Happy birthday to the co-inventor of Facebook. Click if you like this.
1509: IN NORTHERN ITALY, FRENCH FORCES DEFEAT THE VENETIANS.
They were blind-sided.
1607: JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA IS SETTLED AS AN ENGLISH COLONY.
By this date the following year, half of the homes are already being flipped.
1608: THE PROTESTANT UNION IS FOUNDED IN AUHAUSEN.
Oh, good. Now I have some place to go on Sunday mornings.
1610: HENRY IV OF FRANCE IS ASSASSINATED BRINGING LOUIS XIII TO THE THRONE.
Hopefully, he has a good run as monarch. But, wait, I've read ahead...
1643: FOUR-YEAR-OLD LOUIS XIV BECOMES KING OF FRANCE UPON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER, LOUIS XIII.
Well, I guess 33 years is a long run. But he's no FDR.
1787: IN PHILADELPHIA, DELEGATES CONVENE A CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION TO WRITE A NEW CONSTITUTION FOR THE US.
The Constitution. Remember when we paid attention to that?
1796: EDWARD JENNER ADMINISTERS THE FIRST SMALLPOX VACCINATION.
This won't hurt at all.
1804: THE LEWIS AND CLARK EXPEDITION BEGINS ITS HISTORIC JOURNEY BY TRAVELING UP THE MISSOURI RIVER.
A thought. Wouldn't it have been easier to go down it?
1870: THE FIRST GAME OF RUGBY IN NEW ZEALAND IS PLAYED.
This is obviously a big deal if you're a rugby fan in New Zealand.
1889: THE CHILDREN'S CHARITY NATIONAL SOCIETY FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO CHILDREN IS LAUNCHED IN LONDON.
Wait till you meet Michael Jackson.
1921: ACTOR RICHARD DEACON IS BORN.
Was there a sitcom he didn't appear on???
1925: VIRGINIA WOOLF'S NOVEL "MRS. DALLOWAY" IS PUBLISHED.
I'm not afraid of her.
1936: SINGER BOBBY DARIN IS BORN.
The Knife. Macked.
1939: LINA MEDINA BECOMES THE YOUNGEST CONFIRMED MOTHER IN MEDICAL HISTORY AT THE AGE OF FIVE.
Gee, isn't playing with your Colorforms enough?
1940: ROTTERDAM IS BOMBED BY THE GERMAN LUFTWAFFE.
After which, the German army got bombed in a local tavern.
1948: ISRAEL IS DECLARED TO BE AN INDEPENDENT STATE. IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE DECLARATION, THEY ARE ATTACKED BY THE NEIGHBORING ARAB STATES.
Setting up a soap opera that will run longer than the Guiding Light.
1961: THE FREEDOM RIDERS BUS IS FIRE-BOMBED IN ALABAMA AND THE PROTESTERS ARE BEATEN BY AN ANGRY MOB.
You should have taken the train.
1969: ACTRESS CATE BLANCHETT IS BORN.
This year's Best Actress Oscar winner.
1970: ACTRESS BILLIE BURKE DIES.
Go ahead. Try and click your heels now.
1973: SKYLAB, THE US' FIRST SPACE STATION, IS LAUNCHED.
I wonder if any child born in 1973 is named Skylab.
1984: FACEBOOK INVENTOR MARK ZUCKERBERG IS BORN.
He turns 30 and that alone makes me want to unfriend him.
1987: ACTRESS RITA HAYWORTH DIES.
Va-va-va-voom.
1988: A DRUNK DRIVER TRAVELING THE WRONG WAY ON A HIGHWAY IN KENTUCKY CRASHES INTO A SCHOOL BUS CARRYING A CHURCH YOUTH GROUP. 27 PEOPLE DIE.
This is not the kind of offense you can erase by going to traffic school.
1997: MAGICIAN HARRY BLACKSTONE JR. DIES.
And, poof, he's gone.
1998: SINGER FRANK SINATRA DIES.
Good riddance. My favorite story about this? They tried to contact Nancy Sinatra to come to the hospital but she had taken her phone off the hook so she could watch the series finale of Seinfeld.
2003: BASKETBALL STAR DAVE DEBUSSCHERE DIES.
Of a sudden heart attack. A neighbor of mine in NY had just gone to lunch with him that very day.
2003: ACTOR ROBERT STACK DIES.
