCDOWELL IS BORN.

While he didn't exactly set the baseball world on fire, he did ignite his foot once.

1967: LOUIS WASHKANSKY, THE FIRST MAN TO UNDERGO A HEART TRANSPLANT, DIES IN CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA, AFTER LIVING FOR 18 DAYS AFTER THE TRANSPLANT.

If he had lasted any longer, the bills alone would have killed him.

1968: APOLLO 8, THE FIRST MANNED MISSION TO THE MOON, IS LAUNCHED FROM FLORIDA.

These astronauts found a neat way to avoid their families during the Christmas holidays.

1969: THE GAY ACTIVISTS ALLIANCE IS FORMED IN NEW YORK CITY.

Just in time for the holidays. God rest ye merry gentlemen.

1969: THE UNITED NATIONS ADOPTS THE CONVENTION ON THE ELIMINATION OF ALL FORMS OF RACIAL DISCRIMINATION.

As opposed to taking on discrimination one race at a time.

1974: ACTOR RICHARD LONG DIES.

Nanny's Professor no longer has office hours.

1988: A BOMB EXPLODES ON BOARD PAN AM FLIGHT 103 OVER LOCKERBIE, SCOTLAND, KILLING 270.

The very first valid reason for blowing up the Middle East.

2001: SPORTSWRITER DICK SCHAAP DIES.

Deaad.

2009: NORTHWEST AIRLINES FLIGHT 253 WAS ALMOST BOMBED BY AL QAIDA---THE CHRISTMAS DAY BOMBING ATTEMPT.

The 125th valid reason for blowing up the Middle East.

Dinner last night: Leftover bratwurst and red cabbage.

Christmas Carol Confidential - 2011 Edition

2011-12-20T06:38:00.000-08:00

You can't avoid it this time of year, or really after Labor Day for that matter.

There's always some radio station playing nothing but one Christmas song after another. Some are terrific and I could listen to them over and over. And, yet, there are others that should come around just once a year and that's it. And, when you listen to some of the asinine lyrics (and subtext), your mind wanders...

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer: So, you know that, on the first unfoggy Christmas Eve, Rudolph was downsized right out on his sorry ass. At what point does he join an OccupyNorthPole group? Technically, with the power he wields, Santa Claus is clearly part of the evil 1%. I recently heard a version of this done by Dean Martin. In German. I'm wondering what bottles were finished off in the recording studio that night. Meanwhile, remember that stupid little Rudolph didn't even exist until the Montgomery Ward store invented him in 1939!

Santa Baby: Every female singer in the world has attempted this ditty. But, only the ultra slutty Eartha Kitt does it justice. Meanwhile, is that one golddigging whore or what? Honey, I'd get you some nice Christmas earrings but your ankles would probably knock them off. Let's all be thankful that some Kardashian bimbette hasn't tackled this mess...yet.

Frosty the Snowman: A wonderful Christmas memory for children. A friend whose shelf life is maybe three weeks tops.

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town: This song suggests the onset of more psychological problems. "You better watch out. You better not cry. Better not pout. I'm telling you why." So, some poor kid grows up afraid to show one single emotion. No wonder we wind up with Columbine. Can you imagine some innocent 8 year-old boy? "My grandpa died last night, but I can't cry about it because then Santa Claus won't come." I do, however, have a fantasy rendition of this. I would have loved to hear it sung by Joan Crawford.

Winter Wonderland: The lyrics from the fifth grade always stick in my head. "Walking around in women's underwear." Except I am now aware that somebody actually put lyrics to the whole song.

Lacey things, the wife is missing. Didn't ask for her permission.

I'm wearing her clothes, her silk panty hose.
Walking around in women's underwear.

In the store, there's a teddy. With little straps, like spaghetti.
It holds me so tight, like handcuffs at night.
Walking around in womens underwear.

In the office there's a guy named Melvin.
He pretends that I am Murphy Brown.
He'll say "Are you ready?"
I'll say, "Woah man! Let's wait untill the wife is out of town."

