My 2000th Blog Entry

And what better to celebrate than by including this snapshot of fireworks over one of my very favorite places, Dodger Stadium?  Oh, wait, I have another picture to share.  Fireworks over another of my frequent Los Angeles haunts, the Hollywood Bowl.

Two thousand days.  This blog has now doubled the complete term in office served by President John F. Kennedy.  This means that I'm either very prolific, incredibly wordy, or just smart enough to avoid riding in a limousine through Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas.

Truth be told, I've written up these blog celebrations before.  Always when I hit the anniversary of its premiere, which is in mid-March.  Or whenever I achieve a particularly round number of blog entry posts, which #2000 is most certainly a particularly round number.   In the past, I've honored the occasion in a myriad of ways.

I've re-posted the very first post of this blog and added commentary in retrospect.

I've answered questions from readers.

I've answered questions as if they were posed by James Lipton on "Inside the Actor's Studio."

I've provided a behind-the-scenes look at one writes a daily blog.

I've done a complete inventory of the wardrobe in my walk-in closet.

Okay, I didn't do that.  But I just as easily could have.

While I still have no problem filling up the contents of these virtual pages on a daily basis, I have a big issue figuring out what to do with these commemorative posts.  

Gang, I've run out of ideas on how to celebrate me.  I mean, this is not like the old Johnny Carson Tonight show which used to do an anniversary show and give us for the umpteenth time Ed Ames throw a tomahawk.  I don't have tried-and-true clips that I can rerun.

Ah, but I do practice that already.  Embedded in those 2000 posts are some repeats.  While there are a few videos that I have shown multiple times because they are just so damn funny, the feature where I have tended to repeat myself is in my Sunday Memory Drawer, which the Blogger stats will show is my most popular day of the week.

Indeed, the Sunday Memory Drawer started as a weekly paean to my grandmother who used to regale me every rainy or cold Sunday afternoon with stories from the last week or seemingly the last century.  It has turned into a virtual memoir for me and is now forming the outline for a screenplay. 

That said, I find myself returning to the same memories again and again.  In much the same way that Grandma repeated stories herself, I'm falling into the same habit.  I rationalize this practice by saying that there's a completely different pack of blog readers today and old stuff is still new to them. 

I try to refresh the tales if I repeat them.  For instance, I wrote about Freedomland five years ago but was able to remember some new elements that made it a completely different saga which I ran last Sunday.  Sometimes I revisit to uncover a new perspective or look to the same old story.  While I told the memory once before, it might be even better with granite countertops or hard wood floors.

There was the Sunday Memory Drawer where I told some story from my childhood, only to discover days later that I had already written about the same memory three years earlier.  All of a sudden, I am my own grandmother, asking my readers.

"Did I tell you this already?"

At the end of each day in the last 2000, these are essentially nothing but words.  Hopefully crafted in a way that gives you a smile or a laugh or a shrug or a hoot or a holler or maybe all five of them.  After a creative reboot several years ago, I started to avoid doing too many pieces on the political landscape.  First of all, there is nothing I or we can say about the deplorable situation that has been perpetrated by the politicians of our nation and that goes for both sides of the aisle, gang.  But, still, I also discovered that I actually have friends amongst the readership that are very intolerant when it comes to opposing viewpoints.  Okay, we're polarized enough around here.   There's no need to fan the flames of dissent in this blog. 

But, still, in the next three months, how am I going to be able to avoid discussing just a little bit of what promises to be the dirtiest and ugliest Presidential campaign in American history?

But I'll always endeavor to stay on the funny side of the street.  I started doing this blog as a means to giving myself a daily writing exercise.  Of course, a true writer figures out how to work the blog system and layer in periods of non-productivity.  For instance, my "This Date in History," which runs every Wednesday has been written so far in advance that I'm already starting on the month of October.  At times, I have so many future blog posts in the queue that I can take a whole week off from writing.

When I began this journey in March of 2007, I certainly didn't expect to be doing it every day for the next 2000.  But this has become as much a part of my life's routine as showering and eating, which are two daily functions that I have yet to figure out how to do simultaneously.  I discover that everything in my life can wind up here on the blog.  I have actually gone to a movie that I know I will detest, simply because I know that I will get a particularly snarky blog review out of it.  And I've become much more attuned to my surroundings.  If I see or experience something interesting, you just might read it or see it here. 

And I sincerely hope you will enjoy.

