Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - July 2014

Here's why I wasn't allowed to watch the second feature at the Elmsford Drive-In.

Dinner last night:  Sausage and peppers at Modern Restaurant in New Rochelle.

July Has 31 Awkward Days

Grandpa dressed as Howard Stern last Halloween.

Fashion note: Men don't look good in Daisy Dukes.

 A welcome mat for pedophiles.

This woman really needs to pay close attention to the walls of her husband's home office.

Proof that six heads are not better than....well, you know the rest.

How Green Was My Allie.

Tube socks on sale at Walmart?

Not even ten years old and the thighs are already chunky.

Okay, who's adopted in this picture?  More than one selection is allowed.

"Grandma, your finger tastes funny."

 What a bunch of boobs.

If you've ever taken a naked photo with your family, please remove me from your Christmas card list.

Dinner last night:  Steak dinner at the home of good friends Roby and Bruce.

Yay! I Finished Another Book - "Gil Hodges" by Tom Clavin and Danny Peary

You all know how it works.  When I fly, I read.   And, when I fly during the summer time, I usually read books about baseball.  That's one of the little traits left over from my youth when I would curl up next to the kitchen fan hot summer night after hot summer night with some baseball biography.

For me, Gil Hodges will always be a hero.   He's largely responsible for my first complete validation as a young baseball fan.  He led my New York Mets out of No Man's Land to win the World Series and I finally had something to be proud of.  It was a seminal moment in my life. 

Of course, as I remember Hodges, he had some very similar traits to my own father.  Gil apparently was very quiet and stoic throughout his life.   He didn't get angry often, but, when he did, watch out.

Yeah, that was my dad, too. 

There was a very famous moment during the Mets' 1969 pennant run that I got to witness first hand.  A couple of friends of mine and I had hopped on the subway for a rare Wednesday afternoon double-header.  The first game was ugly.  I think the Houston Astros scored 11 runs in the ninth inning.  There were two grand slams in the same inning.  It was sheer torture because the Mets were starting to sink in the standings.

The second game was almost as worse.  I think the Astros got seven runs in the third inning and leftfielder Cleon Jones had nonchalantly tracked down a ball hit to the outfield.   Suddenly, out of the dugout, Gil Hodges walked in his famous pigeon-toed style to the mound.  Except he didn't stop there to get the pitcher.  He kept walking.  All the way out to left field.  He stopped there for a moment, said a few words to Cleon, and then turned back to the dugout.  Jones, head hanging low, followed a few steps behind. 

Now, one of the dimwits I was with had the answer why Cleon Jones was leaving the game.  He was supposed to go tape the Tonight Show, which was then done in Rockefeller Center.  Like an idiot, I tuned into that night at 1130PM.  Where the hell was Cleon?  By the morning, I realized this was for disciplinary purposes when all the morning papers had the story about how Gil Hodges was putting his foot down about the Mets' sloppy play.  Many say this is the day when the Mets pulled together for the stretch run.

That moment is naturally detailed in this biography by Tom Clavin and Danny Peary.  But, it's just one singular event in a baseball career and life that was utterly exemplary and outstanding.  Gil Hodges was a man so beloved by the Brooklyn Dodger fan base that, when he was in a prolonged batting slump, his parish pastor advised all the church goers to go home and pray for Gil Hodges. 

Hodges really didn't make a lot of waves during his life.  A good baseball icon.  I true family man.   A devout Catholic.  His only real vice was three packs of cigarettes a day.  That would ultimately kill him at the age of 48 while beginning his fifth year at Met manager.  Oddly enough, I was working at my college radio station at the time and actually went to the funeral to cover the ceremony.  I was surrounded by baseball legends from both the Mets and the Dodgers.  I was standing next to Jackie Robinson for a few seconds.  He, too, would die suddenly six months later.

There's nothing juicy or gossipy in this book.  Clavin and Peary simply relate the life and you need nothing else to hold your interest.  At the end, the authors lay out a case for an ugly oversight in the baseball world.  Gil Hodges has still not been elected to the Hall of Fame.  Allegedly, there are people campaigning for this every year, from Hodges' widow to announcer Vin Scully.  Hopefully, it will happen while Mrs. Hodges is around to see it. 

This is a solid baseball biography and ideal reading for me.

Of course, it is.  It's summer.

Dinner last night:  Cavatelli with olive oil, garlic, and broccoli at Angelina in Tuckahoe.

This Date in History - July 16

Happy birthday to Bess Myerson.   Since she turns 90 today, I doubt this is a current photo.

