The Sunday Memory Drawer - Lucha Libre on Channel 47

Here's famed 60s wrestling villain Jerry Graham pulling one of his dirtbag moves on an opponent.

My grandmother was probably yelling at the TV screen.

"Kill that son of a basket!"

She meant "bastard" and it always came out "basket." I never knew why.

Nevertheless, heavyweight wrestling was the preferred spectator sports of my grandparents and they loved to get wrapped up for two hours every Saturday night. These relatively mild-mannered folks would suddenly turn into crazed fans, shouting instructions to their favorite wrestlers grappling on the TV screen. Sometimes in German.

"Watch out, Bruno, he's got something in his trunks."

"Uh oh, goodbye, Bobo."

"Hit him with a chair! Hit with a chair!"

Absorbing all this as a youngster, I loved watching Grandma and Grandpa watching wrestling. And, it was my favorite way to spend a Saturday night. Channel 5, Metromedia in NY, carried two hours worth of matches and the three of us were exhausted by the end. I can remember all the nuances. The arena. The announcer who would interview champ Bruno Sammartino and let him speak for several minutes in Italian. And, for some inexplicable reason, I can recall one of the commercials that always ran during this program. For some liqueur called Cherry Kijafa.

"Joseph, more Cherry Kijafa please!"

I once asked my grandmother what that stuff was. She waved me off.

"Jews drink that."

Duly noted.

Eventually, things changed. My grandfather died and, almost at the same time, Channel 5 stopped running wrestling.

In lots of ways, the world was ending in our house. I felt compelled to spend even more time watching the boob tube with Grandma. But, amid all the shows we enjoyed together, there was no heavyweight wrestling.

And then there was sudden hope. A local station picked up the broadcast and we were in seventh heaven. Wednesday nights at 830PM. The only problem? It was on a UHF channel. In Spanish. Lucha Libre!

"Canal 47...Newark, Paterson, Linden."

Desperate for some matches, we didn't care. Except that, with ultra high frequency television, tuning it in required the assistance of a technician from NASA. That was the strange other dial on your TV that you rarely touched. And, to get Canal 47, you had to be ultra precise. A nano-dial twist one way or the other and you could lose the signal, which was always snowy at best.

The process of tuning in usually started 30 minutes prior to wrestling. My grandmother, sitting on a little stool in front of her pre-remote control era television, working feverishly to get as much static from the screen as possible. Some weeks it was virtually impossible to watch and we'd experience the worst depression since 1929.

One week, I walked through her living room about an hour before wrestling. She was seated comfortably in her chair, listening to a talk show. In Spanish. With some lady in white socks and high heels. Myrta Silva, the Ellen DeGeneres of Puerto Rico. And my grandmother was staring at the screen. I asked the obvious question.

"You don't understand this. It's in Spanish."

Grandma shrugged.

"Yeah, but I got a good picture and I don't want to lose it."

No other wrestling fan has gone to such lengths in order to watch Arnold Skaaland beat up Crazy Lou Albano.

Dinner last night: Sausage and peppers sandwich at Vito's.

Classic TV Commercial of the Month - June 2009

A new Saturday feature, this one spotlighting vintage TV ads. Here's one for Royal Crown Cola. I remember a version that played exclusively on Met games, spotlighting Tom Seaver dancing with "rising young star" Pamela Austin. In lieu of that gem's availability, I bring you Dino, Desi, and Billy.

Dinner last night: Super Dodger Dog at the game.

More From The Land of Awkward

One picture is often worth a thousand idiots.

Do not use the Super Cuts this family visited. The hair is more than teased. It is ridiculed.

Thanks for dressing, asshole. And on a national holiday to boot.

And to think that my grandmother grew rhubarb. Her plants never looked like these idiots.

Is it me or does this guy have the same eerie look that Anthony Perkins sported at the end of "Psycho?" And what is she holding? Looks like one of those creme-filled Drake cupcakes.

The Family 139. Think about it.

Printed exclusively for the delight and amusement of Mr. Anonymous from the Barbara Judith Deluxe Furnished Apartments on Hollywood Boulevard.

Aunt Bessie's last good lei.

Dinner last night: Bacon, onion, and cheese omelette at Cafe 50s Diner.