The undertaker will have to get his hands on the body, so he's not so untouchable.
2013: NIGERIAN PRESIDENT GOODLUCK JONATHAN DECLARES A STATE OF EMERGENCY DUE TO TERRORIST ACTS.
Included for one reason only....Good luck with that!
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at the Dodger game.
Nobody really knows for sure what happens when we die. Personally, despite being a church goer, I ping pong between the possible scenarios. There are days where I think...and hope...there is something beyond. There are skeptical days where I believe that...well...you're just dusty nothingness.
The world hereafter is the subject of this interesting new film, "Heaven Is For Real," and you are immediately taken out of an argument when the first title card tells you that "this is a true story." And, apparently, it was a best selling book as well. So, the author is not only anticipating a glorious after-life, he's making oodles of cash now while alive.
This film tells the tale of the Burpo family and one would debate that, if there really is a God, they wouldn't have to go through life with that last name. Todd is the dad, a carpet salesman who also doubles as the town pastor in some Midwestern rural town where people still actually go to church on Sundays.
Times are rough for his wife and two kids. We get the struggles right from the get go. Carpet business is slow. Church attendance isn't great. Todd, also a volunteer fireman, has wrecked his leg in a town softball game. It's not a good time to be a Burpo. But, then again, when is?
When four-year-old son Colton has a ruptured appendix, the town bands together to all pray simultaneously for the boy's recovery. While in surgery, Colton may or may not have died for a few minutes. But, the kid is sure of one thing. He went to Heaven. And is not shy about talking to people about his visit. They all, for one reason or another, are uncomfortable with the subject matter. Go figure.
Here is where the movie careens a bit off course. Instead of hearing through the boy's words his vision of the hereafter, director Randall Wallace (screenwriter of "Braveheart" and a Mel Gibson crony) goes for the visual gusto. We see a sequence of cheesy clouds and images, combined with singing angels and a visit by Jesus Christ himself. Indeed, Wallace should have gone the "less is more" route and ignore the temptation to give us the American Greeting Cards concept of Heaven. But, he doesn't and the film suffers for a while because of it.
Once we are back to simple images and Colton's recollections, the movie improves. Greg Kinnear is terrific as Todd and a standout in what is basically a no-name cast. At the end, he addresses us all on just what Heaven is. And it's a congregational sermon that would make Billy Graham proud. Admittedly, "Heaven Is For Real" plays very much like a Hallmark Channel movie. But, whatever your beliefs are, the film makes you think about the prospects of afterlife one more time. Especially when it connects to a real CNN story about a young girl overseas some place who had the same Heavenly journey and now has painted the image of Jesus that she saw.
Frankly, this painting sort of reminds me of the picture of Al Pacino on the old "Serpico" movie poster. But, what do I know?
Okay, the movie won't be for everybody. And, it might have been much better if in more capable directorial hands. That said, I realized that I've had my spiritual doubts of late. The movie didn't necessarily settle the argument for me, but it sure did give me another definitive side of the debate.
Indeed, my own pastor has frequently told us of tales about people she's been with before they pass on. There is a calmness. There is beautiful music. There is a sense of a world without problems. She's also told us of some memorial services where music suddenly shuts off and locked doors inexplicably blow open.
Another friend of mine had a relative (now deceased) who had previously died for about twenty minutes. When she came back, she reported...nothing.
And so it continues. The debate of centuries.
I can only offer my one argument.
Last summer, I was doing a lot of financial work for my church. I was there one weekday afternoon by myself. Looking at the checking account ledger and wondering one more time how the church could stay open. As I was leaving the office, I crossed in front of the altar and actually voiced out loud the words.
"This church needs to close."
The back of my neck was hit with a warm, but sudden feeling. It went away as quickly as it came. I quickly turned around and looked up. There was a ray of light coming through the stained glass image of a young Jesus over our altar. Was that the source of heat that zapped me? But, the ray suddenly evaporated.
Hmmm?
I told my pastor and she thought it was a sign. Meanwhile, I make sure never to make any audible pronouncements whenever I'm alone in that building.
It was that singular experience that made me want to go see "Heaven Is For Real" in the first place. I was looking for answers.
But, of course, when you look for answers, you're almost always presented with more questions.
LEN'S RATING: Three stars.
Dinner last night: Leftover sausage and salad.