Later on, if you wanna, we can dress like Madonna.
Put on some eye shade, and join the parade.
Walking around in women's underwear.

The Christmas Song: Same thing. The fifth grade version. "Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire."

The Little Drummer Boy: Come on! Like Mary wanted the peace and the serenity of the manger to be interrupted by this little urchin's incessant racket. Hey, Joseph, have you got the Bethlehem police department on speed dial?

Last Christmas: First done by George Michael and Wham in 1984. Think about the song's refrain. "Last Christmas. I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears. I'll give it to someone special." How warm and special does that make you feel? This is the first ever Christmas FU song.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: Underneath the Christmas tree last night. Does Little Sally question this behavior? Probably not, because she's already seen Mommy kissing the cable guy, the mailman, "Uncle" Phil, and her "best friend" Muriel. Wait till little Rufus does a DNA test on himself and discovers that Santa is his baby daddy.

We Three Kings of Orient are: Undoubtedly headed to an outlet mall on a Saturday afternoon.

Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful: Now, why the call for the faithful, joyous, and triumphant to come forward? These folks have already bought in. It should be "Oh, Come, All Ye Despondent, Broken, and Agnostic." No wonder less people are going to worship these days. They're been literally preaching to the choir.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: This is indeed my favorite "modern" Christmas song. I love Judy Garland's version first introduced in "Meet Me in St. Louis." And, Michele Lee did a tremendous job with the song in a 1990 episode of "Knots Landing." But, the rendition that always makes me sad is Karen Carpenter's. A voice lost too, too soon. And hearing her always makes me want to reach for a snack.

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer: Another absolute knee slapper from the morons who live in red-colored states. Guffaw, guffaw. If I laugh anymore, my wooden teeth will fall out. Only some jerk in Arkansas would enjoy this despicable mess. Meanwhile, Grandma has no idea how lucky she has it. Ending a life of Midwestern misery after being a head model for one of Blitzen's hoof prints.

Feliz Navidad: The annual reminder that Jose Feliciano once had a career. Gee, Jose, don't the lights on the tree look wonderful? Oh, never mind.

The Chipmunk Song: I can hear this once a year and no more. I remember this being played constantly when I was a kid. Not only did it sell tons of records, but it also probably drove up the sales of helium tanks.

Happy Christmas by John Lennon and Yoko Oh No: A new candidate for most annoying and overplayed song. That whispering to the kids at the beginning literally creates cavities in my teeth. My finger can't get to the pre-set dial fast enough. If John Lennon had not been shot in December and so close to the holidays, this record would have been in a dumpster behind the Dakota years ago.

Mamacita, Donde Esta Santa Claus: This apparently was a big hit in 1958, but I never heard the song until I moved to California. And with good reason, because it's straight from below the border. Mamacita, there's a border?? What the hell-o is that-o? Check out the lyrics that essentially turn Christmas into Cinco de Mayo.

Mamacita, donde esta Santa Claus? Donde esta Santa Claus?
And the toys that he will leave.
Mamacita, oh, where is Santa Claus?
I look for him because it's Christmas Eve.

I know that I should be sleeping,
But maybe he's not far away,
Out of the window I'm peeping,
Hoping to see him in his sleigh.

I hope he won't forget to clack his castinet,
And to his reindeer, say,
"Oh Pancho, Oh! Vixen, Oh! Pedro, Oh! Blitzen,"
Ole! Ole! Ole! cha cha cha.

Mamacita, donde esta Santa Claus?
Oh! Where is Santa Claus?

Okay, where the heck do I start? Santa clicking a castanet? Changing the names of the reindeer? Meanwhile, Santa Claus better be one smart cookie to know that the Perez household needs more presents than might have been reported in that letter to the North Pole. You see, there's a whole family of cousins, aunts, and uncles living in the basement that nobody knows about.

