Hell No, Wednesday Won't Go!

They're not on the job. But, I am...

---Yesterday, I honked my support to the picketing writers as I drove past Fox on the way home.

---Funny how I will do that but I won't acknowledge the protesters who are always outside the Federal Building.

---That's because I could care less about abuses being done in countries where the flies are bigger than the food on your plate.

---Usually, when I drive past those demonstrations, I always point.

---Upward.

---If you want to make a difference in your homeland country, can I suggest you fly back there?

---With a one-way ticket.

---How long does the Writers strike have to go before they will cancel "Caveman?"

---Lots of residual effect from the strike, no pun intended.

---Does anybody realize how many 75 inch plasma TVs will go unsold this Christmas?

---Actors won't cross the picket lines. That's because the writers didn't put it in the stage directions.

---The producers are making money hand over fist with internet downloads, DVDs, etc. and won't share it.

---I'm betting Mercedes and Jaguar dealers are sweating this out.

---They're not writing, but wait till you see how many unsolicited screenplays start turning up all over town as soon as this thing is over.

---But, there is good news. SNL writers are on strike, too.

---Actually, I think that's been the case since 1988.

---I watched about five minutes of SNL last weekend. It was like receiving a cortisone needle to the brain. Brian Williams was the host and lost all journalistic credibility in my book.

---It was as if they asked Preppie Killer Robert Chambers to lecture at Sarah Lawrence.

---While the SNL writers are out on the picket line, they should watch PBS' documentary on Carol Burnett.

---Now that was how you wrote sketch comedy.

---Of course, they dragged out Barack Obama who came out wearing a Barack Obama mask. Which is fitting because nobody knows who the real Obama is.

---I am mystified how much they rely on cue cards on that show. Nobody makes eye contact. They're all looking offstage for their next line.

---It's bad enough our President does that.

---Once again, everybody needs to watch Carol Burnett.

---So now, they're coming out with more baseball names who have taken steroids. It's funny because all these knuckleheads suddenly conjure up some rare medical conditions that required them to take these drugs.

---But, how come they didn't get their prescriptions from a doctor? Everybody is seeing this Florida dentist.

---I go to the dentist three times a year and all I get is a tube of Prevident.

---Maybe that's a performance enhancer? I'll have to see if I can catch a 95 MPH fastball in my mouth.

---I know that, after I get my teeth cleaned, I don't walk out twenty pounds heavier.

---I watched the Joe Torre press conference the other day. It was pure pomp and circumstance as Joe, his wife, the McCourts, and Vin Scully marched to the centerfield podium.

---The only things missing were a casket and some bagpipes.

---Compared to the screwballs in NY, managing the LA media will be a breeze for Joe.

---Except for those two Asian broads who kept asking him what he thought about his Japanese and Chinese players.

---Airlift, please.

---In the future, Joe should ignore them unless they're there to give his wife a pedicure.

---And what was that reporter from National Public Radio doing there?

---"So, Joe, what's your opinion of socialized medicine in Bosnia?"

Dinner last night: Chicken-apple sausage with red cabbage.

Welcome to Los Angeles, Joe Torre

Dear Joe---

Just letting you know that Dodgers fans are all abuzz with anticipation about your impending arrival. As a personal service to you, let me be the first to give you and your family some very important tips for you to remember as you navigate the Southern California landscape.

---When you're looking for a new home, avoid any neighborhood that features a strip mall with a bail bonds outlet. Also, if you see more than one 99 Cent store, keep going.

---If you're bringing along any Yankee bobbleheads, keep them on a low shelf. When you suddenly see them all shaking for no reason, there really is a reason.

---When you're in the Dodger dugout and you suddenly smell sausage and peppers, be aware that Lasorda is probably sitting in the owner's box again.

---It's totally cool if you see Mexicans working in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant. Or a Chinese restaurant. Or a Persian restaurant. Or slicing up onions and mushrooms at Benihana's.

---I don't care what anybody else out here tells you. It is totally acceptable to honk your horn when stuck in traffic. Long and loud. Repeatedly. Just pretend it's the Major Deegan.

---If you want real NY style pizza, you have to try Vito's on LaCienega. He's an Italian from New Jersey and the food tastes like it. Plus there are no Mexicans working in the kitchen.

