Tomorrow's Blue Plate Special

This is Bindi Irwin, the daughter of the late Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin and she's all over the press right now as her own Animal Planet show starts. She is essentially following in the hoof prints of her lunatic father, who pushed the jungle envelope one too many times and got what he was asking for. You cannot fool with nature forever. Let's face the facts. They are called WILD animals for a reason. We will never completely be on the same turf with them. Sooner or later, we piss them off and the fangs come out.

So, now they throw this poor 10 year-old into the mix to keep milking her dumbbell dad's cash cow. It's not like she's being deprived of a childhood as the kid has always been home-schooled, which means she will be better able to converse with a baboon than with the kid next door. But, at the same time, give the girl a break. Let her skip, jump rope, and have a Facebook like all the other youngsters her age. She may think she wants this type of life style now. But, who's saying she won't have a major breakdown 10 years from now and hold the lion cage at some Australian zoo hostage?

Who's to blame here? Well, first point your paw at her idiot mother, Terri, who's allowing her daughter to be exploited in this manner. And how creepy must it be for the kid to watch this footage which features a liberal smattering of Dopey Dad's mug throughout the show? The producers are no better. What a heartless way to keep a franchise alive? By destroying somebody's childhood.

And, of course, there will be plenty of handwringing down the line when the inevitable day arrives that finds poor Bindi being served as the hummus on some alligator's pita bread. Everybody will talk about how tragic the loss is. Mom will show up on Larry King the day of the funeral and talk about Bindi's courage and how she will pledge to carry on her work.

The time to be courageous is now. Let the child be a child. Bindi should be learning how to paint her toenails and not how to milk a rattlesnake.

Dinner last night: Dried Cappocollo sandwich.

Wet and Wild Wednesday

Like the weather these days, I can be cold and brutal, too.

---These are members of the Polar Bear Club, those morons who trudge out to Coney Island every New Year's Day to swim in the icy cold Atlantic. There's a similar bunch in Los Angeles who dump themselves into the Pacific down near Huntington Beach.

---Moments like these remind me that all the stupid people aren't just in the Midwest.

---You get the news cameras at these events, but you never see footage of them checking into a hospital on January 2nd with hypothermia.

---So, the actors' refusal to cross the picket lines finally got NBC to cancel the Golden Globes Ceremony.

---No truth to the rumor that they were going to simply downscale the dinner and hold it at a Cheesecake Factory.

---In lieu of a red carpet, they were going to use an area rug from Levitz's.

---Now, we'll never know who was going to be this year's Miss Golden Globes.

---Insert your own favorite breast joke here.

---The Writer's Guild has signed an independent agreement with Tom Cruise's production company.

---So, you mean that the Scientologists get it?

---When did we start paying so much attention to what people who live in Iowa think? The state is nothing but a bunch of home-schooled farmers. And you know what home-schooled kids become?

---Snipers in the high school library.

---The only intelligent thing to come out of that state was Meredith Willson, who wrote "The Music Man." And, if you think about it, he didn't even bother to write a song about Ames, Iowa. It was Gary, Indiana.

---Gary, Indiana. Gary, Indiana. A town that knew me well.

---I wonder if they had to coordinate their voting with the arrival of the Wells Fargo Wagon.

---I thought I was being so clever when I started using the phrase "Obama Bin Laden." Until I heard somebody on NBC use it.

---I need to copyright this blog.

---I watch Obama parade around and I can swear that I saw that wardrobe once before.

---On Johnnie Cochran.

---Hillary Clinton said that Obama is "no Martin Luther King."

---And, in my opinion, she's no Sally Struthers.

---Gee, even the name "Huckabee" sounds like it belongs out in Bumpkinville, Iowa. Sort of like the local department store.

---"Shucks, I need a new pair of Sweet Orrs and some tube socks. I'm going down to Huckabee's."

---Here, in civilization, we got six inches of rain in Los Angeles over the weekend. It was so wet that...

---Sorry, I can't finish that joke. Strike. Call Jay Leno.

---Leave it to Dr. Phil, that glorified gym teacher that Oprah discovered, to jump on the Britney Spears train wreck.

---He's about as much of a doctor as Oprah is a white heterosexual.

---Dr. Phil is such a fraud that...

---Oops, sorry again. Strike. Call Jimmy Kimmel.

---With the networks now running out of new scripted fare, I am turning more and more to movies rented via Netflix, which has now officially become a verb. Did you Netflix last night?

---Or the French variation. Je netflix, tu netflix, il/elle netflix, nous netflixons, vous netflixez, ils/elles netflixent.

