Separated at Birth?

Are actor Brendan Fraser and new Supreme Court Justice nominee Elena Kagan related? Or is this simply a case where Brendan is crossdressing?

Okay, the looks are just fine on a man. On a lady? Er, not so much. But, Elena can take heart. As long as that bag of bones Ruth Bader Ginsburg is on the bench, she won't be the ugliest person on the Supreme Court.

Dinner last night: Italian hero.

Moron of the Month - May 2010

I was late with my April moron. But, I'm already tracking on May. Even at this early date, I doubt we will find a dumber statement or person than this one. And my nominee will just go to show that everyone and everybody is totally eligible for this monthly award. Even if you're a movie critic with half your jaw missing.

Yep, folks, our May moron is Roger Ebert, who gets all ten fingers down as far as I'm concerned.

You may have heard about that big Cinco De Mayo controversy at some California high school last week. Four kids wear shirts emblazoned with the American flag and get pulled by an assistant principal. And his name just happens to be Miguel Rodriguez. The attire is offensive to wear on Cinco De Mayo. Why? Ask Miguel Rodriguez, who took his own personal viewpoint/chip on shoulder and blew it Macy's Thanksgiving balloon-like out of proportion. Especially when you hear that one of the "offending" kids is part Mexican.

Frankly, there was enough numbskullery to go around for the entire faculty of that high school. Especially in light of the fact that Cinco De Mayo itself is a celebration of a very minor Mexican skirmish. Indeed, it's not even a major holiday south of the border. Essentially, the damn day is honored here in America because Dos Equus wants to sell more beer. That's it in a nutshell. There's no real historical value to any day until the marketing department gets a hold of it.

The whole thing had evaporated into a size 12 yawn, but, unfortunately, Roger Ebert got a hold of the news story and felt the need to tweet about it. Okay, I get it. The only way this guy can say anything these days is by typing it. But, that shouldn't give him license to type out everything he thinks. Especially if he's going to type/say something as stupid as...

"@ebertchicago Kids who wear American Flag T-shirts on 5 May should have to share a lunchroom table with those who wear a hammer and sickle on 4 July."

Where is Gene Siskel when you need him? None of Roger's tweet made any sense. Unfortunately, a couple of goofball rightwingers took Ebert to task in directions they should not have gone. You don't joke about his cancer. But they did and that sadly prompted even more latent nonsense from Roger, who then proceeded to type/speak out on his blog.

"The question is obviously not whether Americans, or anyone else, has the right to wear our flag on their T-shirts. But empathetic people realize much depends on context. If, on Cinco De Mayo, you turn up at your school with a large Mexican-American student population wearing such shirts, are you (1) joining the spirit of the holiday or (2) looking for trouble?"

Huh?

Now I've always liked and respected Ebert's opinion when it comes to movies. I salute his courage and fortitude. But, during the extended course of his illness, he has gotten more and more outspoken on matters that should not concern him. Cancer apparently comes with a hall pass. Even with all the jawbones that have been removed, it's amazing that his mouth has somehow gotten bigger. I am no more interested in Roger Ebert's opinions on society as I am in hearing what Henry Kissinger thinks of the movie Kick-Ass. Stick to what you know. Tell us what you think about what you know about. Roger, nothing, and I mean nothing, gives you license to speak/type out on an endless list of topics. Particularly ones that are much, much larger than your skill sets.

Mr. Ebert, here's the greatest service you can do for your fellow man. Just tell us how bad "Sex in the City 2" will be. And then close your keyboard/mouth.

Dinner last night: Spaghetti and meatballs.

The U.S. Supreme Court Vs. Wednesday

The starting nine for the Washington Idiots.

---I'm thinking Ruth Bader Ginsburg is the shortstop.

---Everytime I see that old bag, I'm reminded of a dead pigeon on the side of the road.

---Of course, this motley crew is in the news because Obummer just got a chance to replace another one.

---I'm looking at this new nominee, Elena Kagan, and I'm immediately reminded of that old SNL character, the androgynous Pat.

---Well, at least, Elena can feel comfortable that she can use either locker room.

---Your choice for a worse sight? Clarence Thomas in his boxers or Ruth Bader Ginsburg in her skivvies?

---With the amount of legal experience that Kagan brings to the bench, I am wondering why I wasn't considered.

---Sometimes I get the idea that Obummer makes these picks based on which friends of his have picked up a lunch check.

---I'm starting a Facebook petition. "One million people who want Judge Judy on the Supreme Court."

---You got a better option? She's a helluva better judge than these assholes.

---I've written it before and I'm writing it again. There is no dumber government contrivance than the US Supreme Court.

---Both sides of the aisle try to clog it with their own biased picks, so that the majority wins.

---Len's solution: Every decision they come up with must be a unanimous vote.

---That would be the truest form of legal pronouncements.

---Of course, that means nothing would ever get done.

---But, still, let's lock these jerks in a room until they all agree.

---The downside? Who wants to be caged up that long with Ruth Bader Ginsburg? You just know she smells of mothballs and pee.