So, in my attempt to figure out one more way to commemorate long term success on my blog, I have apparently settled on a theme for today's celebration. 

The rambling, incoherent, self-congratulatory piece that says absolutely nothing. 

I promise to be a bit more creative when we get to Blog Post #2500.  See you then.

Well, actually, see you here.  Tomorrow.   And every day.

Dinner last night: Omelet with egg whites and ham.

Classic TV Theme of the Month - August 2012

You might wonder why a traditional Saturday blog feature is running on Friday.  Well, add up the numbers on the side column and you'll figure it out.  Tomorrow is a very special entry.

Meanwhile, after Andy Griffith, there was....

 

Dinner last night:  Steak and salad.

A Netflix Suggestion for You

I'll give you a little snapshot of how I handle my Netflix membership.  I don't look at my queue of DVD selections for long periods of time.  Nor do I go onto the site frequently to choose new movies.  Generally, I will hear of movies that got limited theatrical releases and weren't worth the price and hassle of seeing them in a multiplex.  I notate them and then pop them into my Netflix account the next time I sign on.

As a result, I have a queue of about 100 films and I completely forget what I have loaded on there until the movie shows up in the red envelope.  Oh, did I put this down?  Really?  Why?  Some are dismal examples of what I need to show more discretion.  Others can be very pleasant surprises.

"Play The Game" showed up several weeks ago and falls in the latter category.  More ironically?  This film, which was Andy Griffith's last movie role, arrived in the mail on the day he died.  Timing is everything.  And, in a strange way, "Play The Game" serves as a fitting and, at the same time, bizarre closure to Andy's acting career.

The movie is a small, yet satisfying story of a grandfather and a grandson coming together in a way that most grandfathers and grandsons do not.  Paul Campbell, an actor unknown to me previously, is the younger generation.  He works for his dad's car dealership and uses the same sales techniques there that he uses to pick up women in bars.  Considered a bit of an expert in both arenas, the kid shares his skills with others.

Enter Grandpa Andy.  Living now in an assisted living facility, the old guy is mourning the recent death of the love of his life and contemplating the quickest way to join his life.  On one of the grandson's rare visits to "the home," Grandpa is encouraged to meet other people.   Armed with some of the boy's tried-and-true pick-up lines, Grandpa joins his grandson at a local watering hole.  The old guy hitches his pants up to his rib cage, stirs some Metamucil into a cocktail, and proceeds to find a meaning to his life. 

At the same time, the youngster falls for a girl who may be "the one."  But, she might be playing him the same way he plays women.  Or is she?  The cat-and-mouse game evolves into mouse-and-cat and back again.  You're never quite sure who's playing who and the usually cocksure grandson suddenly finds himself at a loss.

So, while the boy sinks into a sea of confusion, Grandpa becomes the "player" at the senior center.  He's smitten with Doris Roberts, but she's already spoken for.  He winds up romancing Liz Sheridan, who we all remember as Jerry Seinfeld's mother.  Not only is Andy feeling his oats, she's feeling up his as well.  And, in the most bizarre image ever on the screen, you get to watch her give good ole Andy Taylor...wait for it...a blowjob.  Mayberry would be all agog.

"Play The Game" was written and directed by people I've never heard of.  So, with the lack of a solid pedigree, you're not that surprised when it becomes predictable like every other romantic comedy that's been produced since 1995.  But, there's a unique sweetness in the relationship between Grandpa and Grandson that elevates it all.  And the acting is spot-on, creating some characters you genuinely like.

I also enjoyed some of the subtext that the filmmaker employed in "Play The Game."  Perhaps they knew this might be Andy Griffith's swan song.  The grandson's father is played by Clint Howard, Ron's brother.   Doris Roberts' boy friend is played by Rance Howard, Ron's father.  And the closing scenes take place at the lake.  Grandson and Grandpa, barefoot and fishing.  Just like Andy and Opie.

It makes me wonder if they knew. 

You could do a lot worse than putting "Play The Game" into your viewing queue.  Not only could you do a lot worse, most of us usually do.

Dinner last night:  Bangers and mash---a true English dinner at the home of some British friends.

This Date in History - August 15

It's Rose Marie's first birthday in Heaven.   I got to see her in person several weeks before she died.  Sniff, sniff.

293 BC:  THE OLDEST KNOWN ROMAN TEMPLE TO VENUS IS DEDICATED.

And Frankie Avalon had a big hit dedicated to Venus in 1959.  Totally unrelated but my creative meter is currently on "E."

