Classic Newsreel of the Month - April 2010

Here's the news on Britain's first post-war Easter Sunday. The bombing has stopped.

Dinner last night: Spaghetti with broccoli, garlic, and oil at Miceli's.

Arresting Photos

Nothing is more fun than when a celebrity is arrested. And they don't have their staff PR photographer in charge of the pictures that generally follow. Take, for instance, the snapshot above of Hugh Grant. He was looking for Four Weddings and a Blowjob.
Next on CNN: Larry King Jailed. "State prison, hello."

Looking like he didn't have a brain in his head. A harbinger of things to come.
"I have a dream...and I need a lawyer."

Rip Torn. Truly ripped and extremely torn.
Look, it's the Sham Wow guy. Camera Guy, are you getting this? It will be tough for him to clean up this mess.

Three's company, four's a cell block.
"Whacha talkin' about, Bail Bondsman."

Dinner last night: Salami sandwich.

Hot Tub Time Machine

Yes, I did.

See it, I mean.

And, yes, I did.

Enjoy it, I mean. And, no, this is not an April Fool's joke.

All things are possible. Trust me when I say, don't judge a movie by its incredibly stupid title.

When my psuedo nephew, now a full fledged Marine, was visiting over Christmas weekend, we took in "Sherlock Holmes." You may remember that I hated it like rat poison. And, frankly, I rarely do match up with the movie tastes of a 20 year-old male. But he semi-accused me right then and there of not knowing how to enjoy movies anymore. Well, if the movie is geared toward the young and mindless, I probably won't enjoy it. But, if that film manages to still be smart and clever, even I can sit through the most crass of crass.

And, now I have my Exhibit A. "Hot Tub Time Machine."

Two main things enticed me into the theater. First of all, I remember vividly 1986. It was arguably one of the best years of my life, largely due to the New York Mets phenomenal run that season. But, life overall was good. What was not to like about 1986? I wanted to revisit it the way the characters in this movie did. Just without getting wet.

Secondly, there's John Cusack. If he's attached, in my mind, the movie won't suck completely. Unlike assholes like Seth Rogan, Will Ferrell, etc., Cusack doesn't usually make junk. Indeed, one of his very first movies is one of my favorites. The marvelous "Sure Thing." Made when? Back in the 80s.

Okay, if you're looking for something on a par with "Mourning Becomes Electra," this movie might not be your glass of wine cooler. But, if you want to see something stupid but funny and clever and, gasp, thought provoking. you could do much worse than "Hot Tub Time Machine." Actually, you have done a lot worse.

"Knocked Up."

"Forgetting Sarah Marshall."

"The Hangover."

All of which were heralded as fabulous screen comedies. None of which could stand up taller than "Hot Tub." The difference is heart.

Take, for instance, the absolutely dreadful "The Hangover." It's really a similar plot. Four guys stuck someplace and getting into all sorts of mayhem. But, at its core, "The Hangover" was basically a series of ridiculous sightgags strung together with four characters who had no redeeming qualities. I wrote at the time that I had wished all four had crashed and burned on the way to Las Vegas. The movie could be over in eight minutes and my time returned to me unscathed.

Where "Hot Tub Time Machine" is different is in how they present their four guys. Three are middle-aged. And flawed in life. There is something for each of them to learn when they journey back to a similar point in time. Of course, there's the usual time travel plot device of altering history, blah, blah, blah. But, here, even amid all the usual vile antics, there is something for the filmmakers to say. It may not be much. But, it still shouts volumes over any single word uttered in "The Hangover."

Naturally, there's the typical gross-out gags. One of the guys, played as obscenely as possible by Rob Corddry, uses the word "fuck" as a noun, a pronoun, a verb, an adjective, and a particple. And he practically drowns a poor little squirrel with a geyser full of his own vomit. But, the other folks are a bit more "normal" and balance him out beautifully so it's not a complete onslaught of bus station bathroom humor.

Layered in marvelously are terrific "you have to pay attention" references to movies, TV shows, and pop icons of the 80s. Chevy Chase dodders around as a hot tub repairman. Several characters sport names from "The Breakfast Club," "Back to School," and "The Karate Kid." As a matter of fact, William Zabka, the latter's villainous Johnny Lawrence, even shows up for a few minutes as a poker player. The scriptwriters' attention to detail makes the assumption that the audience is smart enough to get all these references. For once, "dumb" is not in.

Most delicious is the running gag involving Crispin Glover as a one-armed hotel bellhop. And, for once, a joke builds up to a hilarious conclusion which has to be seen to be believed.

Have I sold you on "Hot Tub Time Machine" yet?

I know you want to.

Aw, go ahead.

I did.

Dinner last night: Grilled hamsteak.