---The only thing I remember from high school. That and how to hold my bladder all day so you wouldn't get beat up by the black kids in the bathroom.

---My high school was so tough that...

---STRIKE!! Call Ellen Degeneres.

Dinner last night: Sandwich and salad.

...Pants on Fire

Watching Roger Clemens get the George Foreman Grill treatment on "60 Minutes" Sunday night was sort of like watching an old episode of "Leave It to Beaver." The one where Beaver accidentally releases the emergency brake on the family car and it rolls down the driveway out into the street.

"How did the car get there, Beaver."

"Gee, Dad, I don't know. I didn't do it."

"The car didn't roll down the driveway by itself."

"Gee, Dad, maybe it did. Cars are kind of cool."

The plot from the show is real, but I don't think that's the exact dialogue. Because even Beaver, in his limited life experience as an 11 year-old, would have come forward with the truth a lot quicker than this pile of Texas dung.

If you look at body language, Clemens looked to be a goner from the first question raised by the increasingly crypt-keeper-like Mike Wallace. Fat Roger really was the teenager who got busted denting Dad's Lexus. Several basic rules gleaned from watching "Perry Mason" reruns. The louder the denial, the more guilty you are. The more insulted you are, the more guilty you are. The more you try to change the subject, the more guilty you are. Sunday night, as far as I am concerned, Roger got grounded with no allowance.

If he truly is that innocent and that insulted, Clemens should have been out with this interview on December 14, the day after the Mitchell Report named him for taking performance-enhancing steroids. Even coming from the Midwest, it wouldn't have taken him that long to read the highlights of the investigation. Maybe he could have had his knucklehead wife or one of his peckerwood kids read it to him. A similar vehement denial and tirade the day after certainly wouldn't have cleared him. But, if he is indeed innocent, he would have been speaking out immediately. Of course, the Clemens brand of excellence needs to be protected, so legal counsel was mandatory. Four weeks later, we now find out just how pissed he is.

Roger talks about how, after 25 years of being a solid citizen, he should merit more support. Yeah, this is the choirboy who has gone after more heads than Cochise. He's the guy who so embodies the team element of baseball that he now specifically requests to be present only on days he pitches. And, forget about bonding with the guy on road trips. He won't travel with the team. While the pitching talent can't be disputed, you also can't deny the fact that Clemens is a class A jerk. I really wish I was watching last night's interview on Mike Piazza's flat screen.

The indignation Roger shows toward former trainer Brian McNamee is ridiculous. Let me tell all my friends right now. If I ever get called by a federal investigator to answer questions about any of you, I will do so. And I will tell the truth. So, what kind of position was this McNamee guy in but to do just that? And I believe everything he said because it's all extensive and date-specific. If Roger wanted to refute the statements, he should have been equally as extensive and date-specific. "Brian couldn't have injected me on the afternoon of June 13, because I was sitting in the doctor's office with my wife, awaiting the results of her latest pap smear. Oh, and here are the medical records to prove it." Instead, Clemens shakes his head, moves his mouth, and says nothing. I would not be surprised to discover that his attorney is Edgar Bergen. He presents the former trainer as somebody who might have an axe to grind. How come Roger was working out with the guy just three days before the Mitchell Report came out?

Roger says that, if he was on these drugs, he "should have a third ear coming out of my forehead and I should be pulling tractors with my teeth." Is that to imply that he has not experienced any noteworthy physical change? You look at his photos over the past ten years. His head-to-torso proportion is approaching that of Squarepants Bob. And Roger throws Lot's wife on the open wound by also expressing shock that Yankee Andy Pettitte took injections. It's impossible that this is new information to him. After all, Pettitte, who is the Major League Baseball equivalent of an organ grinder's monkey, checks with Roger on when he should take his next bowel movement.

Indeed, even in his most orchestrated responses to Mike Wallace's questions, Roger might have shot himself in the foot, no pun intended. When he told his story about being injured and arguing with then Yankee Manager Joe Torre to let him pitch a World Series game, he said he ended up taking a painkiller to allow him to do so. So, here's the ideal snapshot for my wallet. A guy who will do almost anything to be out there. Not so much for the team. For Roger Clemens. And the exemplary role model that his marketers have created.

Maybe Roger is telling the truth. After all, we took him for his word the first time he retired. And the second time he retired. And the third time he retired. And he wasn't aiming the bat at Piazza. And he wasn't throwing at somebody's head. To me, when Roger Clemens says nothing happened, I want to look up in an almanac the exact date and time that something did happen. He reminded me very much of this classic clip of the wonderful Martin Short as sleazy lawyer Nathan Thurm.