927:  THE SARACENS CONQUER AND DESTORY TARANTO.

And Michael Sarrazin was in "Reincarnation of Peter Proud."  Yep, still on empty.

982:  HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR OTTO II IS DEFEATED BY THE SARACENS IN THE BATTLE OF CAPO COLONNA.

And Jerry Colonna had a big moustache.   I tell you, some Wednesdays are really tough to get going.

1040:  KING DUNCAN I IS KILLED IN BATTLE AGAINST HIS FIRST COUSIN AND RIVAL MACBETH. 

Wait!  Shakespeare didn't write fiction??

1057:  KING MACBETH IS KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF LUMPHANAN.

What goes around....

1281:  THE MONGOLIAN FLEET OF KUBLAI KHAN IS DESTROYED BY A "DIVINE WIND."

That divine wind was probably gas.

1248:  THE FOUNDATION OF COLOGNE CATHEDRAL, BUILT TO HOUSE THE RELICS OF THE THREE WISE MEN, IS LAID.

Amongst their relics were sales receipts.  Just in case Mary and Joseph wanted to exchange the baby gifts.

1430:  FRANCESCO SFORZA, LORD OF MILAN, CONQUERS LUCCA.

Good lucca with that.

1483:  POPE SIXTUS IV CONSECRATES THE SISTINE CHAPEL.

What Pope is next?  Pope Seventus?

1519:  PANAMA CITY, PANAMA IS FOUNDED.

And what came first?  The city or the hat?

1537:  ASUNCION, PARAGUAY, IS FOUNDED.

As if it was lost....

1540:  AREQUIPA, PERU, IS FOUNDED.

Boy, is that founding department busy or what?

1549:  JESUIT PRIEST SAINT FRANCIS XAVIER COMES ASHORE AT KAGOSHIMA, JAPAN.

Since he was aiming for America, I guess you can say he overshot his target.\

1599:  DURING THE NINE YEARS WAR, IRISH FORCES LED BY HUGH ROE O'DONNELL SUCCESSFULLY AMBUSH ENGLISH FORCES.

Hugh Roe O'Donnell??  Nah, too easy.

1769:  NAPOLEON BONAPARTE IS BORN.

So what came first?  Him or the pastry??

1843:  TIVOLI GARDENS, ONE OF THE OLDEST AMUSEMENT PARKS IN THE WORLD, OPENS IN DENMARK.

This was so long ago that it was still owned by Three Flags.

1859:  BASEBALL OWNER CHARLES COMISKEY IS BORN.

Or as that great baseball fan Barack Obama called him...."Cominskey."

1885:  NOVELIST EDNA FERBER IS BORN.

Thanks in part to her, we have the concept of "doing a book report."

1912:  CHEF JULIA CHILD IS BORN.

She comes out of the oven.

1914:  A MALE SERVANT OF ARCHITECT FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT SETS FIRE TO THE LIVING QUARTERS OF THE ARCHITECT'S HOME, KILLING SEVEN PEOPLE.

That's an odd reaction to not getting Tuesdays off.

1919:  ACTOR HUNTZ HALL IS BORN.

Now Leo Gorcey has somebody to pick on.

1923:  ACTRESS ROSE MARIE IS BORN.

You know she got buried with that bow in her hair.

1925:  ACTOR MIKE CONNORS IS BORN.

Mannix was so cool!

1933:  TV GAME SHOW HOST JIM LANGE IS BORN.

A big birthday kiss!!!!!!

1935:  WILL ROGERS AND WILEY POST ARE KILLED IN AN ALASKAN PLANE CRASH.

He never met a man he didn't like.  Except for that damn pilot.

1941:  CORPORAL JOSEF JAKOBS IS EXECUTED BY FIRING SQUAD AT THE TOWER OF LONDON AT 7:12 AM, MAKING HIM THE LAST PERSON TO BE EXECUTED AT THE TOWER FOR TREASON.

At 7:18 AM, they do the people convicted of larceny.  At 7:23 AM, they do all the arsonists.  Quite a precise system.

1944: DURING WORLD WAR II, ALLIED FORCES LAND IN SOUTHERN FRANCE. 

And this likely included my own uncle.

1944:  JOURNALIST LINDA ELLERBEE IS BORN.

And so she goes.

1945:  JAPAN SURRENDERS TO END WORLD WAR II.