622:  THE BEGINNING OF THE ISLAMIC CALENDAR.

Pick one up at your friendly neighborhood Islamic dry cleaner.

1661:  THE FIRST BANKNOTES IN EUROPE ARE ISSUED BY THE SWEDISH BANK STOCKHOLMS BANCO.

With a free toaster to the first 50 customers.

1769;  FATHER JUNIPERO SERRA FOUNDS CALIFORNIA'S FIRST MISSION, WHICH WILL LATER BECOME THE CITY OF SAN DIEGO.

Hence, the Padres.

1782:  FIRST PERFORMANCE OF WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART'S OPERA "DIE ENTFUHRUNG AUS DEM SERAIL."

Try going up to the box office and asking for tickets to that.

1790:  THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA IS ESTABLISHED AS THE CAPITAL OF THE UNITED STATES.

Let the graft begin.

1849:  ANTONIO MARIA CLARET Y CLARA FOUNDED THE CONGREGATION OF THE MISSIONARY SONS OF THE IMMACULATE HEART OF MARY IN BARCELONA, SPAIN.

Sons?   It sounds like a convent to me.

1861:  AT THE ORDER OF PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN, UNION TROOPS BEGIN A 25 MILE MARCH INTO VIRGINIA FOR WHAT WILL BECOME THE FIRST BATTLE OF BULL RUN DURING THE CIVIL WAR.

Virginia in July can be hot and muggy.

1882:  MARY TODD LINCOLN DIES.

She was supposedly a bit of a nut.

1907:  ACTRESS BARBARA STANWYCK IS BORN.

So sexy on screen.  It's amazing she was a lesbian.

1907:  BUSINESSMAN ORVILLE REDENBACHER IS BORN.

Pop.

1909:  MOHAMMAD ALI SHAH QAJAR IS FORCED OUT AS SHAH OF PERSIA AND IS REPLACED BY HIS SON AHMAD SHAH QAJAR.

Was it something he said?

1911:  ACTRESS GINGER ROGERS IS BORN.

Let's face the music and dance.

1924:  TV PERSONALITY BESS MYERSON IS BORN.

How did that romance with Ed Koch work out for you?

1925:  SURGEON FRANK JOBE IS BORN.

One-half of Kerlan-Jobe.  Tommy John sends his thanks.

1931:  EMPEROR HAILE SELASSIE I SIGNS THE FIRST CONSTITUTION OF ETHIOPIA.

Does Haile Selassie II sign the second?

1935:  THE WORLD'S FIRST PARKING METER IS INSTALLED IN OKLAHOMA CITY.

Crap, I thought I had a quarter.

1941:  JOE DIMAGGIO HITS SAFELY FOR THE 56TH CONSECUTIVE GAME, A STREAK THAT STILL STANDS AS A MLB RECORD.

A record that will stand forever.

1945:  THE MANHATTAN PROJECT - THE ATOMIC AGE BEGINS WHEN THE UNITED STATES SUCCESSFULY DETONATES A NUCLEAR WEAPON NEAR NEW MEXICO.

Watch out, Japan.  It's coming.

1951:  "THE CATCHER IN THE RYE" BY JD SALINGER IS PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Book report due by Monday.

1956:  RINGLING BROS. AND BARNUM AND BAILEY CIRCUS CLOSES ITS VERY LAST "BIG TENT" IN PITTSBURGH.

Ever since they're held in arenas.   And the elephants do their business on city streets outside.

1969:  APOLLO 11, THE FIRST MISSION TO LAND ASTRONAUTS ON THE MOON, IS LAUNCHED.

And Neil Armstrong starts thinking about what to say.

1973:  WATERGATE SCANDAL - FORMER WHITE HOUSE AIDE ALEXANDER BUTTERFIELD INFORMS THE US SENATE THAT PRESIDENT RICHARD NIXON HAD SECRETLY RECORDED CONVERSATIONS.

What tape recorder?

1979:  IRAQI PRESIDENT AHMED HASSAN AL-BAKR RESIGNS AND IS REPLACED BY SADDAM HUSSEIN.

Uh oh.

1981:  SONGWRITER HARRY CHAPIN DIES IN AN AUTO ACCIDENT ON LONG ISLAND.

Should have taken the taxi.

1999:  JOHN F. KENNEDY JR, PILOTING A SMALL PLANE, CRASHES IN THE OCEAN NEAR MARTHA'S VINEYARD.  THE CRASH ALSO KILLS HIS WIFE AND SISTER-IN-LAW.