I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas: A huge hit in 1953 and, given it was the Eisenhower administration, I will just assume most people were asleep at the time. Some annoying ten-year-old urchin named Gayla Peevey sings it and she wants a big, smelly animal under her tree Christmas morning. I guess her drunken uncle isn't the answer. Authorities always tell us to avoid giving puppies as Christmas presents since people don't realize that the dog is probably shitting all over the house on December 26. I guess the same goes for bigger animals. Are there a lot of returns to a hippopotamus pound?

The Christmas Shoes: Hands down, the worst Christmas song ever! As somebody who has actually spent two different Christmases watching my parents' ultimately fatal illnesses play out against a backdrop of merriment, why would you want to infuse a joyful holiday with such incredible sadness? But, that's just what the song "The Christmas Shoes" does.

This piece of dreck has been around for about 10 years, and allegedly was a big hit on the country charts when it first came out. It's all about some poor little boy who wants to buy some new shoes on Christmas Eve because his mom is on her deathbed. There's no Christmas miracle at the end of the song. I'm guessing Mommy checks out as predicted. Off to meet Jesus wearing some Payless specials. And this little boy's left alone. Merry F-ing Christmas!

I am sure many, many people are forced to endure such sorrow every year around this time. I certainly had my share. I once spent a Christmas Day shuttling between two different hospitals visiting my father and my mother. But, like we all must do, I tried to move forward. Yet, every damn Christmas, this song gets played as a constant reminder. Can we at least appreciate joy for one single moment without thinking about dire consequences? The writers of this disaster should go off to meet Jesus themselves. Real soon.

Do They Know It's Christmas: That horrible Band-Aid song from 1984 which supposedly donated all profits to curbing famine in Ethiopia. The tune has the reverse effect on me whenever it comes on the radio. I stick my fingers down my throat and puke up everything I ate for dinner last night.

And, on that gross note...

Dinner last night: German salami sandwich and salad.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - December 19, 2011

2011-12-19T02:21:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite moments from National Lampoon Christmas Vacation.

Dinner last night: Bratwurst, spaetzle, and red cabbage.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Yes, Len, There is No Santa Claus

2011-12-18T00:17:00.000-08:00

Every Thanksgiving, the Christmas holiday jumpstarts with the arrival of Santa Claus at the end of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Traditionally, several days later, there is a similar parade down Hollywood Boulevard. The Santa Claus Lane parade. And it, too, concludes, with the arrival of Santa Claus.

I would watch these telecasts in my teenage years and wonder how a young child could reconcile it all. Santa Claus jumping from New York to Los Angeles in a matter of days. Does he use the sleigh on all the days when he is not delivering presents? Is this overtime for the reindeers? Have Donner and Blitzen started to sqawk and complain to their union?

And, most importantly, how come the Macy's Santa Claus looks nothing like the Hollywood St. Nick? Huh???

Well, at this point, my logic has prevailed. But I am perplexed how a little, starry-eyed boy could maintain his belief in Santa amidst all the evidence that clearly shows he doesn't.

Such a quandry for parents. How long can you keep the magic going?

Well, my folks did the best they could do. And I was as gullible as they come.

Back when I was still believing in St. Nick, I fussed enormously over his arrival at 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon. Actually, I was probably a five-year-old obsessive compulsive about Santa's entrance every Christmas Eve.

I didn't last long as a believer. I probably wasn't more than seven years old when the kid up the block, that dastardly Monte, killed it all for me when he relayed that all my Christmas presents from Santa were being hid in his house. But, until that fateful message, I bought into all the myths. The rooftop sleigh. Rudolph. The slide down the chimney.

Except, as I worried, we didn't have a chimney. Well, not one that was open. There was a pseudo-fireplace in our house downstairs in my grandmother's dining room. But, it was cemented shut and probably hadn't been used since Eleanor Roosevelt had straight teeth.

"How is Santa Claus going to come into our house?"

The answer confused me.

"He has a key."

Huh? If I had started to think about this implausibility, I would have stopped believing right then and there.