How stupid are some people? These folks on the Jimmy Kimmel Show didn't even know that Franklin Roosevelt died 60 years ago.
Dinner last night: Smoked sausage and pickled beets.
I just looked at that title. It sounds like my mom was Rosemary Clooney. Or Rhianna. And the latter would mean I have no idea who my father is.
But, I digress...
It's Mother's Day and those of you who are missing your moms today are probably doing your own version of sensory perception to bring her near to you one more time. It might be a perfume or the scent of something good cooking in the kitchen or the aroma from her favorite flower bouquet.
For me, it's always music. Indeed, every Saturday, I indulge a bit in bringing back the sense of the past. Back when I was a little tyke, my grandmother would bake a cake or a pie every week. I now do the same and the same flavors waft throughout the house.
And the soundtrack while I do this every week? The 60s Channel on Sirius/XM. Because nothing brings my mother back to me more than some big hits of that decade. It's not aromas that spark these memories. It's the music.
My mother was a rarity back in the day. She listened almost exclusively to Top 40 radio. The countdown surveys. The sure shots. The #1 hit of the land. My mom was all this. And it played completely in the background of our lives.
When I got up for breakfast and got ready for school, it was either WMCA (The Good Guys) or WABC on the radio. Giving us the weather and the latest hit from the Beatles. My mom actually called in once and won a Good Guys sweatshirt. I might have been the only kid in the neighborhood with a mother wearing this.
It didn't stop with the radio. If my mother really like a song, she'd make sure to stop at Brodbeck's Record Store on Fourth Avenue in Mount Vernon, NY, to buy the 45 RPM platter. Then she'd take it home and play it on our record player. Over and over and over and over. Mom had a record case with probably over 200 of those little vinyl coasters.
One that predated me by a lot of years still found its way to that turntable at least once a week. Not that it was played once. My mother listened to it at least ten times in one setting.
I can hear my mom singing along. I can also feel cavities taking root in my teeth from the sickening sweetness.
Another popular song that ran through our house endlessly came from Bobby Rydell. I knew him from "Bye Bye Birdie" but, admittedly, I was focused on co-star Ann Margret. I accidentally sat on this record and was punished. I also had to replace it with my own allowance money.
My mom had no language skills beyond English. Yet, that didn't stop from amazingly singing along to "Sukiyaki."
This song was hot on the radio during a summer road trip. On a rare moment where the car radio wasn't being commandeered by my dad, this tune came on. And my mother sang it perfectly in Japanese. The look on my father's face was priceless. It asked one burning question.
"What the hell have I married?"
Okay, and whose mother danced while vacuuming the living room to this little ditty?
Yeah, mine did. And I confess that quite uncomfortably.
Now, there was a bit of a music rivalry between my mom and my aunt, her sister who lived out in Deer Park on Long Island. They were the first relatives to get a "high fidelity" console. While my mother was spinning the platters on a crappy little record player, Aunt Anne was blowing the windows out every time we visited. And the one song that they played over and over was a Lawrence Welk record.
On one visit where "Calcutta" was played over and over and over, there was one of those parental "conversations" in the car going home. Mom started it.
"We need to get a hi-fi."
"What the hell for?"
"So we can play records like they do."
"What the hell for?"
"You could play your Polka records on it."
Mom won. Dad had no rebuttal.
We didn't get the big contraption that my aunt and uncle had on Long Island. Our stereo was portable. And my mother took it more places than she took me. To peoples' houses. To work. To parties.
We were now one bitchin' family.
That used the new stereo to play nothing but Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.
There we were. My family all the way up in the northeaster part of the United States. Playing nothing but music from the opposite end of the country. Mexico, which might as well have been on the moon. Even my father got into this genre. So, whenever my folks went out with the portable stereo, they now brought along their own records as well. As if nobody else had them.
I can't say I didn't like the music myself. It certainly made homework go by a lot faster. I sure did like one of the Tijuana Brass album covers best.
At some point in my house, the music died. Not like when Elvis or John Lennon or Buddy Holly died. It's just that the house became divided. Everybody went their own separate ways. And, once my mom went back to work and started commuting downtown to Manhattan, it got very quiet.
All that was left were the memories of my mom. Wearing a Good Guys sweatshirt. Vacuuming and twisting her hips. And getting annoyed over the fact that her sister had a better stereo than she did.
Dinner last night: Early dinner of a sausage and peppers sandwich at Dodger Stadium.