He barely passed the bar.  What makes anybody think he could fly a plane?

2008:  SINGER JO STAFFORD DIES.

Her stuff was played on the record player over and over and over when I was a kid.

2012:  DIRECTOR WILLIAM ASHER DIES.

He directed "I Love Lucy" and was married to Elizabeth Montgomery, so I guess life was good.

Dinner last night:  Antipasto and sandwich buffet on a party boat in the middle of the Long Island Sound.   First time for that.

Not Sure Where My Thumb Goes

If you're one of the smart folks who comes to this blog site every day, you will notice that I now write movie reviews for pretty much every film I see in theaters.  Part of the reason for this is to fill this blog with new content every day.  There are only so many pieces I can write about my grandmother or how America is flushing itself down the toilet.

But, another reason behind my film reviews is a tip of the cap to those legendary mainstream movie critics Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert, who made the whole process palatable for the average fan.  I was a huge fan of their old PBS show in the late 70s.  It helped me pick what I would go to see that Saturday night.   And I never wavered from using them right through the 80s and the 90s.

Truth be told, I was always a Gene Siskel guy.   He seemed to have a more practical viewpoint of what passed for good movie entertainment.   He was agenda-free.  Meanwhile, Roger was a bit of a cinema snob.   He always favored movies made in Chicago.   And found everything made by Black filmmakers to be epic.   According Ebert, it wasn't Jesus Christ born in a manger, but Spike Lee.   Of course, you might understand the bias.   Roger was married to an ultra-liberal African American.   I figure he would like those urban movies basically to keep the peace at home.

The relationship between Siskel and Ebert was prickly at best and fascinating to watch.  I always got the impression that these guys really didn't like each other and, as I learned in the new documentary "Life Itself" by Steve James, they didn't.  They were oil and water and, as Gene's widow states, "Roger was always full of himself."  

Unlike the strong opinions held by Gene and Roger, I really don't know what to think about this documentary, which is mainly a tribute to Ebert who died just a year ago.  When the story focuses on his youth, it was quite interesting.   He was a hard-nosed Chicago journalist and most definitely an alcoholic.  From tales told by his friends, he was a genius and a pompous boob all wrapped up in one tweed sports jacket.

When "Life Itself" gets to the section on Siskel and Ebert's partnership, I was riveted.   The stories about their work together on TV are hilarious.   They were constantly competing with one another.  There is a series of outtakes from their filming show promos.  Roger is correcting Gene's English.  Gene is taking shots at Roger.   The words "you asshole" are thrown around liberally.   I was a fan.

But, if only that's all "Life Itself" was about.   But, sadly, it's not.

Indeed, the movie itself was started by Roger and his wife, Chaz, with an assist from....of all people....Marty Scorsese.  And the decision was made to juxtapose all his latest illnesses with the history of his career.   You follow Roger from hospital to hospital, therapy session to therapy session, bad diagnosis to bad diagnosis.

If you saw Roger in his later years, you know this is painful to watch.   The bottom part of his mouth is gone.  He sort of looks like what happened when the movable mechanism broke on my Jerry Mahoney dummy.  He can speak only through a sound synthesizer on his laptop.   Most of the time, he communicates by clapping his hands wildly like Cheeta in the Tarzan movies.   Cameras follow him for the last six months of his life and we really shouldn't be watching this.   If you've ever watched a loved one die from cancer, you want to avoid whatever multiplex theater is playing this film.

Admittedly, Roger has made a very conscious decision to be incredibly public about his failing health.  That, in itself, is a veiled shot at former partner Gene, who had told only his immediate family that he had terminal brain cancer.  Roger across the aisle never knew.   And was still smarting from this.

So, as a result, we get to watch all the grimness surrounding him.   We get to watch nurses suction out what's left of his throat not once but twice.   The second time, the procedure is played to the music "Reeling in the Years" by Steely Dan.   Thanks to Roger Ebert, I can never listen to that song again.

"Life Itself" varied wildly in tone and content.   Half of it is fascinating and compelling.   The other half is mawkish and overbearing.  As a result, you get my thumb heading...nowhere.

Indeed, it's very self-servicing and a movie that Roger Ebert would have loved.

My guess is that Gene Siskel would have hated it.   

And, one more time, I am in sync with the guy from the Chicago Tribune.

LEN'S RATING:  Two and a half stars.

Dinner last night:  Bacon burger at Empire City Casino.  