---I've seen the recent pictures of your hair. Always wear a cap out here.

---Don't drink the water straight out of the tap. Why? I have three words for you. Los Angeles River.

---All the really good urologists are in Santa Monica.

---Sinatra's not coming to the games here any more. But I would suggest you get acquainted with "Who's The Boss" reruns because Alyssa Milano will be calling you about pitching changes.

---Good news: Scott Proctor is here and awaiting your nightly call from the fifth inning on.

---Don't try to make a left turn. Ever.

---There will be nobody here on your roster who addresses you as "Mr. Torre." In fact, don't be surprised if your salutation from Jeff Kent amounts to "Hey, You!."

---You don't want to drive on the southbound side of the 405 between the 101 and Santa Monica Boulevard from 4 to 5PM. Not that it's particularly crowded, but that's the time I'm on the road and one less car in my way is always good.

---The seventh inning stretches at Dodger Stadium last no longer than two minutes tops.

---There is no mascot eagle here. The closest thing will be the crows feet around the eyes of the owner's wife.

---The home dugout is on the third base side. Make sure you're pointed in the right direction on those mound trips or else you will be removing a peanut vendor from the game.

---The only annoying insect out here is Billy Crystal.

---Don't do a double take when your owner gets up from a lunch table and he hasn't spilled a thing.

By the way, I generally go to games on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. Maybe we can sync up a car pool?

Good luck. We're all counting on you.

Dinner last night: Leftover ravioli and meatballs.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - November 5, 2007

Left over from the summer.

Dinner last night: ravioli and meatballs.

My Top 25 Favorite Films: #22!

In the neighborhood of my childhood, I was always captivated by the guy who owned the delicatessen a block away. His name was Charlie and he always looked so sad. I know he had a wife and daughter who lived upstairs from the store, but he never appeared to enjoy slicing ham. I'd go in there usually once a day. I would be armed with a grocery list from one of my parents, requesting I bring home the staples of a daily existence. A quarter pound of salami, a quart of milk, a six pack of Schaefer, and a pack of Kents. At such an early age, I was already an enabler.

Charlie was always nice to me, but I never knew anything about him, except that he was a big fan of Red Skelton. He couldn't get enough of Freddie the Freeloader. I was crazy enough to think that I'd have a future summer job delivering groceries for Charlie. When I got older, I remember asking him. He just smiled faintly. "No thank you." And he went back to his quiet, almost dour existence.

I think of Charlie every time I see the movie "Marty." This phenomenal 1955 winner of the Best Picture Oscar offers a portrayal of somebody almost as sad as Charlie. Marty is the local butcher in a Bronx neighborhood somewhere near Fordham Road. He is a nice and personable overweight man, who is perpetually and probably eternally single. As played by Ernest Borgnine (who could give you stys if you look too long at him), Marty is not the greatest looker in the world. And, except for a couple of losers from the local gin mill on Webster Avenue, everybody around him is married. He lives with his Italian mother, who constantly wonders why he hasn't found that nice girl. Marty starts to become philosophical about it all. He tells her:

"Ma, sooner or later, there comes a point in a man's life when he's gotta face some facts. And one fact I gotta face is that, whatever it is that women like, I ain't got it. I chased after enough girls in my life, I went to enough dances. I got hurt enough, I don't wanna get hurt no more. I just called up a girl this afternoon, and I got a real brush-off, boy! I figured I was past the point of being hurt, but that hurt. Some stupid woman who I didn't even want to call up. She gave me the brush. No, Ma, I don't wanna go to Stardust Ballroom because all that ever happened to me there was girls made me feel like I was a-a-a bug. I got feelings, you know. I-I had enough pain. No thanks, Ma!"

So, Marty adopts the sadness as a part of his life. Just as I watched Charlie the deli owner do when I was a kid.

This is a real movie and it feels even more genuine every time I see it. Let's face it, most men can identify to walking up to someone and asking them out or for a dance---and be summarily dismissed. And most all people can connect with the sensation of human rejection. Despite the fact that it is set in the Bronx of the 1950s, there is a universality that transcends the years. And it sparks anew feelings of a simpler time. Indeed, "Marty" was filmed entirely on the streets of the Bronx depicted in the movie, which makes it exude even more genuineness.

