November Mugs On Parade - Extra Creepy Edition

And this is definitely extra creepy!

I knew that football helmet was on a little too tight.

Banana pudding fight!!!

And this is without botox.

Overdosing on Just For Men.

Fashion tip:  Mascara is not lipstick.

I can see the jury from here.

And also knee-deep in it.

Also available on e-Harmony.com.

And if you can't get a date with the one above...

He's in the bag.

This is somebody's grandma!!!

Dinner last night:  Sandwich and salad.

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Well, that's a strange title for a blog entry, isn't it?  Trust me.  It fits.

I remember when Kirk Gibson hits his famed World Series home run for the Dodgers in 1968.  Legendary radio announcer Jack Buck was doing the game and his call of the homer is well-known.

"I can't believe what I just saw."

Well, I said the very same thing if I saw "Birdman."  Repeatedly.  And, several days later, I'm still thinking about what I saw.   I don't know if I liked it.   I don't know if I hated it.   All I know was that my eyes were riveted on the screen for two hours.  Often not understanding a thing that was going on, but mesmerized nonetheless.

If nothing else, "Birdman," as directed by a mouthful known as Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, is never ever boring.  First off, in a tip of the sombrero to Alfred Hitchcock and his gimmicky film "Rope," the director compiles a movie that is essentially a series of long tracking shots.  Without cutting, the camera follows a character up and down staircases, through Broadway alleys, and into Times Square bars.  Oh, sure, there is some trickery to it all and I was able to spot the necessary transitions.  But, I am guessing people will go to see "Birdman" just for the steadi-cam shots alone.

Michael Keaton, an overrated actor, plays one in "Birdman."  Riggan Thomson is a washed up Hollywood actor who made a fortune as a superhero named "Birdman."  Years later, he is trying to reconnect with his craft and his family by starring in and directing a play on Broadway.   The movie takes you through the arduous previews and ultimate opening.  Indeed, one might argue that this film really shows you the dirt and sawdust associated with mounting a Broadway production.  You travel through the back rooms of a Broadway house from dressing room to stage to dressing room.  You meet a bunch of people who seem normal but are incredibly unhinged.  It's ugly and distasteful.

Yet, I couldn't stop watching.   

You know Riggan is a loose cannon with both his Broadway cast as well as his ex-wives and daughter played by the always-welcome-in-my-corneas Emma Stone.  He has fits of temper, rage, and destruction.  Moments later, he is fine and listening to the voice in his head which may or may not be the actual Birdman character.

Impossible to comprehend this all?   You bet.

Yet, I couldn't stop watching.

There is one amazing sequence where Riggan takes a break outside the stage door to have a smoke.  His robe gets locked in the door and he is forced to walk all the way around the block to the theater lobby for his entrance.  In his underwear.  It's all done in one single take.

Does it make any sense in relation to the story?   Nope.

Yet, I couldn't stop watching.

Towards the end, you think you've seen it all and then, suddenly and out of nowhere, 45th Street in New York becomes the soundstage for some terrific special effects.  There is flying.  There are numerous explosions and fires.   And Rodan makes an appearance on top of a building.

Huh?  Exactly.

I could tell you to go see "Birdman" and you may hate me for it.

I could tell you to avoid "Birdman" and you may hate me for it.

So I don't know exactly what to tell you to do.  It's film at its best.  And perhaps its worst.

I wound up in a conversation with a work colleague who's a former film student.  He asked me about the ending.  He provided his take on what had happened.  I had no clue what he was talking about.

But, credit the filmmaker with this.   If you see this movie, you will be talking about it.  

And, for that alone, perhaps "Birdman" is a success.   Or a failure.

LEN'S RATING:  How many stars?   I don't know.  I'll get back to you.

Dinner last night:  Sandwich and German potato salad.

This Date in History - November 5

Happy birthday to Peter Noone.  Mrs. Noone, you've got a lovely baby.

1138:  LY ANH TONG IS ENTHRONED AS EMPEROR OF VIETNAM AT THE AGE OF TWO.

No declaration of war today.  The emperor's got colic.

1530:  THE ST. FELIX'S FLOOD DESTROYS THE CITY OF REIMERSWAAL IN THE NETHERLANDS.

Ironic that something so messy is called Felix.

1605:  THE GUNPOWDER PLOT - GUY FAWKES IS ARRESTED.

He's fawked now.

1688:  WILLIAM III OF ENGLAND LANDS WITH A DUTCH FLEET AT SOUTHWEST ENGLAND.

Hey, ladies, fleet's in.

1757:  THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR - FREDERICK THE GREAT DEFEATS THE ALLIED ARMIES OF FRANCE AND THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE.