Monday Morning Video Laugh - July 14, 2014

Summer fun!

Dinner last night:  Wonderful barbecue at the catered birthday party for my long time friend Leo.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Camp Mohawk

Here's a snapshot of the Mount Vernon, NY South Side Boy's Club.  I have never set foot inside of this building.  But, plenty of times, I was in the Mount Vernon, NY North Side Boy's Club.  Well, not plenty of times.   I was there for two horrible weeks.

I was in a dreaded day camp.

That said, this was my sole camping experience ever, whether it be day or sleep away. 

When we used to go visit my uncle way upstairs near Newburgh, we'd motor through some back roads.  And pass a sleep away camp that sported my name.  Camp Len-a-len-a-pee.  Or something like that which sounds like urine.  I'd look out the car window of the back seat of my dad's Buick and see the kids cavorting on the camp grounds.  My mom would chime in from the front seat.

"Doesn't that look like fun?"

Um, not really.  To me, summer was all about hanging around the neighborhood.  Playing with your friends.  Watching TV in the air conditioned living room.  Waiting for the nightly arrival of the Good Humor Man.  Live up here in the sticks with a bunch of strangers?  Meh.

I'd see the TV commercials about donating to the Fresh Air Fund and sending some poor inner city kid to the country.  The little boy in the ad was beaming.  Me?  Better him than me.  This is where I wanted to be.  On the streets of Mount Vernon during the day and curled up next to the kitchen fan with a book at night. 

So, imagine my surprise and horror when, on one early June day, my mother made the dastardly announcement.

"We're going to send you to Camp Mohawk."

What, who, and why?

My mom had inquired at the North Side Boy's Club about their summer programs.  For some reason I will never fathom, my folks must have thought I was bored by simply watching "Dick Van Dyke" reruns all July and August.  PS, I wasn't.  So they decided to see how I would fit in with this day camp. 

Kill me now.

With Camp Mohawk, there was an eight week program that lasted throughout the whole summer.  Luckily, my parents hadn't gone all in.  They signed me only for the first two weeks initially.

"We'll see how you like it."

Okay.  And, by the way, I will hate it.

Never were truer words ever thought by yours truly.

You got dropped off on the first day at the Boy's Club and were immediately issued a Camp Mohawk t-shirt.  You were given a specific color because that's the group you would be identified with.  Mind you, they gave you one shirt.  To wear every day.  In the summer.  With lots and lots of New York humidity.  I figured that, by July 1, my t-shirt could stand up in the corner all by itself.

We were immediately escorted to the Boy's Club gym and thrown into a game of dodge ball.  What the hell?  This is nothing but gym class and I already hated that.  The summer was supposed to be my respite from whatever fiend was my gym teacher. 

Kill me now.  Again.

Day Two was even worse.  Back down to the gym and, to my horror, all the gymnastic mats were on the floor. 

Oh, crap.  This is when I used to get a nurse's excuse for gym class.  I hated gymnastics and, most particularly, tumbling.  One more freakin' time, I was going to have to negotiate with whatever Neanderthal was running this program that I don't tumble.  Ever.

I counted the hours, the minutes, and the seconds till the end of the day.

Oh, it's not like we didn't go anyplace with Camp Mohawk.  Yes, there were field trips.  First up was the Wilson Woods Pool for swimming.  At that time, I swam almost as much as I tumbled, which was hopefully never.  Plus there was the very public dressing room and kids in various stages of undress and partial puberty. 

Kill.  Me.  Now.  Please.

There were bus trips to nearby locations.  But the trick was that, wherever you went, the bus needed to have you back at the Boy's Club by 4PM.

We went to the Bronx Zoo and got as far as the elephants.

We went to the Museum of Natural History and got as far as the early settlers.

We went to a Yankee game and left in the fourth inning.

We went to a Met game and left in the third inning.

You get the idea.

What we did get to complete in total was any game in the gym.  Or the arts and crafts.  Or anything that was remotely uninteresting.

I never came home at the end of the day with a smile on my face.   I think it was duly noted by the powers that be.  Because, at the end of the first two week cycle, my mother asked the simple question.

"You don't want to go for another two weeks, do you?"

Duh.

I triumphantly returned to the neighborhood like General Douglas MacArthur.  Now my summer of fun with friends could really begin.

The very next morning, I was sitting in air-conditioned comfort.   And Dick Van Dyke was tripping over the ottoman right on time.

Dinner last night:  The pre-game buffet at the Dodger Stadium Club.