Wednesday Vs. Wednesday

Only verbal abuse can be charged here.

---The most public divorce trial of Los Angeles Dodgers owners Frank and Jamie McCourt has begun. And it promises to get Lawanda Page-ugly.

---Two idiots who are fighting over how much it takes to live comfortably every month.

---Wife Jamie needs a half million dollars to get by every thirty days.

---It could be less if she clipped some super market coupons.

---His monthly condo rent is $30,000. And I wonder if that gets him two parking spaces.

---Gee, six months of Jamie McCourt support just might have paid for Randy Wolf.

---And if she clipped coupons, that could have been Roy Halladay.

---She is actually using one of their five residences just to swim in the pool.

---I want to get to the point in my life where I can devote a single home just to store kitchen ladles.

---Of course, these two idiots also cheated on each other as well. Jamie apparently was regularly screwing her chauffeur.

---Dodger fans are now getting the same treatment.

---With community property laws, they might have to split up the team.

---That would be one way to separate Joe Torre from Don Mattingly.

---As much as I would normally side with no one on these cases, I know for a fact that Jamie is absolutely demented. Trolling the offices and screaming at anybody and everybody.

---But, I guess when you're used to living on a half million dollar budget per month, there are a lot of daily pressures.

---Note to Frank: if you're looking, Sandra Bullock is available.

---It's heartening to know that she picks husbands the same way she picks scripts.

---Badly.

---Forget the fact that she won an Oscar for "The Blind Side."

---It was a bad script.

---Bullock's marital woes are another great example of a Len rule: The larger the tattoo, the bigger the asshole.

---Now we hear her hubby had affairs with two other women.

---And he received congratulatory e-mails from David Letterman, Tiger Woods, and Elliot Spitzer.

---If Sandra's looking, I see that Ricky Martin is back in the news.

---Oh, never mind.

---If you were surprised that Martin is gay, you're also probably searching Imdb.com to see who Paul Lynde's wife was.

---Buzz Aldrin is a contestant on "Dancing With The Stars?" I wonder if NASA is faking that.

---Jeez, is there no limit to how low some people would sink? If he had lived, Richard Nixon would probably be on there doing the samba right now.

---My plasma TV is specially programmed. If I tune to "Dancing With The Stars" for more than five minutes, it automatically explodes.

---They celebrated that scumbag Nancy Pelosi's 70th birthday last week and she doesn't look a day over 75.

---The more I look at her, the more I think they put her face on hot and it ran.

---She talked about praying to some saint that health care reform would pass.

---Now that's a good Catholic. Have you checked the abortion rights in the bill, Nancy?

---A total hypocrite who should be escorted to Gitmo as soon as possible.

---What does waterboarding do to Botox? Gee, I'd love to find out.

---And the Pope is allegedly involved in some sort of sex scandal?

---If you're surprised by that, you're obviously still trying to figure out who Paul Lynde was married to.

Dinner last night: Filet mignon and salad.

Your Top 10 Finalists on American Idol - Season 9

While the folks at Fox would clearly offer up a rebuttal, American Idol needs to start advertising that it's in their "final seasons." While the patient in Season 9 seems to still be showing a little life, small tumors are popping up all around. Indeed, it might be time to stop the chemo.

Yes, I'm still watching, but I'm a little less engaged this season. There is an element of sameness to it all. The same audition songs. The same strumming of a guitar. The same devices used for elimination in the results show.

And it will get worse.

Simon Cowell's imminent departure from the show could be fatal. He's the only judge who seems to care and actually has something salient to say about all the song performances. Randy Jackson uses the word "dope" so much that I'm shocked the Narcotics division of the Los Angeles Police Department hasn't shown up at a taping. Ellen DeGeneres tries to make her critiques different, but comes off as totally creepy when she refers to a contestant as a ripened banana. Kara DioGuardi dares to be different with her performance reviews but always sounds like that teacher who, on Parent Night at school, uses ten syllable words to explain why your kid sucks at math.

When you add to this absurdity host Ryan Seacrest's new Bob's Big Boy haircut and his overly dramatic pleas of "standard text messaging rates apply," you'll soon realize that this show might be a goner as soon as Simon picks up his bags of dough and moves to his next home of cynicism. Who would have thought that we'd miss Paula Abdul? Well, okay, it's not that bad.

Of course, it doesn't help that this season's talent crop look like Florida oranges that had been out in freezing temperatures for too long. Every summer, millions of kids show up for Idol auditions. And this is the best they found? Right now, there are perhaps two solid contenders amongst the top ten finalists. The rest might as well line up at the Holiday Inn Express lounge for karoake night right now. Sadly, there are no Carrie Underwoods or Kelly Clarksons here. Heck, there's not even the next Taylor Hicks.

