This Date in History -July 8

 

Happy Heavenly birthday to Steve Lawrence, pictured here with his late wife, Eydie Gorme.  The Bossa Nova kills.

1099:  FIRST CRUSADE - FIFTEEN THOUSAND STARVING CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS MARCH IN A RELIGIOUS PROCESSION AROUND JERUSALEM AS ITS MUSLIM DEFENDERS LOOK ON.

And they're still marching.

1497:  VASCO DA GAMA SETS SAIL ON THE FIRST DIRECT EUROPEAN VOYAGE TO INDIA.

An awful long way to go for some curry.

1579:  OUR LADY OF KAZAN, A HOLY ICON OF THE RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHURCH, IS DISCOVERED UNDERGROUND IN THE CITY OF KAZAN.

Elia or Lainie?

1730:  AN ESTIMATED MAGNITUDE 8.7 EARTHQUAKE CAUSES A TSUNAMI THAT DAMAGES CHILI'S COASTLINE.

Back in 1730, I would guess that about four people were impacted.

1775:  THE OLIVE BRANCH PETITION IS SIGNED BY THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS OF THE THIRTEEN COLONIES OF NORTH AMERICA.

With or without pimentos?

1853:  US COMMODORE MATTHEW PERRY ARRIVES IN EDO BAY WITH A TREATY REQUESTING TRADE.

So, when Perry finally got on Friends, he was really, really, really old.

1874:  THE MOUNTIES BEGIN THEIR MARCH WEST.

Sgt. Preston leading the way.

1876:  WHITE SUPREMACISTS KILL FIVE BLACK REPUBLICANS IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

And the note I take from this?   Five dead Black Republicans.

1889:  THE FIRST ISSUE OF THE WALL STREET JOURNAL IS PUBLISHED.

Where are the funny pages?

1892:  ST JOHN'S, NEWFOUNDLAND, CANADA IS DEVASTATED IN THE GREAT FIRE OF 1892.

And I guess I am too.  Devastated, I mean.

1898:  THE DEATH OF CRIME BOSS SOAPY SMITH, WHO IS KILLED IN AN ALASKAN SHOOTOUT.

The Sopranos Go to Juneau.

1908:  GOVERNOR NELSON ROCKEFELLER IS BORN.

Best joke I ever heard about him.   When he wakes up in the morning, he feels happy.  And then Happy feels him.

1917:  ACTRESS FAYE EMERSON IS BORN.

A name I've heard countless times.   I couldn't place her if I fell over her.

1918:  ACTOR CRAIG STEVENS IS BORN.

Peter Gunn!

1930:  SINGER JERRY VALE IS BORN.

My writing partner once saw him in the super market, looking for his name in the tabloids.

1932:  THE DOW JONES INDUSTRIAL AVERAGE REACHES ITS LOWEST LEVEL OF THE GREAT DEPRESSION.

For those who still haven't jumped out of their window...

1934:  ACTOR MARTY FELDMAN IS BORN.

It's Eye-gor.

1935:  SINGER STEVE LAWRENCE IS BORN.

Go away, little boy.

1947:  REPORTS ARE BROADCAST THAT A UFO CRASH LANDED IN ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO.

Hence, all the jokes about Roswell ever since.

1948:  THE UNITED STATES AIR FORCE ACCEPTS ITS FIRST FEMALE RECRUITS.

Opening the Mile High Club....

1949:  CHEF WOLFGANG PUCK IS BORN.

Overrated.

1958:  ACTOR KEVIN BACON IS BORN.

If you share this birthday, you have one degree of separation.

1960:  FRANCIS GARY POWERS IS CHARGED WITH ESPIONAGE RESULTING FROM HIS FLIGHT OVER THE SOVIET UNION.

Vat you looking at, Yankee.

1968:  THE CHRYSLER WILDCAT STRIKE BEGINS IN DETROIT.

Is that their new model?   A Wildcat.

1982:  ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT AGAINST IRAQI PRESIDENT SADDAM HUSSEIN.

Too bad it didn't take.

1990:  ACTOR HOWARD DUFF DIES.

Making Ida Lupino an ex-wife/widow.

1991:  ACTOR JAMES FRANCISCUS DIES.

Not a good last name if you lisp.

1994:  ACTOR DICK SARGENT DIES.

The second and lesser Darrin Stevens.

1994:  KIM JONG-IL BEGINS TO ASSUME SUPREME LEADERSHIP OF NORTH KOREA UPON THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER.

So I guess Dad was Il, too.

2006:  ACTRESS JUNE ALLYSON DIES.

Bladder no longer full.

2011:  FORMER FIRST LADY BETTY FORD DIES.

She didn't last much longer after her husband.

2012:  ACTOR ERNEST BORGNINE DIES.

What are you going to do now, Marty?

2018:  ACTOR TAB HUNTER DIES.

I always preferred Diet Coke.

2022:  ACTOR LARRY STORCH DIES.

RIP Troop.

2022:  ACTOR TONY SIRICO DIES.

The wonderful Paulie Walnuts on "The Sopranos."

YEAR NOT SPECIFIED:  A HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO DEAR FRIEND, THE BIBSTER.