"So he knows that our fireplace is closed?"

The answer addled me some more.

"We tell him ahead of time."

Huh?? So, there are conversations with the man prior to the visit. When does this happen? And, if there has been a previous dialogue with Santa, how come the guy doesn't know to rinse out the glass after he downs the milk and cookies? Because, frankly, at our house, nothing freaked out my mother more than a dirty glass left to linger in the sink.

If there were personal meetings going on with Santa Claus, I wanted to be in on the action. In my small kindergarten-y mind, I deduced that, with this front door key, Santa Claus would have to go up the narrow staircase to where our tree was. And a great way to do that would be to block the stairs.

Sometime, in the darkness of Christmas Eve, I pulled Zippy the Chimp and went to sit on the staircase. Nobody was going to get past me. I was going to be the sentry of our house and meet the guy with my own eyes.

And that's where they found me asleep in the morning.

Huh?

Up in the kitchen, there was a dirty glass drained of milk. How the heck did this happen???

As I mentioned, dreams were dashed shortly thereafter by that cretin up the block. But, even then, I was skeptical. This can't possibly be true, can it? I asked my mother. She essentially assured me that there was a nasty code of justice at the North Pole.

"Santa doesn't like what Monte said. He will get no toys this Christmas."

A-ha!

But, doubts had been raised sufficiently for me to survey that year's Christmas morning haul. I flipped over my Zorro play set. What was this on the bottom? I could read basic words. Hmmmm. A store sticker.

E.J. KORVETTE'S.

I looked at my Flintstones play set, complete with the entire town of Bedrock. A store sticker again?

E.J. KORVETTE'S.

Mom?

"Wow, Santa shops nearby."

Okay, how long are you going to keep this up?

Yeah, it all ended right there in our wrapping-paper-strewn living room.

End of my Santa quest. There would be no more sleeping at the top of the stairs. And, oh, by the way, Dad, how was that milk and cookie?

Years later, I wound up on the flip side of this obsession. I was living in Yonkers next door to good friends. I was little Jason's unofficial uncle. And every Christmas Eve, we would get together to hang out with a bottle or two of Bailey's Irish Cream until the wee hours. I even got to be the one to gobble up the milk and cookies dutifully left by Jason.

One year, at around 1AM, Jason bounced downstairs from his bedroom.

"Uncle Lenny, go home!!! Santa won't come if you're still here drinking!"

Dinner last night: Western BBQ burger at Hooters.

Classic Newsreel of the Month - December 2011

2011-12-17T03:50:00.000-08:00

Look! It's Christmas 1947.

Dinner last night: Beef and potato soup.

Your Weekend Movie Guide for December 2011

2011-12-16T06:42:00.000-08:00

Oh, those were the days.

Here's an ad for the very last Christmas show I saw at Radio City Music Hall, when they did the holidays the right way. A movie and a 45-minute stage show. The Rockettes would fall over like toy soldiers. Sheep and camels would appear live on stage at the birth of Jesus. Simple and beautiful. The ideal holiday treat in a classic movie house.

Now? Well, let's see. We have the Los Angeles Times entertainment section telling us about this year's Yuletide treats from Hollywood. All of them are guaranteed to make us gag. You know the drill, gang. I'll give you my knee jerk reaction to the movie going coal in our Christmas stockings.

Hugo: Been there, done this. Not sure what I made of this movie. It held my interest, but felt very long and the 3-D glasses fatigue always sets in on me after the first hour. Very stylish and pretty to look at, but the story overall reminded me of a film history class I took in college.

The Descendants: More ambivalence from yours truly. An okay movie with a Lifetime-like plot that is elevated by strong acting. A bit overrated in my book.

Shame: If you can't get enough full frontal nudity during the holiday season...

Young Adult: Charlene Theron in a little bit of quirky as only can be offered by the folks who brought you "Juno." Warning sign: the trailer was amusing. Usually that means all the comedy in the film has been frontloaded into the coming attractions.