Cue The Vultures

Except for the fawning details of the Obamas' big date night in New York City, there has been nothing more nauseating in the media the past week than the public flogging of Susan Boyle.

You obviously know the details. Here's the poor singing shlump who went on "Britain's Got Talent" and wowed one and all with her talent. The audition video on YouTube got more hits than a buxom hooker during Fleet Week. And the rest was history. I know I got sucked in early on to the song stylings and I was duly impressed. Good for her. A big and deserving break for somebody who probably wouldn't have gotten a sniff from anybody.

But, as soon as Susan Boyle got hot, the media went into overdrive. Because once you are successful, the real "fun" comes in knocking you down. The Day of the Locusts arrives one more time. Let's get a carcass going ASAP because the crows are hungry.

And, as the media starts their demolition derby, the general public are fed the same meal. They also go into the wrecking business because, for a reason no decent person should be able to explain, it has become a great party game to destroy somebody else's reputation. Pain needs to be dispensed like Pez at a kid's birthday party. It is a horrible thing to watch. Yet, we all have to. And then the media gives us some more. And the public eats it up. And then the media gives us some more. The purest form of a vicious cycle.

I sense that lots of folks couldn't wait for Susan Boyle to be upended. Even by simply coming in second in that talent competition, her pain was deemed incomplete by her fellow men. Nope, one news story after another kicked her some more by focusing in on her life, her looks, her everything.

"The unworld spinster..."

"The plain-looking old maid..."

"The dumpy songstress..."

I saw all those descriptions in print and I wonder what kind of satisfaction came from describing her in that way. At the same time, I looked at the same overzealous news stories on the Obamas in NY and I didn't see this.

"The big-eared President and his chocolate-tinted wife..."

How much more different and inappropriate is what I just wrote when compared to how the press described Susan Boyle? A lot, apparently, because certain folks are currently deemed as "off limits" to media scrutiny. So, why can't everybody get the same velvet glove?

What did Susan Boyle do to you or me that warranted such treatment? Allegedly, over the course of the talent competition, she got testy. Threw some water at a studio worker. Had a hissy fit at some photographers. I'd challenge anybody to maintain their own personal dignity and demeanor when suddenly thrust into the spotlight with an unforgiving and watchable media at every turn. I couldn't do it and neither could you and you and, yes, even you.

Susan Boyle wound up in some hospital from exhaustion and that, too, is over-reported. She succumbed to the treatment that was doled out and now that's also her shortcoming. Shame not on her. Shame most certainly on everybody else.

Of course, I can hear some of you now. "Gee, Len, I read your blog and you can really be nasty on some people." You betcha. If you're deliberately in the public eye like a politician or an octomom, your stupidity, arrogance, and pomposity is fair game. You made the choice and lay your sorry self out there for all to lampoon. Susan Boyle did not do that. What is her ultimate sin? She joined a rather public talent competition and did so innocently, simply because she likes to sing. So, her punishment is nowhere matching her crime.

Now, I realize that, early on in this entry, I referred to Susan Boyle as a "shlump." Duly noted. So, Miss Boyle, on behalf of the rest of the world, let me be the very first to apologize.

Dinner last night: Louisiana hot sausage at the Dodger game.

Abbott and Costello Meet Wednesday

Who's on first? What's on second? GM just struck out.

---If the United States citizens now own 60 percent of General Motors, I want to know which tire belongs to me.

---I am very proud of my tire. I really hope it's an all weather radial.

---So when do we get to see Michelle Urkel in the grease pit?

---Fantasy phone conversation: "Hello, this is the White House? How may I direct your call?"

---"Parts and Service, please."

---About that $24,000 Saturday night date in NY, I offer this advice to POTUS and FLOTUS: next time, don't use a midtown parking garage.

---If that evening out for the Urkels cost so much, I hope he got some when they got home.

---But, realistically, we're the ones who got fucked.

---Rumor has it that Saturday night at the Bidens was a game of Scrabble.

---And they're probably still in the first round.

---"Joe, you spell "dog" with a "g."

---For a while, that French airline disappearance sounded suspiciously like an ABC promotion for "Lost."

---Who are Jon and Kate and what the hell do they have eight of?

---And why do I care?

