Classic TV Commercial of the Month - September 2013

PS, that's what Fresca is.

Dinner last night:  Pepperoni and provolone sandwich.

Signs of the Season - It's Back to School

Dinner last night:  Antipasto chopped salad.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

So, after my latest colonoscopy, my doctor told me that things were so clean I wouldn't have to come back for five years.  When I relayed that news to a good friend, he congratulated me.

"Congratulations.  That means you probably won't die of colon cancer."

Since the rest of my body seems to be in perfect order right now, I'm thinking about just what is my most prominent physical ailment at the moment.

Okay, there are those annoyingly arthritic knees, longing for some metal reinforcement.

But, beyond that, all is A-Okay.

Uh oh, just wait a doggone minute.

It started innocently during my June haircut appointment with my terrific stylist Lisa.

"Gee, I never saw this before."

Lisa held up a mirror so I could see the back of my head.  

Audible scream!  I see skin there!

It wasn't a lot but it was enough for me who, up until this very moment, had a full head of hair.  Did a clump drop out in the car on the way over?  Somebody check in the men's room.  If there's a piece there, some Elmer's Glue will fix me right up.

Lisa wasn't really worried.  She immediately fixed me up with some Nioxin shampoo and conditioner.  She and her husband have been using it for years and neither one of them look like Larry Fine of the Three Stooges.

"Use it every day."

And I did.  Goodbye, Crew Shampoo.  A bientot, Paul Mitchell.  Later for you, Redken.  I have a new best friend in the shower.

I even go to the trouble of buying this swill on the East Coast so my New York shower is fully equipped.  But, it was while I was there in July that I noticed something else.

It reacted very oddly to the humid air.  Now I'm no stranger to this.  For some bizarre reason, New York water and weather has always played tricks with my hair.  Suddenly, it becomes wavier.  Harder to comb.  And just all around unmanageable.  

But, on this trip, my coif starts acting really weird.  The natural side part is now inexplicably in the middle.  No matter how much product or other crap I dump on, the hair has gone into full attack mode.  And I'm apparently the enemy.

I was due for another hair appointment when I got back.  I mentioned it to Lisa and she immediately started to examine.

"Hmmm, it's getting a little thinner in the front."

I hope you're talking about my body and not my hair.

After passing out into a coma for about five minutes, I stared at myself in the mirror.  After all these years, you follicles are deserting me now??

I mean, I treated you right.  I didn't overly process or medicate you.  Sure, maybe the sides and the edges in the back get some coloring.  But, you really got a square deal resting on my dome the past couple of decades.  Come on, is it so fucking bad there?

Lisa asked me if I noticed any extra hairs in the shower.  I hadn't.  But, with these current floaters in my eye, I think I see hair all the time.  Again, she told me to stay with the Nioxin and also recommended a few other products.

"You're not planning on having any kids, are you?"

Oh, those products do that, huh?  

Of course, since Lisa brought it up, I go into a loose hair frenzy.  If I see one in the sink or on the bathroom floor, I scream.  Every time I run a brush through my hair, I examine it afterwards as if I'm a member of LA's newest CSI task force.  Once every other day, I find a single small hair in the sink.  I die a little inside.  Thank God I don't have a dog.  I would have shot him by now.

A friend tells me that stress can do this suddenly.  After 9/11, she lost a lot of hair all at once.  I assure her that I'm not stressed.  Well, I am now.  Because my hair is falling out.  It's a vicious cycle.  

Now I think about some good friends of mine.  Two of them lost most of their hair in their 30s.  They've all gone to living wonderful lives.  One of them loves to joke about his baldness.  Whenever he fills out an application that asks about hair color, he writes "glossy."

I'm not ready for that yet.  Lisa tells me that, if we're aggressive about it, this development will slow to a crawl.  I shouldn't practice that "Shall We Dance" number from the "King and I" just yet.  

But it's on my mind.  What's not physically on my mind, that is.  I try to put it all aside and flip through the TV channels aimlessly.

Wait, what's this?  An infomercial from Hair Club.

Suddenly, I'm not so fast to change that channel.

Dinner last night:  Chinese chicken salad.

This Date in History - September 4

Happy birthday, Mitzi Gaynor.  And she's still kicking.  Literally.

476: ROMULUS AUGUSTULUS, LAST EMPEROR OF THE WESTERN ROMAN EMPIRE, IS DEPOSED WHEN ODOACER PROCLAIMS HIMSELF "KING OF ITALY."

I thought the "king of Italy" was Marcello Mastroianni.

626:  LI SHIMIN, POSTHUMOUSLY KNOWN AS EMPEROR TAIZONG OF TANG, ASSUMES THE THRONE OVER THE TANG DYNASTY.