Bonsai!

1945:  NEW YORK MET DUFFY DYER IS BORN.

The third catcher on the World Champion 1969 team.

1948:  THE REPUBLIC OF KOREA IS ESTABLISHED SOUTH OF THE 38TH PARALLEL NORTH.

Which starts a war.  And, oh, yeah, a long running television show.

1965:  THE BEATLES PLAY TO NEARLY 60,000 FANS AT SHEA STADIUM IN NEW YORK CITY.

I remember hearing the screams in the distance as my family drove past after visiting relatives in Long Island.

1969:  THE WOODSTOCK MUSIC AND ART FESTIVAL OPENS.

Weather forecast: 80% chance of mud.

1973:  THE UNITED STATES BOMBING OF CAMBODIA ENDS.

So, I guess all that peace and love at Woodstock wasn't for nothing.

1994:  TV PERSONALITY/JOURNALIST JOHN CAMERON SWAYZE DIES.

And he just keeps on ticking.  Oh, no, wait.....

1995:  IN SOUTH CAROLINA, SHANNON FAULKNER BECOMES THE FIRST FEMALE CADET MATRICULATED AT THE CITADEL.  SHE DROPS OUT A WEEK LATER.

Way to stick to the program, Shannon.

2007:  AN 8.0 MAGNITUDE EARTHQUAKE OFF THE PACIFIC COAST DEVASTATES ICA AND PARTS OF PERU.

Peru, I've heard of.  Ica???  Anybody???

Dinner last night:  Leftover chicken tenders and vegetables,

The Feel Bad Movie of the Summer

Let me get the obvious admission out of the way right up front.

Yes, I did.

Despite vows that "The Dark Knight" movie from several summers back had sworn me off this movie franchise for good, I somehow wound up seeing the final and what will hopefully be the last movie starring this version of the Caped Crusader.

Why, you ask?  Curiosity, I reply with a shrug.

Admittedly, the headlines behind the opening night shooting raised my interest level to higher proportions.  And the critical reviews for "The Dark Knight Rises" were almost universal in lauding this film as the ultimate triumph of creative genius.  Like the last edition of "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy, this movie will earn Hollywood's highest honor as the Oscar winner for Best Picture.  

Hmmmmm,  I say.  Oh, I understand why you went, you retort.

Best Picture Oscar?   Er, not now, kiddies.  Regardless of the movie's merits, the Colorado debacle has created a palatable stench around this film that will likely turn off most Academy voters.  Other than some technical award nominations, "The Dark Knight Rises" should be heavily ignored come next February.  

And rightfully so.  

Because, once again, I will attest that film reviewers today don't know a good movie when they see one.  Primarily because they never have.  They have been sucked into a world of entertainment where mediocrity can look a lot better if you print a pretty picture and blow a lot of shit up, two things that this Dark Knight does very well.  One more time, we find people confusing style with substance and, trust me, when I tell you that the immensely overrated director Christopher Nolan has included a lot of the former and none of the latter.

For those of you still in your comas from the last Dark Knight installment, Gotham City is in a bad way.  First of all,  it doesn't look like Chicago anymore, which is where the last one was filmed.  This time around, they used New York City and invoked some bad memories which I will discuss later.  Anyway, anarchy is in the streets with some guy named Bain leading the psychotic charge and this is no buddy of Mitt Romney.  You really don't know what this guy is pissed about because that would mean the writer would have had to pen some dialogue in between explosions.  But, Bain walks around like some bargain basement Darth Vader with a breathing apparatus that no health insurance company would approve.  In the first five minutes, he conducts a mid-air skyjacking that was done a lot more realistically by Roger Moore as James Bond about thirty years ago.   Meanwhile, the sequence is so overly computer-generated and video-game-like that you expect to see a score counter in the upper left hand corner of the screen.  

Our hero, Bruce Wayne/Batman/whatever, is in hiding and wants nothing to do with crime fighting anymore.  Who can blame him?  I saw the last movie, too.    We know that Batman is in the throes of a moral dilemma because not one word he utters is coherent.  Christian Bale, who really is not as good an actor as his agent tells him he is, mutters and stammers constantly, making the viewer in the theater look for a remote control that can turn up the volume.  What did he say?  What did he say now?  Did the explosion in the last scene make me completely deaf?  Every three minutes, there's another new question for the audience.  Of course, the biggest one remains over the entire affair.  Why did I bother coming at all?