The Muppets: I'm headed to the El Capitan likely this weekend to take a gander and I'll see what all my friends are raving about.

The Artist: The big Oscar buzz movie of the year. A silent movie that is really a homage to a silent movie. Regardless of how redundant that sounds, I'm seeing this soon.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy: Sounds like a resume from somebody who keeps changing careers.

Sherlock Holmes - A Game of Shadows: A sequel to the piece of absolute shit they produced two years ago. It had virtually nothing to do with the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle characters. If this movie was playing only on the South Pole, it still wouldn't be far enough away for me.

My Week With Marilyn: If it was just one night, I would say this is about Bobby Kennedy. I hear this is quite dull, but one friend told me it was the best movie he saw in five years. I forgot to ask him if he liked the first Sherlock Holmes as well.

I Melt with You: But, if it stars a M&M candy, it will be in your mouth and not in your hands.

Alvin and the Chipmunks - Chipwrecked: Please call Animal Control Services ASAP.

The Twilight Saga - Breaking Dawn - Part 1: That's an awfully long title for a pretty lousy movie. Primarily for teen age girls using Clearasil or gay guys ingesting Extacy.

Carnage: The screen adaptation of Broadway's hit drama "God of Carnage."   Friends I know who saw it on the stage are dreading this production directed by Roman Polanski.

Mission Impossible - Ghost Protocol: The real impossible mission will be getting me to see this Tom Cruise sewer back-up. Is this a secret Scientology plot to destroy us all?

Spellbound: I got excited when I saw the ad for this in the paper. A restoration of the Alfred Hitchcock film with Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck? Er, no. This is about a street magician who strikes up a relationship with a woman isolated by her ability to see spirits. I'll stay home and wait for the Hitchcock movie to show up on TCM.

Charlotte Rampling - The Look: A documentary that explores the life and work of actress Charlotte Rampling through her own conversations with artist friends and collaborators. Ideal for those who need to catch up on some sleep after lots of holiday partying.

Corman's World - Exploits of a Hollywood Rebel: A documentary about legendary schlock movie producer Roger Corman.   Screw Charlotte Rampling. This is the one I want to see.    Don't we all want to see how bad sausage is made?

Cook County: In a small town in East Texas, three generations of crystal meth addicts wreslte with their demons. And to think that all my family used to get strung out on during the holidays was cans of Schaefer Beer.

House of Pleasures: A Parisian brothel at the turn of the century. If only it had been produced by Roger Corman, I'd be on line tonight.

London River: Two strangers come to discover the fate of their respective children in the 2005 terrorist attacks on London.   Given the subject matter and the Christmas release, this should be renamed "It's A Really Fucked Up Life."

A Dangerous Method: David Cronenberg's look at how the intense relationship between Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud gives birth to psychoanalysis.   Yikes. Cronenberg is the director who likes to have heads explode on the screen. This could scare off people from psychiatry forever.

Happy Feet Two: Was Happy Feet One about a penguin amputee?

Puss in Boots: Once again, I'd only see something with that title if it had been produced by Roger Corman.

Immortals: The target audience for this junk had flatlined brain waves five years ago.

Arthur Christmas: A dopey cartoon. On Christmas night at the North Pole, Santa's youngest son looks to use his father's high-tech operation for an urgent mission.   Uh-huh. To be politically correct, another production company will be releasing "Herman Hanukah."

Tower Heist: I actually enjoyed this slight little caper. A time waster, but sometimes, there's nothing wrong with that. If only they had given Eddie Murphy some funnier lines...

New Year's Eve: Garry Marshall, it's okay. You can stop now. We forgive you.

Jack and Jill: Went up the hill and hopefully stayed up there.

J. Edgar: I was shocked at how bad this Clint Eastwood biopic was. Incoherent, frenetic, and sloppily directed. The aging make-up was awful. People have had better make-overs from the neighborhood Avon representative.

Dinner last night: Italian hero from Jersey Mike's.