But, press on we do with Season Nine. Here's the top ten Idol finalists in the order that I think they will be eliminated. I might miss a slot here or there, but, ultimately, I think the last person standing will be the best of a sorry, sorry lot.

10. Andrew Garcia: This Mexican guy from Los Angeles had a standout moment during Hollywood Week by singing one of Paula Abdul's big hits. And, just like the former Idol judge, it's been all downhill ever since. His prospects have been careening out of control as if he was originally manufactured by Toyota. Somehow and someway, he inexplicably made it into the top 10. Apparently, a lot of gardeners have speed dial on their cell phones.

9. Lee DeWyze: The judges have fawned over this guy and I don't hear it. His voice is raspy and his delivery is the equivalent of two Ambien pills. Everything he sings sounds like one of those songs that Barney would sing to lull a two-year-old to sleep. He was a paint store clerk from Chicago. I think he will be back there in time to see Benjamin Moore's new line of spring pastels.

8. Katie Stevens: She's sixteen, she's beautiful, and she's lost. It's tough to choose songs that are age appropriate. Most high school juniors are not inclined to warble "Ten Cents a Dance." She's a cute kid in a Jon Benet Ramsey sort-of way. They have made great mention in her back story to include the fact that Katie's grandmother came down with Alzheimer's during the first auditions. At this point, she might even think Katie is really Gogi Grant.

7. Didi Benami: No relation to the kitchen cleanser. She's pretty but her voice screechs like a ten car pile-up on the 405 Freeway. She's got pretty far by swaying and slinking around the stage, which probably would get higher on the rung if the show was called "American Harlot."

6. Tim Urban: Every Idol season, there is one non-singer who hangs around longer than a sinus infection. This time around, it's good looking but talentless Tim, who seems to be channeling Peter Brady with every performance. He's getting pretty far on the votes of hormone-ravaged fifteen year-old girls and even more hormone-ravaged twenty-five-year old gay boys. Tim has been helped by photos of him in a bathing suit competition last summer. He doesn't know how they got out there. Maybe it's because you attached them to a global e-mail??

5. Aaron Kelly: He's sixteen, he's beautiful, and he's short. Seacrest must love having this dwarf around. Actually, I've so far enjoyed this kid's voice and he's done an appropriate job selecting songs. He's getting the thirteen-year-old and seventy-five-year-old voting blocks. Grandma probably just loves to hug him. Part of Aaron's back story is that he's adopted. This means that, as soon as he gets the inevitable record deal, the birth parents will pop out of nowhere with their palms outstretched.

4. Casey James: Every Idol season, there is one would-be rocker who grabs the heavy metal vote. He'll go as far as his electric guitar and washboard abs will take him. Casey is remembered for doffing his shirt during his first audition and causing judge Kara to lick her cougar-like chops as if she was at a Memorial Day barbecue. Any of the Idol producers up on California state labor laws? They probably are now with a yellow highlight all the way through the section on "sexual harassment."

3. Michael Lynche: As if we needed another Ruben Studdard, who I swear I have seen scalping tickets at the bottom of the hill to Dodger Stadium. Mike is big and burly and Black. But, his songs reflect his sweet side. The major focus of his back story was that his wife gave birth while he was in the middle of his Hollywood auditions. A baby arrival that got almost as much attention as the birth of Little Ricky. As if he's the only Black guy who ever got somebody pregnant? Well, he might be the only one who ever got somebody pregnant and was actually married to her at the time.

2. Crystal Bowersox: Sounds like one of those baseball teams from the mid 1890s. This year's resident hippie. Actually, she's more like one of those beatniks you'd find hanging around with Maynard G. Krebs on the old Dobie Gillis show. She's that weird, but with one of the two true talents this season. Her downfall will be that she has the personality of a staple gun. Would it kill her to be a little perkier? I'm thinking, yes. She's the early frontrunner to win, but, at the very end, I think she will be bested by...

1. Siobhan Magnus: She's goofy as all hell, but what girl have I liked that wasn't. Her voice is amazing and she so far has shown great originality, although she should seriously consider toning down the Ethel Merman moment she uses to punctuate the end of every song. Her back story is that she's a professional glass blower. And what more could a guy ask for? I think America will eventually fall in love with her over the flatlined personality traits exhibited by Joan Baez-wannabe Crystal. Siobhan will be the next and perhaps penultimate American Idol.

Dinner last night: Ravioli with broccoli.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - March 29, 2010

The problem with wearing white pants...

Dinner last night: Liverwurst sandwich and cucumber salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Leaving My Childhood Church

Here is a great black and white photo of my childhood church, St. Peter's Lutheran Church in the Bronx. The Lenten litany continues.