In this edition, we get to meet Catwoman, played tongue-in-cheek by Anne Hathaway, and Julie Newmar should be losing no sleep over her performance.  Catwoman's along to get off a few comic zingers while kicking the shit out of anybody who gets in her way.   The dichotomy really doesn't work.  But, then again, nothing really does in this mess concocted by the bloated ruminations of director Nolan.  

The usual supporting characters from this series are back, but, of course, Michael Caine and the dependably annoying Morgan Freeman will show up to do any movie at any time or any place.  Neither actor has employed a script reader for years.  As long as there are fresh doughnuts on the craft services table in the morning, you can count on these two clowns to be in your movie.  Call them now to ensure that they will be available for the home movies of your Thanksgiving family gathering.

"The Dark Knight Rises," with its inexplicably running time of either three hours or three weeks, takes itself way too seriously, but, naturally, everything Christopher Nolan ever films is overzealous to a fault.  Here's a guy who has the darkest view of life imaginable and wants you to share in his distorted vision, like it or not.  At the same time, there's amazingly not an original thought in the entire film, and its ending is a complete and utter rip-off of the final three minutes of "Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol."  

What makes "The Dark Knight Rises" most reprehensible is the way Nolan tries to equate this Gotham City and its disasters to 9/11.  Yes, folks, that 9/11. 

Let's see, there are threats to a city by some lunatic who is leading a group that will blow up the entire town.  He starts with destroying a public place populated by innocent citizens, in this case, fans at a pro football stadium.  Oh, and about three thousand cops are buried alive.  Meanwhile, white dust is visible all over the streets of the financial district, which looks eerily like visions of Wall Street eleven years ago.  If that's not enough for your stomach, Nolan has the sheer audacity to include an overhead show of a smoking lower Manhattan with the new World Trade Center clearly visible in the center of the screen.

Shame on you, asshole.  

If Hollywood would ever attempt to make an allegory about that sad day in American history, it would be successful in the right hands.  Steven Spielberg, most certainly Clint Eastwood, and maybe even Ron Howard.  This hack, however, tries to equate it all to a comic book hero and that is criminally wrong.  That alone should get Christopher Nolan banned from making lunch reservations at the Ivy for the next decade.

Sadly, amidst all this rubble, there's one shining and single light.  Joseph Gordon-Levitt is perhaps one of the best young actors working today and he commands every scene he's in as an honest policeman.   Whether it be comedy, action, or drama, this guy knows what's he doing.  Unfortunately, he's set up to be the character of Robin in the final moments and I really hope he thinks twice before signing onto another film franchise engineered by Christopher Nolan.  He deserves better than that.  

But, then again, when it comes to movies like "The Dark Knight Rises," who doesn't?  It's certainly not worth the time, the money, the effort...

Or the bloodshed.

Dinner last night:  Chinese chicken salad.

 

Monday Morning Video Laugh - August 13, 2012

I guarantee that you will hit "replay" several times.

 Dinner last night:  Breaded chicken tenders, rice, and broccoli.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - That Amusement Park Ten Minutes Away

Following up on last week's Memory Drawer about Rye Playland, the recesses of my mind were tapped again.  While I was lamenting that those of us in Lower Westchester and the Bronx did not have many amusement park options available to us, I had completely forgotten those three or four years where we were blessed to have in our own backyard...

I've written about it here before, but it's worth another and closer look.  Here we were living in the boondocks of New York City.  Suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, we had our own version of Disneyland.  Most of us looked at Anaheim, California, as if it was on the moon.  And it might as well have been.  Now we have something that looked and felt like Walt's creation.  Minutes away.

From my perch in the backseat of Dad's Buick, I saw it going up everytime we passed by the proposed site off the New England Thruway.  I had been no doubt bored shitless again by another visit to some relative or parental friends on Long Island.  I saw Freedomland emerging from the ground and wondered what this was all about.  Dad explained that it was going to an East Coast version of Disneyland and it would be open in the summer.

Can we go?

"It will be very crowded." 

Can we go?

"Summer.  Too hot."

Mom chimed in.

"And full of mosquitos."

And? 

My father's final piece of his patented "why can't we go someplace" trilogy was up next.  And it won't not work this time.  Don't even try it, Dad.

Freedomland was not going to be too far away.  A ten minute drive from 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon.

Kid scores one.  Parents score nothing.