My roommate once mentioned this movie as being thoroughly depressing. Maybe, but always real. And, like life, there is the roller coaster for Marty, because hope is always right around the corner.

When I see "Marty" now, I wonder if Charlie, at one point, asked his wife out for a date at the RKO Fordham. And was there at least a smile on his face that very night?

Dinner last night: Sausage pizza at CPK.

Is This Your Day Job?

Do you ever wonder if people ever look at themselves in the mirror? There is such a level of delusion that permeates this whole country? Everyone is convinced that, no matter what they do, it is totally and completely justified.

And perfect.

Take, for instance, the clip below. I'm not sure where it is from, but it has been quite the virulent video virus over the past two weeks. People can't stop watching it. But, what is the back story? Is this the talent portion of some inane beauty pageant in the bowels of this country, more commonly known as the Midwest? Let's face it. This has Oklahoma or Nebraska written all over it.

I wonder also...has this woman actually watched this? What are her thoughts about what she really looks like? Is this a moment in life that she is proud of? And if she is, should we all be worried?

Funny stuff. Scary stuff.

Dinner last night: The reuben sandwich at Cafe 50s.

Two and a Half Men: Two Sides of the Coin

The hit CBS comedy just celebrated his 100th episode. In its fifth season, Warner Brothers has gone the usual "cash cow" route and sold the reruns into syndication.

And therein lies a problem. In Los Angeles, the local station plays two episodes back-to-back from 7-8PM. And that presents a wonderful contrast of how a good show can go bad. The first half-hour is usually culled from the first two seasons of the series. The second half-hour is more recent, from the 2006-07 primetime season. When you watch a few of these hours on consecutive nights, it's akin to looking at a baseline x-ray of your lung and comparing it to one after you're diagnosed with a tumor.

In its initial years, "Two and a Half Men" didn't blaze any great creative trails, but it did provide a quite serviceable forum for a weekly belly laugh or two. While Charlie Sheen is clearly way overrated as a comedic actor, the rest of the cast was terrific. As Jake, the ultra-bratty small fry, Angus T. Jones stole one scene after another. He became a comic device that you craved like chocolate. Just as you would wait for Estelle Getty to show up on "The Golden Girls" years before, Jake's weekly appearance was the series' true drawing card. When you mix in some welcome contributions from co-stars Conchata Farrell as Berta the housekeeper and the always reliable Holland Taylor as the boys' mother, you wound up with a decent half-hour that could be easily "season passed" on your TiVo.

And then something happened. Perhaps showrunner Chuck Lorre was locked up and terrorized in a female correctional institution. Whatever the case, the show, in its later stages, got nasty. And vile. And immature. And downright gutteral. I now cringe at most of the humor, which is amateurish at best. Rarely does a week go by without at least one reference to a small penis. While Farrell and Taylor are still welcomed, the comedic gold, once mined by young Jake, is now buried inside a potty-mouthed teenager who ceased to be cute two years ago.

"Two and a Half Men" got lots of attention a few weeks back when they hit #100. But, I'd like the producers to watch that local station from 7 to 8PM every night and explain to me what happened. They are clearly two different shows. The only consistent thing across the entire series? Charlie Sheen still can't act.

Dinner last night: Cajun Chicken tenders at the Cheesecake Factory.

My Hometown

I now find myself spending more and more time closing my eyes in an effort to remember things the way they used to be.

Last weekend, I drove through my hometown of Mount Vernon, New York on my way to going to dinner with a good friend, who might be one of the only White men still living there. I wish I could have closed my eyes as I motored through town, but, indeed, that indeed would have constituted a moving violation in the eyes of the DMV.

From what I could see, it is now official. Mount Vernon, as an inhabitable city, is now dead.

The pillaging, of course, began years ago when the mob ran the city and there were more garbage disposal companies than there were schools. Even when I was a kid, there was a racial divide in the city that rivaled the North and South of the Civil War. The New Haven Railroad tracks that ran through the city constructed what was indeed a boundary between the predominantly White north side and the predominantly Black south side. And, while both sides mixed in the shopping areas or the schools, there was never a comfortable feeling doing so. And it always seemed like City Hall (shown above) worked overtime to keep it so.