So, after I got confirmed, it was really more than just my hormones (and my feelings for my fellow Sunday School classmate) that propelled me to start going to Sunday church services. Once you had received and swallowed begrudgingly the wine and wafer, you were techinically allowed to worship like an adult. You could even skip Sunday School and show up at 10AM for the regular service. This gave me one more hour to sleep. And, in those days, there was nothing wrong with a fourteen-year-old making the bus trip from Mount Vernon to East 219th Street all by himself. This all got my dad off the hook. He no longer had to sit in the car outside of church for an hour. He could actually now stay home and read "Dondi" and "Dick Tracy" over coffee and a jelly donut.

So, around 9AM every Sunday, I walked myself down four blocks to get the BX41 bus. Back in those days, it was imperative that you "dress up" for church. I had my own personal wardrobe mistress, AKA my mother, who required nothing less. I was groomed to the nines. Standing at the 241st Street bus stop in a navy blue double breasted sport jacket and matching tie, I looked like that week's co-host on "The Mike Douglas Show." Or maybe I was opening for Joey Bishop at the Sands Hotel. I certainly didn't look 14.

Of course, once at church, I spent my first moments trying to maneuver myself into proximity to the love of my life. But, as I related last week, her presence in an adjacent pew was destined to be shortlived as her family moved to New Jersey. I looked around the chapel and asked a question for the ages.

"Now what?"

To think that I might have to go to church service and actually pay attention?

Luckily, I had, for lack of a better term, a savior. A guardian angel. My father's cousin, who we all called Aunt Ollie.

While my parents and all my aunts and uncles had long since eschewed Sunday church services and chose instead to sleep in, Aunt Ollie was the only one in their generation who kept at her worship. She was there at St. Peter's every single week. Something still drew her in. And, when Cupid cast me adrift, Aunt Ollie pulled me in.

"Come sit with me."

Wow, I was an adult.

Even better, I began to listen to the service. The readings. The sermon in broken English by our German Pastor Hoeniger. And it started to all make sense.

To enhance the experience even more, Aunt Ollie treated me like an adult. A young one, but an adult nevertheless. She always drove me home afterwards and, frequently, our in-car chat had something to do with what we had heard in church minutes before. Aunt Ollie truly enjoyed her religion and her beliefs. And, thanks to her, I began to finally form my own faith. For all of the above reasons, those two hours every Sunday became the highlight of my week. An odd thing for a teenager to admit. Oh, sure, I was doing all the nonsense stuff. But, at least for a little while every weekend, I was grounded. In a very good way.

Sadly, it didn't last forever. I began college. And Pastor Hoeniger, the only minister I had ever known, decided to retire.

There was the usual congregational call for a pastor. There needed to be some pre-requisites. The new guy had to speak German, as there was still, albeit dwindling, a German-based congregation and a weekly service in that language. After several months, we finally got the word. Our new pastor would be Pas

tor Bill Paulsen. Good Lutherans that we were, Aunt Ollie and I eagerly awaited his installation ceremony which was held on a Sunday night. We thought nothing of making an extra church appearance that week.

Except I got a bad vibe as soon as I met the dude. He was barely 30 years old and his hairline had already retreated to the rear. Although it was years before I would make this connection, Pastor Paulsen was a carbon copy of Kelsey Grammer. There was just something that always seemed to be a little off with him. One of his initial Sundays there, he set off his very first stink bomb.

He introduced the concept of "sharing the peace."

It's certainly commonplace in church services now. But, back then, it was scandalous.

"You want me to shake hands with the people next to me?"

The question reverberated over and over throughout the congregation. Obviously, thick-skinned Germans liked their personal space. And felt even more strongly about violating somebody else's. It took weeks for the folks around me to get the hang of this.

Clearly, Pastor Paulsen was looking to change the dynamic of our little church. And he next set his spiritual crosshairs on somebody else.

Me.

Obviously, the right reverend had looked around our church and realized that this was a congregation that was dying. Literally. The average age of our parishioner was probably around eighty. And Paulsen knew that he had to expand the youth ministry of our place.

Enter me.

The Pastor was relentless in trying to involve me in church activities. Brainstorming on events. Stuffing and licking envelopes at his house. For me, it was all starting to feel forced. And, unfortunately but conveniently, I was now a freshman at Fordham University. Doing all the things that college freshmen do. Many of them involved late hours on a Saturday night.

Pastor Paulsen didn't stand a chance.

And, after Aunt Ollie and her family moved upstate, there was no reason for me to show up at St. Peter's. Ever again.

My church going, save for a wedding or a funeral, would be nil for years.

Until I moved to Los Angeles...

The story concludes fittingly on Easter Sunday.

Dinner last night: Turkey reuben at Blue Plate in Santa Monica.