I would assume that was a big upset.

1780:  FRENCH-AMERICAN FORCES UNDER COLONEL LABALME ARE DEFEATED BY MIAMI CHIEF LITTLE TURTLE.

Heap big shell.

1831:  AMERICAN SLAVE LEADER NAT TURNER IS TRIED, CONVICTED, AND SENTENCED TO DEATH IN VIRGINIA.

He's fawked, too.

1862:  PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN REMOVES GEORGE B. MCCLELLAN AS COMMANDER OF THE UNION ARMY FOR THE SECOND AND FINAL TIME.

So the first time didn't take?

1872:  WOMEN'S SUFFRAGE IN THE US - IN DEFIANCE OF THE LAW, SUFFRAGIST SUSAN B. ANTHONY VOTES FOR THE FIRST TIME AND IS LATER FINED $100. 

That's one way to get your head on some currency.

1895:  GEORGE B. SELDEN IS GRANTED THE US PATENT FOR AN AUTOMOBILE.

Be the first to drive a '97 Selden.

1905:  ACTOR JOEL MCCREA IS BORN.

This guy worked in a whole lot of great movies during the 30s and 40s.

1911:  SINGER ROY ROGERS IS BORN.

Question: did he get stuffed like Trigger?

1912:  WOODROW WILSON IS ELECTED TO THE PRESIDENCY OF THE US.

One of the first ones to set us on a downward spiral.

1913:  ACTRESS VIVIEN LEIGH IS BORN.

Frankly, I don't give a damn.

1914:  WORLD WAR I - FRANCE AND THE BRITISH EMPIRE DECLARE WAR ON THE OTTOMAN TERRACE.

Why do these countries have against footrests?

1914:  ALPHA PHI DELTA FRATERNITY IS FOUNDED AT SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY.

The first all-night kegger.

1916:  THE EVERETT MASSACRE TAKES PLACE IN WASHINGTON AS POLITICAL DIFFERENCES BETWEEN THE INDUSTRIAL WORKERS OF THE WORLD ORGANIZERS AND LOCAL PEOPLE.

Seeing the word "massacre" in a sentence is never good.

1919:  ACCORDION PLAYER MYRON FLOREN IS BORN.

Thank you, Myron and the boys.

1937:  ADOLF HITLER HOLDS A SECRET MEETING AND STATES HIS PLANS FOR ACQUIRING LIVING SPACE FOR THE GERMAN PEOPLE.

Living Space?   You mean, like the furniture store??

1940:  ACTRESS ELKE SOMMER IS BORN.

She shops in the same German delicatessen I do.

1941:  SINGER ART GARFUNKEL IS BORN.

And here's to you, Mrs. Garfunkel.

1942:  SONGWRITER GEORGE M. COHAN DIES.

Dead of the fifth of November.

1943:  WORLD WAR II - THE BOMBING OF THE VATICAN.

Now, was that nice???

1947:  SINGER PETER NOONE IS BORN.

So where did the name Herman come from?

1955:  AFTER BEING DESTROYED IN WORLD WAR II, THE REBUILT VIENNA STATE OPERA OPENS WITH A PERFORMANCE OF BEETHOVEN'S FIDELIO.

As opposed to Mrs. Beethoven's Fellatio.

1960:  ACTOR WARD BOND DIES.

Wagon train derailed.

1960:  PRODUCER MACK SENNETT DIES.

That must have been some crazy funeral procession.

1963:  ACTRESS TATEM O'NEAL IS BORN.

It's only a paper moon.

1967:  THE HITHER GREEN RAIL CRASH IN THE UNITED KINGDOM KILLS 49 PEOPLE.  SURVIVORS INCLUDE ROBIN GIBB OF THE BEE GEES.

How do you mend a broken train?

1970:  THE VIETNAM WAR - THE US REPORTS THE LOWEST WEEKLY AMERICAN SOLDIER DEATH TOLL IN 5 YEARS - 24.

Still 24 too many.

1977:  BANDLEADER GUY LOMBARDO DIES.

Auld Lang Major Syne.

1979:  CARTOONIST AL CAPP DIES.

Black drapes hanging all over Dogpatch.

1990:  RABBI MEIR KAHANE, FOUNDER OF THE FAR-RIGHT KACH MOVEMENT, IS SHOT DEAD AFTER A SPEECH AT A NEW YORK CITY HOTEL.

Kahane was a Big Kahuna.

1991:  ACTOR FRED MACMURRAY DIES.

Chip and Ernie weep.