A regular reader to this Wednesday frivolity.  I couldn't enjoy this life without you.

Dinner last night:  Beef fried rice.

Last Week

Some of you are in the know. But, for those who are not, I'll update the annals of social media and this blog to cover the mass circulation. And forgive the highlighting of prose. I am toggling through several portals.

Last Thursday, I was at the gym with my trainer for the usual exercise regimen.

By Saturday night, I had a Ralph Kramden stomach and couldn't manage a simple flight of stairs.

By 330PM Monday, I was in the St. John's-Santa Monica version of "The Pitt" and hearing the three words "congestive heart failure." What the hell.

By Monday night, I was in ICU where they literally "can see you" at all times.

I was introduced to my new best friend, electrocardiologist Dr. Saarik Gupta, who determined I suddenly had an atrial flutter, which is the bastard second cousin of the more popular "a fib." This would necessitate a procedure that effectively rewires the heart and returns it to normal sinus rhythm as opposed to the Monday meter readings which made my heart resemble the 2008 stock market crash. Essentially a shock to the ticker.

And that's what Dr. Gupta and his team did Tuesday morning from 921 AM to 932 AM. It takes longer to get your order from In N Out Burger.

By Thursday night at 730PM, I was listening to the Beach Boys at the Hollywood Bowl.

Oh, there are ramifications. I've got a slew of pills to take every morning and evening. But no other restrictions have been cast for my trainer, my PT, and my future water coach. I said to Dr. Gupta that the big winner is the pharmacy at Ralph's. He corrected me. "No, the big winner is you." Nobody knows yet what triggered this medical soap but he, along with my phenomenal and super human internist Dr. Jonathan Weaver, will figure this out.

Just as happened a few months ago with "The Grand Slam of Hernias," I am reminded of the wonderment of my friends that range from sea to shining sea. I am honored to have that particular contact list in my phone. But, this week I was more mesmerized and astounded again by the staff at St. John's, most notably the folks in the ICU and ER. I salute nurses Amanda, Amy, Eva, and Gerardo as well as anybody else who answered my buzzer. They are all Doctor Robbys in my book.

One more time, our bodies are gifted with amazing alarm systems. Always make sure yours are turned on. Listen to them.

Dinner last night: Grilled sausage.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - July 6, 2026

 Since I've had four surgeries myself recently, I was a willing viewer of comic depictions of people coming out of anesthesia.   For instance, check this one out.

Dinner last night:  Grilled cheese at the Hollywood Bowl.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Happy 250th!

 

Well, isn't he a grand old...  Wait, I can't say that anymore, correct?

Happy 250th Birthday, America. You don't look a day over 249. No, wait, that's how old the country really is. Sorry, I guess you are looking your age.  In my book, the place has got about twenty-five years left as we know it.   Thanks to the politicians of this land, we are circling the drain as we speak.

But that's for the future.  Let's remember the joyous past.  And the Fourth of July usually stands out as the Tiffany of our patriotic holidays.

The summer holiday, totally unique to our country, is one of our glorious traditions. Everybody has developed their own routine on how to celebrate the Fourth. Since I moved to points west, it's all about the Hollywood Bowl with its music and fireworks spectacular. I was there the other night listening to the Beach Boys.  As for the actual 4th yesterday, the baseball schedule gods gave me a break. There was a game and post-game pyrotechnics to soak in at Dodger Stadium. The holiday was pretty much trouble-free.

Unlike others in the past.

When I was a kid, there were the years with a family barbecue, usually in our backyard which quickly was transformed into either a badminton court or a croquet field. Organized games were popular with my tribe as it was a welcome diversion to either eating or fighting. My cousins were mostly older so I was completely overmatched/underaged when it came to playing these games. I was too short. I was too uncoordinated. I was always too too something.

During the badminton games, I pretty much fanned on the shuttlecock. It would land at my feet. Or I'd hit it so hard that it would get lost amongst my grandmother's rhubarb plants.

When it came to croquet, I was not a proponent of the "less is more" approach. It was a lawn game, but I had my share of fly balls when it came to the sport. I'd attack my turn with the zeal of Mickey Mantle hitting a fastball down the plate. One took such an arc that I missed the wicket altogether. But managed a direct hit on the garage window. I looked sheepish and uttered my standard apology.

Sorry.

Grandma had another single word for me.

"Dumkopf."

The adults usually stayed sequestered in a row of beach chairs. If the temperature went below 90 degrees, my grandmother and the ubiquitous Tante Emma would hightail it into the house to fetch their winter coats. The summer humidity would be draining us all of body water. Meanwhile, Grandma would sit and bundle up.

"I feel a draft."

As the day would wind down, there would be less activity and more chit chat. One year, somebody had cracked a joke and one of our relatives laughed so hard that she shit right through her Capri pants onto the beach chair. I would have burned the thing right then and there. But, my father simply took it and hosed it off.Not enough for me. I never sat in that particular chair ever again. 

We weren't big on fireworks. And, besides I was still reeling from an unfortunate incident with matches, so the fear of fire was still all too real. The most I would tackle would be the run down the driveway holding a sparkler. Meanwhile, my mother would get more of a flame going by simply lighting up a pack of Kent Cigarettes. 