The Tang Dynasty, meh!  They should drink some real orange juice.

1666:  IN LONDON, ENGLAND, THE MOST DESTRUCTIVE DAMAGE FROM THE GREAT FIRE OCCURS.

Now that really is a great fire.

1781:  NEW CALEDONIA IS FIRST SIGHTED BY CAPTAIN JAMES COOK.  

Not to be mistaken with Old Caledonia.

1791:  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA IS FOUNDED AS EL PUEBLO DE NUESTRA SENORA LA REINA DE LOS ANGELES DE PORCIUNCULA.

Which would be way too much to print on the front of the Dodgers' road jerseys.

1812:  DURING THE WAR OF 1812, THE SIEGE OF FORT HARRISON BEGINS WHEN THE FORT IS SET ON FIRE.

Well, that's how most sieges get started.

1862:  DURING THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, GENERAL ROBERT E' LEE TAKES THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA INTO THE NORTH.

Yeah, that's going to work out just fine for you, Lee.

1886:  AFTER ALMOST 30 YEARS OF FIGHTING, APACHE LEADER GERONIMO SURRENDERS IN ARIZONA.

Heap big tired.

1888:  GEORGE EASTMAN REGISTERS THE TRADEMARK KODAK AND RECEIVES A PATENT FOR A CAMERA THAT USES ROLL FILM.

Remember those??

1918:  RADIO HOST PAUL HARVEY IS BORN.

And this will be the rest of the story.

1928:  ACTOR DICK YORK IS BORN.

The first and only legitimate Darren on "Bewitched."

1931:  ACTRESS MITZI GAYNOR IS BORN.

Younger than springtime.

1939:  A BRISTOL BLENHEIM IS THE FIRST BRITISH AIRCRAFT TO CROSS THE GERMAN COAST FOLLOWING THE DECLARATION OF WAR AND GERMAN SHIPS ARE BOMBED.

Cheerio and take that, you Nazi bastard.

1941:  A GERMAN SUBMARINE MAKES THE FIRST ATTACK AGAINST A US SHIP, THE USS GREER.

Come on, Yanks!  You just read what the English can do.

1949: THE PEEKSKILL, NY RACE RIOTS BEGIN AFTER A PAUL ROBESON CONCERT.

What happened?  Did he forget to sing "Ole Man River?"

1957:  DURING THE LITTLE ROCK CRISIS, ORVAL FAUBUS, GOVERNOR OF ARKANSAS, CALLS OUT THE NATIONAL GUARD TO PREVENT AFRICAN AMERICAN STUDENTS FROM ENROLLING IN A HIGH SCHOOL.

Did he not see what happened in Peekskill eight years prior??

1957:  THE FORD MOTOR COMPANY INTRODUCES THE EDSEL.

Let me know how this works out.

1968:  BASEBALL STAR MIKE PIAZZA IS BORN.

I had a lot of respect for him until he made those nasty comments about Vin Scully.

1972:  MARK SPITZ BECOMES THE FIRST COMPETITOR TO WIN SEVEN MEDALS AT A SINGLE OLYMPIC GAMES.

Nice record, Spitz.  But, wait.....did someone say Michael Phelps??

1986: BASEBALL STAR HANK GREENBERG DIES.

Just so you know, there was a Jewish baseball star before Sandy Koufax.

1991:  ACTOR/AUTHOR TOM TRYON DIES.

Also starred in a bunch of Disney crap during the early 60s.

1991:  COUNTRY SINGER DOTTIE WEST DIES.

Dottie goes South.

1993:  ACTOR HERVE VILLECHAIZE DIES.

Anybody got a cigar box we can use?

1998:  GOOGLE IS FOUNDED BY TWO STUDENTS AT STANFORD UNIVERSITY.

And I found that out...on Google.

2001:  RADIO PERSONALITY HANK THE ANGRY DWARF DIES.

Two midgets die on the same date.  Fascinating!

2006:  ANIMAL TV HOST STEVE IRWIN DIES.

Oh, look at the cool stingray.  Ouch.......

Dinner last night:  French dip sandwich and chopped salad.

Go For His Head

Here's the United States as probably drawn by a fan of NFL Football.  Indeed, it's been quite a while since this sport took over from baseball as America's favorite obsession.  That said, it's also been quite a while since I gave a damn about anything even remotely connected with football.  I never cared about college football and the pros, with its now over-emphasis on violence and military jargon, officially turned me off completely.   There is one less New York Jets fan in the world if anybody cares about either me or the lowly Jets.

But, I'm virtually alone in my disdain for the sport.  Look at the people around you.  Driving hundreds and hundreds of miles every Saturday to see their alma mater play in the Big 10.  Cooking up bowls and bowls of chili for that big tailgate party.  Dressing up your children in team outfits as soon as the little toddlers can walk.  