---And I have this idea that Clarence Thomas uses way too much Brut cologne.

---One more shout out to Betty White for making last week's SNL semi-watchable.

---Now there are rumblings that they want to put her on next season's "Dancing with the Stars."

---Question to Hollywood: Are you trying to kill her?

---Of course, Betty, you do have the final say. Once in a while, it's okay if the password is "no."

---If she's that bored sitting at home, she might want to invest in the premium movie package on cable.

---Old is in. Now there's an 80-year-old powerhouse singer, Janey Cutler, who is this year's version of Susan Boyle on "Britain's Got Talent."

---Now if we could only get film producers to realize that demographics can stretch beyond the age of 25.

---And 35. And 45.

---Thumbs down to all those dopey Brits who booed Julie Andrews last week. They paid 150 bucks to see her in person and got pissed when she sang only two songs.

---Hello, dummies? Is your tea too strong? Have you read a newspaper? Have you leaned out your apartment window in the past ten years? Julie doesn't sing anymore.

---It's a good thing that Teddy Pendergrass died. They might boo him for not dancing.

---If you hear a knock on your door, that just might be the US Census taker.

---Or a home invasion.

---From what I could see of some of those census takers, it might be both.

---I love these TV commercials telling you why it's important to fill out your census form. Because if you do, wonderful things can happen to your community.

---So, if you're counted, there's money coming your way? Are we counting the population or running a Publisher's Clearing House contest?

---Nowhere on the census form is this question.

---"Are you a US citizen?"

---Now, admittedly, there are many, many totally legit folks in this country who are legal immigrants. Perhaps on a green card or waiting to be sworn in.

---But, there are also many, many, many more totally illegit folks who entered this country by cuddling up with a tire iron in the trunk of a Ford Escort.

---Here's what they should do with the census information. Crosstab it with the US Internal Revenue Service records.

---And that's how you use the census to get more money for your community.

---Civility is dead. To the asshole who was sitting in front of me at last Sunday's Dodger game and told me that I clapped too loud: you should have showed up before the fifth inning. I wasn't clapping then.

---You told me the noise was piercing through your head. Well, it's not my fault that the sound goes straight through with nothing to stop it.

---It was a fucking baseball game. Not Mother Theresa's funeral.

---And hopefully you figured that out when you got home and found all my pistachio shells in your bag.

Dinner last night: Italian chopped salad at BJ's.

My Sights and Sounds - Sunday in the Ballpark with Len

Another slice of life. Specifically, mine.

As regular readers will know, there is nothing more relaxing for me than an afternoon baseball game in my seats at Dodger Stadium. Scorebook on my lap.

Here's a random snapshot taken at last Sunday's game. It's the bottom of the fourth inning. The Dodgers are leading 1-0. The Rockies have Ubaldo Jimenez on the mound. Matt Kemp leads off the inning. I had no idea whether the action would be exciting or merely run-of-the-mill.

Makes no difference. It's all baseball, which means it's all good. Enjoy. The wonderful sights and sounds of a baseball stadium.

The Dodgers ended up winning 2-0 behind the stellar pitching performance of Clayton Kershaw.

Dinner last night: Turkey sausage, rice, and stewed tomatoes.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - May 10, 2010

Surprise! Saturday Night Live was watchable last week for the first time in 20 years. And all it took was giving over the hosting chores to 88-year-old veteran Betty White. Her stint was prompted by some stupid Facebook campaign, but so what. She was terrific.

Originally, they said that, in deference to her age, they would use her sparingly on the show. But she wound up in so many sketches that I'm convinced Lorne Michaels thought he was mentioned in Betty's will.

Here's her monologue. Bravo, Betty!

Dinner last night: Italian hero with cappacolla, salami, and roasted red peppers.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Mom and Baseball