Yesterday, the verbal toilet backed up some more. Clemens held a press conference which was co-hosted by some scumbag Texas lawyer named Rusty Hardin, who is guilty of wearing a bathmat for a hairpiece. Hardin's role was to back up Roger's denials and also play Ed McMahon during the pitcher's comment. Hi-oh! They played tape of a recent phone conversation between Clemens and McNamee, who had asked Roger to call because his son is on death's door. So, the Hall-of-Shame hurler seizes the opportunity to tape the whole call without McNamee's knowledge, probably hoping that the trainer might say something that would incriminate him. It never happened and all we heard was an ultra-boring very scripted dialogue that never once included the words "performance enhancing steroids." Clemen's comments were so rehearsed that, not only is Roger guilty of injecting this stuff, he also might have violated the Writer's Guild strike rules as well.

In this colony of rodents, I smell another rat. Clemens says that he is filing a defamation lawsuit against McNamee, the Mitchell Report, and probably anybody else he can find in the AOL Member directory. Well, when you have a lawsuit pending, wouldn't that preclude him from testifying in Congress? Isn't that exactly what the San Francisco Giant science project did to buy some time? But, heck, what do I know? I haven't liked the guy since he was smirking in the Red Sox dugout the night of Game 6 in the 1986 World Series.

That didn't turn out so well either, did it, Roger?

Does anybody know when they will be scheduling the victory parade for the World Champion 2000 New York Mets?

You got an opinion on this? Well, look at my new feature on the right of this page.

Dinner last night: lasagna.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - January 7, 2008

As submitted by the Bibster. Obviously, this Japanese game show could be titled "Who Wants to Be a Gelding?"

Dinner last night: BLT on a rainy night at Cafe 50's Diner, where Adam Sandler showed up while we were there.

My Top 25 Favorite Films: #13!!

Back in the 60s, when movie theaters had actual marquees with lettering that needed to be adjusted every week when the picture changed, I often wondered how they handled this movie. Nobody had that many Ms available. I imagine it would be advertised as "Mad X 4 World." Or maybe "MMMM World." The movie would be challenging to theater owners before it even had its first 3 hour plus daily showing.

I remember seeing this a couple of times when I was a kid. I went first with my cousin Bobby and we saw it in some rinky dink theater in Deer Park, Long Island. My plasma screen is bigger. That wass absolutely the wrong way to see "Mad 4 World" which needs to be seen in the most sprawling way possible. And, by the way, that would be the way I would list it if I was doing marquees today.

Sure, this movie is bloated. In its original (and better) length, it comes in at 3 hours plus. Indeed, director Stanley Kramer's first cut of the film was over five hours long. But, "Mad 4 World" has presented me with a very curious phenomenon ever since I saw it in theaters when I was a kid. Whenever I run into it on television, regardless of where they are in the plot, I am instantly hooked. And, I find it impossible to turn it off. Because I wait for the next funny line I know is coming. And then I anticipate the next classic bit of business. And this keeps going and going. It is the cinematic equivalent of potato chips. I may have seen the movie about 10 or 12 complete times. But, I probably have watched some portions of this film about 50 or 60 times.

The comedy is pure slapstick, and Kramer employed virtually every comic actor that was working in Hollywood in 1963. Beyond the 100 or so folks that are billed, there are countless cameos that pop up, from Jerry Lewis to Jack Benny. Back when, if you dabbled in film comedy and didn't get a part in this picture, it was time to fire your agent.

The plot is well known. A bunch of lunatics are on a treasure hunt all over Southern California. Somehow, in the middle of this all, Spencer Tracy leads the charge. At the time, he barely could walk. And you certainly can tell when the stunt double for Tracy steps in. But, who cares? For all the sterling screen work this guy did, I remember him more for "Mad 4 World," especially in those scenes where he is conversing on the phone with his unseen wife, voiced by the nasally Selma Diamond.

Because this movie blends people together so well, there are quite a few actors who I generally hated but loved in this movie only. Milton Berle. Ethel Merman. Dick Shawn. I had no use for them at any other time in their careers. In this movie, I can't do without them. And, then there's young Jonathan Winters, who was just bursting onto the landscape at the time. In this huge cast of over-the-top stars, he steals the movie every time the story meanders back to him. For me, the most classic example is this scene, where he singlehandedly demolishes a gas station run by those two perennial nebbishes, Arnold Stang and Marvin Kaplan.