To all of those folks above, I give you a terrific new documentary entitled "The United States of Football" by filmmaker Sean Pamphilon.  It might make you think twice about that last game you watched.  Or, given our stupid country's propensity to look the other way, probably not.

As for me, I hate the sport a little bit more now.   And with good reason.

Pamphilon, in an efficient and linear style, outlines to us the plight of several ex-NFLers.  All of them have experienced some form of brain damage, which manifests itself in either a physical handicap, verbal rage, or violence.  All of them are likely to be afflicted with something called CTE or  chronic traumatic encephalopathy.  This is a brain disorder that comes to people who have had concussions resulting from repeated trauma to their head.  Or multiple concussions.

You know, like what might happen if you're tackled repeatedly.

This ailment is nothing new.  It was first diagnosed way back in 1928.  But it's on the rise of late, particularly to anybody who has played college or pro football.  Sometimes, the symptoms take years to manifest themselves.  But it's real and ugly.  It even can prompt you to take your own life as was the case of recent suicide and NFL star Junior Seau.

As are most documentaries, there is a bias on the part of the filmmakers involved and Sean Pamphilon is no different.  At times, "The United States of Football" is mawkish and heavy-handed.  But you cannot help but feel compassion for these folks as their story unfolds.  You meet players like Kyle Turley and Sean Morey and the late John Mackey.  All had CTE and paid a heavy price.  

Beyond the woeful health issues of the players that are spotlighted, you are astounded at the pro sport's inability to do anything about this.  Pamphilon shows us how the NFL hierarchy has been made aware of this growing problem and did little about it.  When you hear that the league and, astoundingly, even the player's union did nothing to address CTE in their last bargaining agreement, you want to throw them all for a fifteen yard loss.  In the middle of this "do-nothing" attitude is current NFL commissioner Roger Goodell who is such a boob that he makes baseball commissioner Bud Selig look like Nelson Mandela. 

Physicians recommended to the NFL there always be a licensed neurologist on the sidelines for every game.  This did not happen.  Meanwhile, whether it be Pop Warner or the NCAA or the NFL, players repeatedly re-enter the game after perhaps suffering a concussion just one quarter before.  There is one chilling audio tape from a team meeting of the revered and then Super Bowl champion New York Giants, who have never accused of being a classy operation anyway.  You hear one assistant coach talking about the fact that an opposing player may have suffered a concussion in the first half.  His advice to the team for the second half?

"Go for his head."

As disgusting and vile as it can be.  Remember that the next time your local Giants fan sobs incessantly about Peyton Manning's latest sprained ankle.

Pamphilon leaves nothing out in a very measured description of the ailment and football's reluctance to address it for the sake of money or TV ratings or whatever.  When you see and hear how CTE changes the lives of those who have it, your anger will boil into sudden death overtime.

"The United States of Football" is a sports documentary that must be seen by all fans who care and even those who do not.  Sadly, though, it probably won't be.  The lemmings that follow football will simply flip a bratwurst on the grill, open up another can of Bud, and look at the performance of their fantasy team.

As for me, I am very proud that I dumped this sport years ago.  I am very happy to lose myself in America's former favorite pastime of baseball.    Sure, it's slow and sometimes boring.  

But, then again, no baseball player ever kicked the shit out of his wife because he had to undergo Tommy John surgery.

LEN'S RATING:  Three stars.

Dinner last night:  Proscuitto, mozzarella, and olive tapenade panini.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - September 2, 2013

I love local merchants who think they can do their own TV commercials.   And this guy trades off on his resemblance to Larry David.

Dinner last night:  Hot dog at the Hollywood Bowl.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - When Summer Ends Every Year

You start to see the tell-tale signs around the middle of August.  When you're playing your nightly baseball game on the local vacant lot, it seems a little darker a little earlier.

While the hot and humid days often continue, you occasionally get an afternoon where, out of nowhere, cool breezes blow through your kitchen window.  The window fan is spinning and it's not even turned on.

And, worst of all, there are posters and billboards all over the place that promote...gasp...the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon.

For those of us in Mount Vernon, New York, this meant only one thing.

It would soon be back to school.  

And the fall season is arriving.

You'd see dead kids walking all over my neighborhood.  Freedom was waning.  The yearly ritual would begin anew.

I'd get dragged down to the Fourth Avenue shopping district by my mother.  We'd blow through the boys' clothing department at Genung's Department Store.  She'd try to guess what the smart fourth-grader would be wearing this season.

Sometimes it was turtlenecks built into sweaters.  Or pants that were bell bottoms.  Or, during the years I had to do so at Washington Junior High School, an assortment of ties.  