While my family lived on the south side (very much near Denzel Washington), we were always closer to the Bronx than to the core of Mount Vernon. If this was my family's upgrade to the affluent suburbs, it sure didn't last long. As a kid, I spent most of my time in a school that was 60% Black. I knew the words to Motown songs ahead of the Beatles. And, certainly, high school, with a even wider racial divide, was no bargain. I literally held my bladder for three years because a white kid didn't dare use a bathroom for fear of getting your bookbag stolen or worse.

But, still, there were good times in Mount Vernon. I thought of those days as I drove last Saturday through Gramatan Avenue which is now littered with junk stores and a myriad of Caribbean restaurants. Berlin in 1946 had more charm. There is a burned out stench that permeates every inch of what used to be very special. The memories flowed back at every traffic light I stopped at.

The RKO Proctor's theater where my mom took me for a double feature every Friday after school.

The opulent Loew's movie palace which was the first victim of civic decay. It was destroyed for a parking garage that only rodents drive into.

Artuso's Italian Pastry shop which you could smell for blocks.

The Bee Hive coffee shop where my mom always took me before the Friday double feature. Always a BLT and a malted for me.

Ackerman's Pharmacy where I always had to pick up my grandmother's White Cloverine salve, which they had to special order for her. She used this goop as a cure-all for everything!





The record store where I bought my "Bye Bye Birdie" soundtrack album. The one that had Ann-Margret wearing nothing but a red sweater on the cover.


Bromley's Fashions. A dress shop that had my mother on the earliest version of speed dial. I hated going there with her because she tried on EVERYTHING.

Shipman's Toy Store. They always stocked the latest edition of Colorforms.

Genung's. A small town department store. Yes, my mom had an account there as well. But, they had kids' clothing, too, so a weekly visit there wasn't as torturous as Bromley's.

Kaplan's. An old-fashioned butcher shop.

Green's. A five and ten where you could shop and eat at the same time. I got my talking Herman Munster action figure there. Okay, it was really a doll, not an action figure.

Albert's Hosiery. Stockings, stockings, and more stockings. Not only did my mother lose herself in there as well, but I always felt a little sleazy being there. Years later, the same feeling would come back when a girlfriend once dragged me into Victoria's Secret.

Intown Newspapers. A massive store that had any comic book I wanted. And I wanted them all. From Archie to Superman.

It's all gone now. Replaced by storefronts that cater to no one. I guess some of the downfall is economic in nature. The city pretty much has a low income look and feel. The high school is now pretty much an armed camp that makes Sing Sing look like Club Med. Anyone who wants to give their child a good education certainly overshoots Mount Vernon for places like Eastchester and Pelham. Mount Vernon itself remains as a carcass that has been picked so clean that the vulture have even moved on.

The racial divide is at least gone. Indeed, even the African-Americans have largely moved out, only to be replaced by Haitians, West Indians, or anybody that has slipped through our swiss cheese borders over the past twenty years. And, in the irony of all ironies, the final civic acts of rape and molestation have been conducted not by the "evil" White politicos, but by a consortium of Black crooks who shuffled their way into City Hall via some rigged politcal party mechanism. The result has been Webster's official illustration for the definition of "Black on Black crime." The first executioner was Mayor Blackwood, and there is no pun intended. Blackwood was this reverse racist, who curried the favors of African-American businessmen, while running the longtime storeowners out into the night. Without term limits, this jerk was in office longer than a Pope.

The final fatal injection was administered by the current Mayor, some faux preacher named Ernie Davis, who has as much business running a city as Kermit the Frog. Davis has also held onto this job for a decade or more, despite the fact that the city's heart is at its faintest. Finally, he may get kicked out of office for...surprise, surprise, some inappropriate and slightly illegal business contracts. Now, he'll be dispatched to whatever alley he crawled out and reduced to selling Bibles door-to-door. I'm sure this will prompt talk of the revitalization of this once great city. But, it will be like spraying Bactine on a malignant tumor. Mount Vernon is dead. Despite what my grandmother would say, even White Clovering Salve couldn't fix this.
But, as long as I can close my eyes, Mount Vernon lives for one more day.
Dinner last night: The salad bar again from Gelson's.