Now here's a mother for you on her special weekend.
Dinner last night: Roast beef sandwich from Clementine's.
Longtime readers know that I try to avoid politics in this bloggy forum. Except if it's to condemn all politicians as a group which I will do at the drop of a hat. But I can't resist. This one hit home.
Because I didn't. Hit home, that is.
You have to live in Los Angeles to experience the utter ridiculousness of yet another visit to the city by President Obama. He's been here 18 different times during his regime. Not a single time has he been here for any official business that involves the state of California. Nope, he comes on a regular basis to replenish his Bank of Hollywood ATM card. Getting millions of dollars donated from the financial fat cat phonies that run Tinseltown. The very people that Obama loves to chastise are the ones he caters to most.
And, of course, the lure of breaking bread and grilled salmon with that big mouth Barbra Streisand is very enticing. So, one more time, he comes. And throws the entire town into complete chaos.
There are people who wonder just what the hell he is raising political funds for. I mean, he's got the job for another term. But I have a theory why he is courting the favors of the dumbbells of Hollywood. And it's got everything to do with the end of his second term. And the next career gig.
You read it here first. Six months after the Obamas leave the White House and fumigation begins, you will hear that his life story has been optioned to Steven Spielberg for a feature film adaptation. Denzel Washington will be first in line to play the lead role.
Meanwhile, let's not leave out Barry's wife. Within a year of their Washington DC departure, a major television syndicator will announce that Michelle will be hosting an hour-long national talk show. Devoted to making the lives of all her fans better. Teaching us how to properly raise and feed our children, because we couldn't possibly know how to do that ourselves. The show will be called "Michelle!"
Yes, there will be an exclamation point.
So, that, my friends, is why he still comes to town. And totally disrupts the lives of the downtrodden he is so committed to "helping."
On his very first visit in 2009, he was very nearby my home at the Beverly Hilton. And this resulted in a traffic nightmare that took days to unravel. Getting out of Vietnam was easier. I was stuck in my apartment for six hours. No one could go any place.
Since then, the traffic tie-ups are all connected to where he is located. Burbank for the Tonight Show. Glendale for a visit with Univision. Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles when he wanted a snack.
Two days ago, he was situated mostly in Century City. A dinner around the corner from my home where Spielberg was presenting with some award from the Shoah Foundation. Forget the fact that Obama has virtually trashed relations with Israel. He's still Steven's Ambassador of Goodwill. Hypocrisy that can't even be fathomed.
Naturally, whenever El Presidente visits, he lands smack dab in the middle of afternoon rush hour. Because, after all, what fun is it to be Chief Executive if you can't show how much power you command?
Knowing all this was happening, I raced home from a client in the San Fernando Valley. And almost made it. Suddenly, roads were closed all over the place. And I was literally trapped on a side street two blocks from my apartment. The idiots who are parking ticket cops in LA were entrusted to managing the congestion. That's sort of like having Emmanuel Lewis play center for the Lakers. I pulled over and very nicely asked one of these dopes how long it would be.
"We don't know. Probably an hour."
Okay, how do I get to that street over there?
"Well, you can't."
So you're essentially barring me from access to my own home?
"I wouldn't say it that way."
But you won't let me go there for the next hour so, technically, you are barring me access to my own home?
"It'll get cleared as soon as possible."
Yeah, but not for an hour.
"Yeah, well, it is the President."
Oh, thank you for clarifying. We're all very ready to burn up our gasoline as we wait because, after all, it is the President.
Don't get me wrong. I have no issue with Presidents being out and about in this country. But, when you do so, it should have something to do with bettering the lives of our citizens, not making a shambles of it. I sat behind my steering wheel and stewed and stewed and stewed.
None of this should be happening.
And I reasoned right then and there how I will vote in the next Presidential election.
The first candidate that comes out and announces that they will never visit Los Angeles gets my vote. Regardless of party affiliation. Indeed, if you pledge to spend over 85% of your time in the White House working, I might even donate 10 dollars to your campaign.
But you know that won't happen. Because Hillary and Bill will be needing to make time with George Clooney and all the other jerks out here. And, of course, they will have to be in Los Angeles for their appearance on the premiere episode of "Michelle!" And the red carpet premiere of Steven Spielberg's "Dreams of My Deadbeat Father."