"We'll get you some of those clip-on ties so you don't have to worry about tying one after gym class."

As well-meaning as this gesture was, a clip-on tie was deadly.  If some kids saw you wearing one of those, they'd love to pull it off as you were moving in the hallway from class to class.

It wasn't often that I'd look at my neighborhood friends and envy that they all went to Catholic school.  Their wardrobe was always a standard uniform.  Crappy looking colors, for sure, but a life less complicated.  

Back at home, the end of summer found my grandmother in her rhubarb garden.  She'd cut down the remaining stalks in bulk and then cook them up for the freezer, ensuring that she'd have plenty of pie filling for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Meanwhile, she'd watch the commercials ballyhooing the upcoming Jerry Lewis fundraiser.

"That thing is on too damn long.  Who can watch all that?"

Well, Grandma, it's a telethon.  It's supposed to be long.

"There's never anybody good on."

On this, there was no argument.  While the ads promised big stars, I'd always tune in and find comedian Morty Gunty.  Who, you say?  Exactly, I say.

"This is boring.  All Jerry Lewis is doing is asking for money."

Well, that is the point of any telethon, Grandma.  She'd eventually shake her arms at the television set and switch over to some game show hosted by Bill Cullen.

Upstairs in our end of the house, my mother wouldn't on the telethon until the very last hour.  She wanted to be there when Jerry would sing "You'll Never Walk Alone" and eventually break down into sobs.  One year, though, Mom was working in Manhattan for the accounting firm that audited Muscular Dystrophy.  She actually had to work there and had a very soft spot for Jerry Lewis after that.  

"There's a secret reason why Jerry does this every year."

I asked my mother, the insider, what it was.

"I can't.  It's a secret."

Hmmm.  To this day, I have no clue whether my mom really did know.

In my room of the house on a nightly basis, there was another annual ritual going on.  The fated re-adjustment of bedtime.  Getting set to go to bed earlier on school nights.  Naturally, this was not welcomed.  I had become accustomed to later hours.  On summer Sunday nights, I could be up all the way to 11PM so I could watch "Candid Camera" and "What's My Line?"  But, for the school year, it had to be much earlier.  Except, as I got older, later times on selected nights would be open to negotiation.  

I'd have to first do some research before I plead my case.  This involved the annual TV Guide Fall Preview issue which was always long awaited in my world.  I'd keep going down to Bob's Luncheonette and Newsstand on First Street every day to see if it had arrived yet.   There was one year where I got there in time to watch Bob actually cut open the package that contained my Bible.

I'd run home with the gold and spend hours with it, reading about all the new TV shows, the changes to my returning favorites, and, most importantly, the prime time schedule grid.

Similar to the plans that they likely used to storm the beaches at Normandy during World War II, this schedule would allow me to pick which school nights I needed to stay up all the way to 10PM.

Monday night was a given.  CBS had all the best shows on there.  And, even though Andy Griffith eventually got moved earlier, there was always something at 930PM that I wanted to see.  

But choosing the second night had to be done carefully and strategically.  Sometimes, the TV networks moved shows around so I had to really know this schedule by heart.  I'd eventually decide on a second day for a later bedtime and then provide my argument to the judge AKA my mother.  

The good news is that, once she went back to work at nights just like my dad, my grandmother was the ultimate TV and bedtime custodian.

Which means I was up at 10PM almost every night, as we gleefully watched "our shows" together.

You'd trudge back to school on the first day, worrying that this year was going to be the toughest of all.  Perhaps kids a year ahead had warned you.  Going into the fifth grade, we heard bad things in advance of our new instructor, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian.   She's an ogre.  She's a troll that lives under a bridge.  Two children went into her homeroom last year and never came out.

We soon discovered that none of that was true.  And, while Mrs. Lillian C. Ian was tough, it was a rewarding experience.  And nobody disappeared.

You spent your first school days, surveying all the new expectations and assignments with trepidation.  How would you get this all done?  How hard does this look?  How the heck am I going to do all this homework and still watch my TV shows?

Somehow, we all managed.  And, if you went to a public school in Mount Vernon, New York, you got a wonderful bonus usually the first or second week of September.

Since most of the teachers in our school system back then were Jewish, we got off for both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Summer didn't leave completely after all.

I'd enjoy the time off but look longingly around my neighborhood.

Crickets.

That's the problem of having all Catholic friends.  They'd be off for things like All Saints Day and the Feast of Saint Whoever.  Me?  I was off for three days in September.  All by myself.

I'd go up to my room and open the now dog-eared edition of TV Guide's Fall Preview.  Gee, what did I miss the first dozen times that I had read it?

Dinner last night:  Grilled bratwurst at the Hollywood Bowl.