"Mad 4 World" was the movie that opened the legendary Cinerama Dome in Hollywood, and I wish I had seen it there in its original pristine glory. I used to work with an older guy who attended the movie's NYC opening. He mentioned to me that it was truly a major event. Indeed, during the intermission, you heard police bulletins piped in over the theater loud speakers, updating the audience on the progress of the film's characters. A few years ago, the Dome brought it all back for a few nights, and tried to re-enact the movie's premiere. It was terrific, but I still wish I had been there in November, 1963.

Keep in mind that there are two versions of this movie. After its first run, the movie was cut by about 30 minutes to accommodate more showings in your neighborhood theaters. That is not the version to see. Indeed, about ten years ago, they restored "Mad 4 World" to its original length, although you can certainly tell which shots were added back as their quality pales in comparison. Nevertheless, it is an ideal way to get lost in laughter for 3 hours.

I have. Many, many, many, many times.

Dinner last night: Sausage pizza at CPK.

Bedtime Stories with a Twist

An actor friend of mine found these. Not for the faint of heart.

Dinner last night: leftover ham and potatoes.

97 Wasted Life Minutes

What would a post-holiday week be like without some leftovers? And this is one from me for the period between Christmas and New Year's.

The more avid readers of this blog have watched me relate these experiences before. I head out to a shopping mall for one thing and I wander aimlessly into a movie. Usually, I get lucky. I have seen some damn good documentaries in this haphazard mode.

So, last week, I venture out to exchange a Christmas gift DVD which, ironically, the same person had given me last year. I pass the adjacent movie complex and "Charlie Wilson's War" was about ready to start. Okay, the film got mixed reviews. I had seen the trailer, which made the movie look like a coma brought on by repeated head trauma. But, it did have Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts, Philip Seymour Hoffman, director Mike Nichols, and screenwriter Aaron Sorkin? How could such a talented quintet go far off course?

Apparently quite easily.

To say "Charlie Wilson's War" is the worst movie of 2007 is an understatement. It is clearly the worst movie this decade. If it had come out closer to 2000, we could have blamed it all on Y2K. What makes this even more flagrant is the amount of reputed talent wasted on and behind the screen.

The first problem is the subject matter. It is allegedly a true story and I am wondering how many libel suits will result. There is this congressman named Charlie Wilson in the early 80s and there is arms selling during the Reagan administration. Blah, blah, blah. It is all incredibly such old news that I am sure Huntley and Brinkley first reported it. Few people cared then. Nobody cares now. I am thinking that this script was probably done ages ago, long before Sorkin did "The West Wing" and "A Few Good Men." I wouldn't be surprised if he put it all together in between cocaine snorts at his college fraternity. Indeed, the usually overwritten Sorkin screenplay is, here, totally underbaked. It has all the nutritional substance of under cooked chicken at the local mission.

Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts have never been worse. They attempt these Southern accents and that section of the country was much better portrayed by Marjorie Main and Percy Kilbride in "Ma and Pa Kettle Go to Town." Hanks is incredibly bloated and is nothing short than harpoonable. Julia dusts off her old Southern accent and singlehandedly transforms this movie into "Steel Magnolias Go to Pakistan." The two of them have about as much chemistry together as Adolf Hitler and Daisy Duck. Only Philip Seymour Hoffman comes out barely unscathed. He probably appeased himself by going into his trailer between takes to fondle his Oscar.

I should have known better than to trust Mike Nichols, who is as overrated a film director as James Burrows is for the small screen. If you look at his IMDB credits, you will see a long illustrious career that includes some isolated gems---and a whole lot of crap. I sense that he's in it now for the paycheck. He probably stands next to the camera and just lets the actors run amuck, until he gets to announce a break for lunch. He gets no pass for this. If he's such a creative genius, he should have thrown this script into his new Office Depot paper shredder as soon as he got it. Maybe Diane Sawyer wanted a bathroom remodeled.

For all the purported realism and accuracy, there was one big blooper in the first five minutes that is inexcusable. The title card puts the action in the year 1980. One character is pitching their idea for a TV series. "It's Falcon Crest set in Washington, DC." Ha, ha, wink, wink.

When I got home, I checked my reference book. Falcon Crest didn't premiere until December 4, 1981. How sloppy can you get?

In this movie, apparently very. The newspaper ads and the radio commercials make "Charlie Wilson's War" seem like it is this miraculous cinematic experience. Frankly, it's nothing more than a caviar label on a can of Little Friskies.

Dinner last night: Turkey pastrami reuben sandwich at the Cheesecake Factory.