The real celebratory explosives were happening up the block with my neighborhood chums. They had the major artillary and plenty of it. Cherry bombs, sky rockets, and the unfortunately-but-aptly named "nigger chasers." Again, the remembrance of flames near my fingers made me a spectator to the special effects around me. Did I want to light one? Er, no, thanks. 

One year, there was an inexplicable attempt to go watch a professional fireworks show at a high school in Tuckahoe. My family didn't do organized events often. This one, however, was well populated. Even Grandma attended in one of her rare appearances that didn't involve either church, the A and P, or Suchy's Funeral Home in the Bronx. Invitations out of the realm usually got her tried-and-true response.

"I'll stay home." 

Well, that July the Fourth, Grandma went with the rest of us to see fireworks. It looked like all of Westchester County had converged on the Tuckahoe High School football bleachers to watch this. The usual ooohs and aahs. When it was over, the throng exited en masse. There was no room to move. My mother instructed me to hold onto my grandmother's hand for dear life. I did so.As I exited the crowd to meet the rest of my entourage, I was alone. Somehow, my hand was no longer attached to my grandmother's.

"Oh, great! You lost your grandmother!"

My fault again. 

Moments later, Grandma emerged from the melee. Unscathed and unamused."Next year, I stay home."She turned to look at me.

"Dumkopf."

Most of us will not be around when and if America celebrates its tricentennial in 2076. But, quite a lot of us were around for the bicentennial and we will have to hold that single memory for our entire lives. I remember all the hoopla. 

The tall ships in New York Harbor. 

The fireworks over Washington DC. 

Arthur Fiedler conducting the Boston Pops. 

All of it televised with Walter Cronkite officiating over all.

The only problem is I had other issues that day.

I thought I had cancer.

The day before, it had started. Terrific stomach pains that manifested themselves quickly in the form of hourly bathroom visits. The only trouble is what was leaking out of me didn't look right.

It was nothing but blood.

And, in one of my frequent moments of stupidity, I said nothing to anybody.My mother had a medical reference book in her arsenal. I pulled it out and looked up the symptoms.

Oh, my God, I have cancer of the colon!

Since I now assumed that I was dying, I figured it was time to mention my problem. I needed to give my folks time to clear their schedules in the event of my impending funeral. Indeed, they actually worried about this. But, not enough to respond outside of their usual medical orbit.

"We'll take you to Dr. Weisberg tomorrow."

Oh, God, no. Not him. I've written about this goofball before. A guy who would have attended to Robert Kennedy's head wound by spraying Bactine on it. This time around, however, Dr. Weisberg had to do a little bit more than simply prescribe Tylenol. One swig of barium and a GI series later, I was pronounced fit. Or as fit as a serious bout of kiddie colitis could leave me. I could celebrate America's birthday with nothing more than a steady diet of tapioca.

America's one noteworthy birthday during my lifetime and I'm toasting it with a bland diet.

Oh, well. I obviously lived to blog about it.   Okay, I did sort of.   There's a story to be told soon of my past week.   That's for another blog entry.

In the meantime, enjoy the holiday and drive safely.

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

Classic TV Commercial of the Month - July 2026

 Do they still make Nestea?

Dinner last night:  Cajun Shrimp at The Cinemas in Westwood.

Happy 250th USA!

 Today we celebrate our 250th year of independence.   These people can't.

That holiday sparkler got a little too close.

What's a little holiday spittle amongst friends?

Here, let me help you see the fireworks.

 IRB1??   Anybody?

I bet he was arrested for shoplifting some sunglasses.

That outfit went out back in the days of Miriam Makeba.

The dress alone should get her six months.

Oh, my God!  They've arrested Natalie from The Facts of Life!

"But this hair color looked good on Lucy..."

A horse is a horse, of course, of course...

Shia LaBoeuf wannabe.

If she could only run as fast as that mascara.

Dinner last night:   Grilled cheese at the Hollywood Bowl. 

Watched It, Tolerated It

 

End of review.

Oh, all right, I'll give you a little more.  But not much more.  Here's one of those HBO movies that gets made because somebody knows somebody else.   Like this one.   Say, let's see if we can get something done with Allison Janney because she won an Oscar and an Emmy.  Bingo, here's a production budget.  Knock yourself out.

And that's how a trite little uninteresting movie like "Miss You, Love You" gets made.  The plot is barely one and this film, with its focus on just two characters in a single location, has all the looks of being a stage play.   And not a good one.

Janney plays a woman in New Mexico who has to plan the memorial service for her dead second husband.   Her son with her first husband is an unseen high power executive and sends his own office assistant to help Mom with the details. The two quibble over...well, everything.  Both learns some inner secrets about their son and boss.   There's lots of quips, histrionics, and screaming.  By the time you see the end credits, you realize you have missed the middle 45 minutes of the movie.

But, it's Allison Janney.   She never disappoints.  

Uh huh.   And she's probably remodeling her bathroom with the money some fool gave her to make this flight of unreality.

LEN'S RATING:  One star.

Dinner last night:  Sandwich.