The saga of my early baseball fandom continues with this special Mother's Day tie-in.
As I immersed myself in the Mets back when, it wasn't long before my fanaticism was legend around my own home. Dad had bought in completely. But there were others who needed to comment on this profound development.
Grandma heard the news and asked me who the Met manager was. When I replied it was Casey Stengel, she announced that she knew who he was and that she liked him. Then, she proceeded to tell me all about the Brooklyn Dodgers for some reason. They were called "Da Bums" and her cousin was a big fan of them. Which was apparently convenient because she called him a bum as well.
Grandpa said he preferred the Giants, but I explained to him that they had already moved to San Francisco.
"When the hell did they go way out there?"
Grandpa, who read the newspaper religiously every single day, had apparently missed the Daily News that week in 1957 when the Giants left town.
My mother was, however, completely removed from the baseball hubbub. When I held my little mini-press conference to announce that I was now a baseball fan and my favorite baseball team was the New York Mets, she reacted with the same two word phrase that she used whenever something positive entered my life.
"That's nice."
Oh.
And that was it. There was little intertwining between me and my mother when it came to the sport. From time to time, my fandom prompted some conflicts when I had commandeered the then-only TV set to watch a Met game. Mom had other visual destinations.
"Merv Griffin's on."
But...
I invariably lost out and had to resort to the radio play-by-play. Shortly thereafter, I did get my own portable TV for my bedroom. But still, I preferred to commandeer the only-color TV set in the house to watch a Met game. Amother maternal skirmish ensued.
"Mike Douglas is on. Go watch in your room."
But, that's only black-and-white.
I never won.
There was one summer evening where I was watching a Met game on the Zenith Color TV console in the living room. Tom Seaver was going into the ninth inning against the Chicago Cubs with a perfect game. I was beside my self with euphoria. Enter Mom intent on turning the channel and finding out what Merv and Totie Fields were up to. I had to sell the importance of the baseball event through to her.
"Tom Seaver's pitching a perfect game."
Mom looked at me quizzically.
"Is that good?"
As my dad had explained to me several years earlier when we listened to the ninth inning of Jim Bunning's perfect-o against the Mets in a cemetery, I relayed the importance of such a feat to Mom. It was enough to keep the TV tuned to WOR Channel 9. And she watched along with me.
Five minutes later, Jimmy Qualls got a single, broke up Tom Seaver's bid for immortality, and ruined my evening and perhaps my life. It was rare for me to do so in front of a parental unit, but I let out an expletive.
"Shit."
Or something like that. Mom didn't totally get the moment or the significance or the pain.
"It's over. Channel 5, please."
And that was the sum total of combined activity for me, my mother, and baseball for the next several decades. Once I had my Saturday Plan seats at Shea, the only time the sport came up with her in conversation was with the same exchange. Over and over.
"Mom, I have a Met game Saturday.'
"That's nice."
Over and over.
"Mom, I'm watching the Met game tonight."
"That's fine."
Over and over.

Until it happened.
I don't know exactly when the world spun off its axis. But it took me completely by surprise. I was an adult by then. Calling the parental units once a day to check in and make sure they hadn't done anything to themselves. One night, in the middle of the most mundane of mundane conversations with my mother, she dropped her version of Enola Gay.
"Did you watch that Met game this afternoon?"
Who is this? And what have you done with her?
"That new announcer the Mets have. Tim McCarver. She's good looking."
No, seriously, where is she? Where is my mother?
She went on about the game. And did so the next day. And the day after. And the week after. And, most amazingly, she was starting to make sense. Slowly, she was picking up the intricate nuances of the game. And virtually parroting Tim McCarver.
"There's no way Mookie should have been bunting in the eighth inning."
"What was Davey Johnson thinking? I don't bring Doug Sisk in from the bullpen in that situation."
"Ron Darling walks way too many batters."
Huh?
I wrote Tim McCarver a note and told him what he had done to my mother. He took the compliment graciously. Except he had no idea how far off the beam she got. She was tuned to every game on TV. If they were playing on a weekday afternoon, she had the radio on at work. And she could recite their uniform numbers. I remembered that this particular feat was one of my earliest claims to fame when I had become a Met fan years before.
The circle of life had come full circle.
It helped that, in the mid 1980s, the Mets were a pretty good team whose bandwagon my mother had jumped on. These were the days of Gary Carter, Keith Hernandez, Jesse Orosco, and Darryl Strawberry.
And my mother's favorite Met of all time. Dwight Gooden. My mom's keen interest in the Mets had reached its full maturation in 1984, which was Gooden's rookie season. She took to the young pitcher as if he was her own son. While her Met fandom rarely wavered, it peaked significantly every five days or so when he was on the mound. Again, I was confounded by this all. Why Dwight Gooden? Why the Mets. Why now?
During the championship year of 1986, Mom's TV set went on the fritz right in the middle of the playoffs. She went from apartment to apartment in her building, looking for an available TV set and couch. Ultimately, she went to one of those furniture rental stores and leased a portable TV for the next three weeks.
The following season, when Gooden was suspended for cocaine use, my mother's world crumbled. I actually saw her cry over this. Tears that I had never seen when some relatives had died. Indeed, once I got used to this amazing human transformation, I was quite pleased. Mom had recently retired. Or actually had been unceremoniously retired. Other senior citizens tended to fall into funks when the work world is removed from their orbits. But, my mom didn't have time to get bored. She had the Mets.
There was only one more ribbon that needed to be tied around this package. It took a while, but she finally asked.
"I want to go to one of your Saturday games with you."
I realized I had uttered a similar phrase to my dad years earlier. In some ways, my mother's fandom was equal to what I had gone through when I was ten years ago.
Whereas my very first impression of Shea Stadium on a stormy Friday night was one of dampness and darkness, my mother's emergence from the tunnel into the Loge Section 7 stands was idyllic. The sun was shining. The weather was warm. The field shone like the most exquisite of jewels. And she enjoyed herself. To a degree.
"I like it better on TV. I miss Tim McCarver."
And, for that very reason, she never went to another game. With me. Or with anyone else. But, at least, there was that one special Saturday.
Dinner last night: BBQ Chicken Salad at Pig N' Whistle.

Classic TV Commercial of the Month - May 2010

Anybody remember this stuff? A show of hands, please.

Dinner last night: Friday night pre-game Ham French Dip at Philippe's.