---I'm a white guy and, with my life experience, I think I can do a better job being nasty on this blog than a Latina woman.

---Since when did growing up in the Bronx become so chic?

---Ride the IRT 2 Train past the Simpson Street stop at midnight and then tell me how great it is down there.

---The new prospective Supreme Court Justice went randomly knocking on doors around the Senate yesterday. And now I'm wondering if some goofy Senator responded by saying, 'That's okay. My trash can isn't full yet."

---In his entire 17 years as Tonight Show host, I think I watched about ten minutes of Jay Leno.

---Is it me or did Jay's departure not get the same attention as when Johnny hung it up?

---Now the show is turned over to some guy who looks like a priest at St. Brendan's and I will watch even less.

---Meanwhile, Leno moves to 10PM in the fall and who wants to watch a late night talk show before they have brushed their teeth?

---That primetime hour should be reserved for sheer light entertainment. One of those Law and Orders where somebody is brutally murdered.

---One bad thing about the Dodgers' success this year? They'll show up a lot on ESPN with those two idiots, Jon Miller and Joe Morgan.

---Watching the game last Sunday night was sort of like trying to get through college calculus all over again.

---Why does it take Joe Morgan an hour to describe a curve ball?

---And Miller with his self-important pronunciation of names...Rafael FOUR-cal.

---Of course, with digital TV, you can no longer dump the TV audio in favor of the radio play-by-play. One or the other winds up being ten seconds behind.

---Where's Lindsey Nelson when you really need him?

---Still dead, I suppose.

Until Tomorrow, who happens to be our pitcher today.

Dinner last night: Pot roast, mashed potatoes, and carrots.

Can You Say Sayonara?

Even though it was up against a couple of Middle Eastern sob stories, Japan's "Departures" was the surprise win of this year's Oscar for Best Foreign Film.

Now that it has been finally released in America and I have seen it, this is no surprise to me.

"Departures" does what every good foreign film should do. It takes you to another land and introduces you to another culture and, hopefully, does so in an entertaining way. Bingo and bonzai! I was tranasported to the Japanese countryside and learned about some fascinating customs. In doing funerals. Six Feet Under Goes to Japan.

"Departures" is the story of a young cello player whose orchestra gig melts into a bad economy. No dollars, no yen. All the same. Out of work and with a new wife, Daigo Kobayashi (also available with noodles) answers an ad for a job as an assistant "handling departures." He thinks it's with a travel agency. Nope, a different kind of departure. A permanent one. Prepping some dead person for the eternal journey. This is a challenge for Daigo, who never even saw his late mother as a corpse. And his dad disappeared ages ago, a plot factoid that you'd have to be deaf, dumb, and a registered Democrat to think it won't come up again by the end of the film.

The whole undertaking process in Japan is called "encoffining" and it's done in the house. In full view of the family that watches as you wash the body, dress it, and gently put it in the casket. Thank God I don't live in Japan. But, I was still amazed to watch the ritual which is quite precise and moving. At first, Daigo watches as his mentor does the tough stuff. But, eventually, Daigo learns the trade and encoffins as well and as beautifully as he plays the cello.

While they take great care to perserve the dignity of the deceased, there are really funny moments along the way. As they are washing one dead girl who committed suicide, they discover that she was indeed a he. One other encoffinment winds up with the family arguing over the makeup used on Mom and that erupts into a hilarious fist fight.

What I also did not know is that the profession of undertaking is generally looked down upon in Japan. You are viewed as being weird and one level above garbageman or the guy down on the dock chopping up freshly caught eel. Even Daigo's own wife has an issue and leaves him for a while after she discovers just what his hands were doing when he was at work.

About fifteen minutes before the end, the plot gets as squishy as last night's octopus. As I mentioned, the notion of "Dad re-emerging" was, unlike Pearl Harbor, no big secret. But, still, the story ties up exquisitely and your two hours have been well spent.

As long as I can attend these encoffinments on film and never in person. Yuk!

Dinner last night: Salisbury steak at the Cheesecake Factory.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - June 1, 2009

Johnny and Ed as you have never seen them before. Doing an off-air promo for a sponsor and it gets a little, well, obscene. Actually, a lot obscene.

Dinner last night: Salami sandwich.