Dinner last night: Vegetable stir fry.
....and now we do again, so all is right with the world.
"24" is back, but now it's going to be in 12 episodes. I guess there will be time gaps built in. Maybe the terrorists and the good guys will take a three hour lunch. Or perhaps Jack will be taking a long bathroom break. God knows we never saw him pee once in the previous eight seasons.
I should know. I watched every single minutes of those years. Truth be told, I didn't get into the show until Season 4. But, once hooked, a friend and I immediately went back and rented the first three years. I think we invented the concept of binge watching. We completed a season a week. It was dizzying, but, in the still-fresh-in-our-minds post-9/11 world, the experience was so gratifying.
Over the years, Jack Bauer usually waged a one-man-campaign against some group of world terrorists. And they hit them all the best countries for their villains. Iran. Korea. China. Russia. All the countries we should love to hate. At the end of the series, Jack was basically a man without a country. Being hunted by both the Russians and the Americans.
That was four years ago. Ardent fans like me waited for the promised feature film. It never came. Eventually, the original producers figured out a way to bring the series back in a truncated way. Who cares??? For us, any "24" is better than no "24" at all.
Don't get me wrong. You need to suspend logic when it comes to "24." There are plot holes that never make sense. In at least every episode, there is one moment where you say "that would never happen." Every season has one good guy who is really a bad guy. And, in the middle of every year....make that day...there is a major death and an event that shifts the plot in a totally different direction.
That was always the formula and I expect that will happen as well with this new reincarnation called "Live Another Day." In the past, the show setting for each season....make that day....vacillated between Los Angeles, Washington, DC, and New York. All of it was shot in California and looked like it was. This time, it's in London and being filmed totally on location. Whatever the case, just know that something really major will blow in the middle of town.
Jack, on the run since 2010, has gotten the usual "intel" that there will be a assassination attempt on the President of the United States in London for high level meetings. Of course, as we have seen over the years, Jack always gets this "intel" but it will take two-thirds of the season for anybody to believe him. That's part of the fun. And now, with his status as an international fugitive, he has less than zero credibility.
In the premiere hour, Jack appears to break his old computer-friendly cohort Chloe out of prison where she is being held for impersonating that WikiLeaks guy. Let me tell you. It doesn't take long for Jack to get her out of this jail. If I'm ever incarcerated, I want it to be in England.
Now, Jack is going to track down what he heard about the threat and make sure the President survives. In the Chief Executive role this time around is former Secretary of State James Heller, played by the always welcome William Devane. Jack has history with that family as he once loved Heller's daughter Audrey and actually put her in a catatonic state. But, apparently, there is life after coma because Audrey's traveling with her dad and is also married to his Chief of State who we may grow to like or hate. The jury's still out.
Meanwhile, President Heller is making world decisions while in the early stages of dementia and that would be a horrible scenario if we weren't already subjected to Joe Biden. Obviously, Heller is supposed to be the second term of Ronald Reagan without the Jelly Bellys. Luckily, we're spared the red tie and the annoying wife who just says no.
So, in the first two hours, this is all set up. The government guy who wants to break Jack. The inside analyst who wants to believe Jack. And the President's daughter who will undoubtedly see Jack again and fall in both love and unconsciousness. It will all be silly. I won't care. As long as Jack gets to yell "damn it" in each and every episode.
It's great that they populated this new iteration with the familiar faces. Keifer Sutherland looks amazingly fit for somebody who's probably been living in a drain pipe the past four years. Despite hiding from two governments, Jack apparently has managed to keep up his membership with 24 Hour Fitness. Meanwhile, Chloe has gone punk and looks like her fashion and make-up consultant is Ozzy Osbourne. She's also gone rogue but you know she will do everything in her power to help Jack. That's how it always rolls on "24." In its utter unpredictability, it's always predictable.
"24 - Live Another Day" is probably no groundbreaking TV show. With every season/day of the series, you would judge its merits at the end. Indeed, the best days/years were likely Years 1, 4, and 5. Seasons/days 6 and 7 were terrible. Regardless, I watched them. Sometimes shaking my head every five minutes. But I was tuned in nonetheless.
And this new version is also on my DVR. And always will be. You have to know Jack to know Jack. In the first hour, he remarks that he "has no friends."
Oh, yes, you do. Call me. I've got your back.
Dinner last night: Had a big lunch so just a sandwich.