2007:  ANDROID MOBILE OPERATING SYSTEM IS UNVEILED BY GOOGLE.

Hey, that's my cell phone!

2008:  AUTHOR MICHAEL CRICHTON DIES.

And some man-made dinosaurs weep.

2010:  ACTRESS JILL CLAYBURGH DIES.

She's more than just unmarried now.

Dinner last night:  Late afternoon flight and I brought along a prosciutto, provolone, and sweet peppers wedge from Angelo's Italian Deli in Yonkers.

Morons of the Month - November 2014

Well, it's Election Day so there will be new morons aplenty by tomorrow morning.  But, let's focus on the photo above for now.

Yum.  This is the Ebola virus.   Imagine that running around your bloodstream like a horny sailor on shore leave. 

This all started in America last month, so, technically, we should have cited these morons in October.  But, since the disease is still around and can't be cured by taking a bottle of Nyquil, it's still timely.   And, as is usually the case when things go wrong in the United States, there are plenty of morons to go around.

You can start with a federal government and yes, that means you, Barry O, who has steadfastly ignored the specter of this dread disease for months.  Of course, I will offer this rhetorical question.  If Ebola had started any place in the world other than Africa, travel restrictions would have been ordered long ago.  Think about it.

Of course, that's the main problem with Americans who always think about things before it is too late.  This was an amazing nation for the second half of the twentieth century   Wonderful innovations and leaps forward in the arena of health care prevention and pharmaceuticals.  Horrible afflictions and diseases conquered or controlled.  Malaria.  Tuberculosis.  Polio.

Well, thanks to the lackadaisical approach to our borders, a lot of these sicknesses are back.  Tuberculosis is actually on the rise.  So is whooping cough.  Hell, maybe polio rears its ugly head again.  Dust off those iron lungs, folks.

Once again, it's our immigration policy that has America taking the long, long circular route down into the sewer system.  We act like the world is as it was back in the first third of the twentieth century.  When hard working people saw these shores as a beacon where hard work would be rewarded and life could be grander.  There were controls in place so that this human inflow could be managed.  No more.

So, the health issues of the impoverished world suddenly become our responsibility.  And even oceans can't keep us safe any more. 

And speaking of a world class moron...

We hear about this NY doctor who worked with Ebola patients over in Africa for several months.  Good for him.  But, this jerk comes back here, knowing fully well what he was exposed to.  He rides the subway.  He is reunited with his fiancée after a long absence so you know that bodily fluids had to be swapped in one form or another.   Then he heads to a bowling alley for a night of 7-10 splits.  God, do you want to be the person who rents those bowling shoes after his feet sweated into them?   If this guy wants to work in Africa, he should do so.   Permanently.   No one in America should hire him after this incredibly irresponsible action. 

Kill us now.  It will be easier.

Again, this is a country now that is too stupid to progress any further.  This doctor was clearly irresponsible.  I fear that there will be other do-gooders also lacking of common sense who will infect you and me and the dog.  While I applaud the work of those Americans who go overseas to help the poor and the sick, I wonder about all those people here at home.   Also poor.  Also sick.  Can you keep your charity and good will between our own shores? 

Apparently not.

We continue to be the trailblazers for people around the world seeking a better life.  That's fine.   But how about improving conditions here?

Too late. 

Because those who fail to recognize this blatant fact are truly the morons this month.   And this year and next year as well.

Cover your mouths when you sneeze, everybody.

Dinner last night:  BBQ burger at Pete's Tavern in Bronxville.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - November 3, 2014

Keeping abreast of some game show fun.

Dinner last night:  Roast beef sandwich and salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Semester with a Cat

It's no mystery to people who know me. 

I hate cats.

If you have a cat, God bless you. Love it with every fiber of emotion in your body. That doesn't change the way I feel. I still hate them.

Part of the reason why is that I can't spend more than five minutes in a room with one and not experience perhaps the worst allergic and asthmatic episode ever recorded in history. If it's been a few months since you flipped the on/off switch on your vacuum cleaner, the wheezes will intensify at a geometric progression.

If you've got a cat in your house, don't expect me to stay longer than five minutes. Don't wait for me to sit down because the odds are your cat has bounced over every piece of furniture and cushion. If I sit down, the cat hair gets on my clothes and comes home with me and then I can have that same pulmonary attack in the confines of my own sterile cat-less abode.

Now, by and large, I can control the existence of a dander-free environment. Friends acknowledge that and embrace my shortcomings. Thank you for understanding. If you want me to see photos of your home, please e-mail them in a .jpeg format. Just don't wait for me to step inside and watch your beloved Fluffy lick her paws while lounging in the dish rack on the kitchen counter. Or, even worse. Make me watch as the shit piles up in the litter box that's right next to the cookie jar. Hmm. Are those really chocolate chips? Yum. Excuse me while I throw up in my mouth a little.

But, beyond the health reasons for my dislike of this creatures, there's another factor at place.

I don't think they're cute. As far as I'm concerned, they're not lovable. Or adorable. While dogs love you unconditionally, cats are always looking to get the upper paw on you. "Screw you and your need to pet me. When the fuck do I eat?" I don't think they are capable of loving anything but themselves.

Okay, I admit some of this venom is deep seeded. When I was about five or six, I stumbled on a dead cat in our driveway and it just had its head steamed and pressed by a Goodyear tire. That image has stayed with me forever. Certainly not the poor cat's fault. But I can never shake that visualization.

My grandmother hated cats, too, for a completely different reason. She alleges, as only Grandma would, that the only cat she ever had tried to suck the life out of my father as he lay innocently in his crib. My grandmother claims she came in just as the cat was going to take a bite out of my dad's infant neck. For years, I have not been able to shake that mental visualization.

A psychiatrist might now reason that my cat allergy could be tied to those two childhood events. And perhaps the wheezing and runny eyes is a direct result. It makes sense.But, then, I open an innocent e-mail and it starts all over for me. Maybe you get them, too. Those adorable cat photos that some folks just find so irresistable. They are endless and so quickly deleted.

"Doesn't little Furball look so cute sitting on top of that halogen floor lamp?"

No, he doesn't. As a matter of fact, I am guessing one of the cat's claws might scrape a wire near the bulb and you'll find your home in ashes when you get back from Starbucks.

So, having just read all this, you will be mystified to know that I actually had a cat for three whole months.  This is long before I knew that their dander could be lethal for me.  And, as I remember it all, it all started very innocently.

It was my junior year at Fordham.  I had commuted to the Bronx campus for the first two years.   But, since my college best buddy was moving into a dorm apartment, we thought it would be cool to do it together.  Back in that day, there was a spanking new 12-story apartment building right off campus.  The infamous 555 as if 555 East 191st Street.   It was tough to score a place, but we managed to become two in a three-bedroom suite of six guys.  There was us and the other four guys who happened to be close friends.

Guess who immediately were the outsiders?

Because the majority ruled, we didn't have much say about what went on in the apartment.  We had our own bathroom, but shared kitchen and dining privileges.  Also the one portable TV was a shared option.  It was not an opportune arrangement.

So, when the cute girls from next door came to us for a favor, my roommate and I were not necessarily dealing from a position of power.

"We have two cats that aren't getting along.   Can you keep one of them for this semester?"

If you keep smiling just like that, sure.  A decision made not by body parts north, but south.

The Nazi overlords of our apartment were not happy by our kindness to the two nymphs next door.

"That cat stays at your end of the suite."

Yes, Adolf.

That meant virtually everything cat-related.  Toys.  Food.  Water dish.  Kibble.  And the worst?

The fucking litter box.  Under the sink in our bathroom. 

I had blacked out the name of this creature to this day.  It should have been called Laxative because that's all the damn thing ever did.  Neither my roommate or I had ever owned a cat before.   I certainly did not with my grandmother in close proximity.  So, in between taking four credits of classes, most of our semester was taken up by emptying the litter box.

Meanwhile, the cat often missed his aim.  There were times we stepped in it.  Right out of the shower. 

Cute girls or not, we started to formulate a plan of how to get out from under the cat's ass.  Literally and figuratively.

"It could go out the window.  By accident."

That was not an option.  Our dorm apartment was on the second floor.  The cat would land on his feet and then laugh at us.

"We could draw a bath.  And then it could accidentally slip in the water."

Holding the head underwater was necessary.  Neither of us wanted to do the deed.  Besides, we figured that we had the one cat who knew how to hold his breath.

Indeed, we did nothing.  We spent the semester walking in kibble and pellets and shit until the day around Christmas that we could hand this monster back to the cuties across the hall.   On second look, we didn't think they were as pretty as we originally thought.   What were we thinking?

I don't know just when my severe allergy to cats began.  Maybe it was the sight of the dead one in my driveway.  Or the live one shitting next to my toilet.

When a cat is near, I sneeze.  My eyes water.  My throat constricts.  I begin to wheeze.

And, somehow, as far as cats and I are concerned, that's a good thing.

Dinner last night:  Salisbury steak at the New Rochelle Diner.

Classic TV Commercial of the Month - November 2014

Groucho drives one.  So should you.

Dinner last night:  Had a big lunch so nothing really.