I forgot all about it until one warm Sunday night and we were watching the Ed Sullivan Show.  Being broadcast directly from Freedomland on the night before the park was going to officially open.  Old Stone Face sent a personal invitation over the airwaves.

"All you kiddies. you'll want to get your parents to bring you here to Freedomland." 

From my seat on the floor in front of the boob tube, I looked longingly back at my folks.  The look of resignation on their faces was obvious.  There was no way out of this one. 

"Yeah, we'll go."

Kid scores another one.  Parents blanked. 

I swear that night I heard one of my parents mutter that Ed Sullivan should go to Hell. 

My first Freedomland visitation had to wait until my father took his annual summer vacation, which was always scheduled for the last week in July and the first week in August.  Every year, all our summer fun had to be shoehorned into a single two-week period.  And, for this season, Freedomland would join the traditional agenda items.

Unlike my earliest visits to Rye Playland where I got to enjoy an amusement park with those purveyors of non-amusement, namely my parents, Freedomland would be a place we would visit with another family.  My mom's best friend was Aunt Ronnie and she was a dead ringer for actress Susan Hayward.  Conveniently, her husband Larry owned the gas station my dad frequented.  So, the four of them were as thick as thieves.  That meant their kids and I would be thrown together for the essence of fun. 

Whether we liked it or not.  Luckily, their daughters, Susan and Nancy, were okay to serve as ride buddies.  It wouldn't be the same as riding with one of my neighborhood chums or school friends.  And they were...gasp...girls.  But, given the usual solitude of my solo forays on the Playland Caterpillar, little beggars wouldn't be big choosers.  Susan and Nancy would do, thank you very much.

I was probably more annoying than usual in the days preceding our "long" trek down Baychester Avenue to the spanking new world of fun that awaited us on the shores of Eastchester Bay which featured the dirtiest and smelliest water you could imagine.  Once we arrived at the gates that morning, Susan, Nancy, and I ran on ahead with exuberant anticipation.  This was a world that was new to us.  And one we could only visit on television every time Walt Disney showed us film clips of his Magic Kingdom in the middle of his Mickey Mouse Club.  As we ran with glee, four parents shouted in unison.

"Don't run."

Yeah?   We're children.  That's what we do.  Especially when we're near rides, live animals, and, oh yeah, gobs of ice cream.

Freedomland was designed to look like a map of the United States and had a very historical slant on the rides and attractions it offered. Allegedly, Walt Disney was the early consultant on this park until he suddenly thought to himself, “What the fuck am I doing near Boston Post Road in the Bronx?” But, whether Mickey’s dad was involved or not, this wide-eyed kid soaked it all in. This would be the closest I would get to Disneyland for decades.

Indeed, if any Disney lawyers wanted to litigate, they might have had a good case when it came to Freedomland.  I didn't know it at the time, but there were attractions and elements that were completely lifted (stolen really) from Disneyland.

Little Olde New York.    Umm,  Main Street USA?

Chicago and the Great Plains.  Er, Frontierland?

The Great Southwest.  Hello, Adventureland?

Satellite City.  Tomorrowland, anybody?

We didn't give a shit.  Or know any better.  This place was wonderful and belonged to us exclusively.  Smack in the middle of...would you believe...the Bronx.  Essentially built on a toxic landfill and swamp.  Sort of like a Six Flags Over Sewer Water.

My mom and dad must have enjoyed themselves because, almost inexplicably, we went back to Freedomland several times a summer during its very short life.  And we went again not only with Aunt Ronnie's bunch, but other families as well.   Suddenly, this was the hot thing to do amongst the circle of my parents' friends.  So, as had been the case with Susan and Nancy, I was thrown into the ride mix with a myriad of other kids who really weren't my friends, but would serve in that capacity at least for the next eight or so hours.

While my dad still tended to keep his feet firmly implanted on the ground at Freedomland, my mom actually did sample the rides there.  And this would be the place where she and I actually went on a ride together.  

It was one of those across-the-park bucket ride, which scared the shit out of me every time the bucket went over one of those connecting posts. You’d get this sudden jolt as if you’d be tumbling down onto a hot dog wagon within seconds. But, that never happened. I do remember my mom sitting high aloft and admiring the view of the nearby New England Thruway, all the while flicking the ashes off her cigarette from an arm extended in mid-air. Ashes that probably did land on somebody’s hot dog. 

Like any amusement park, Freedomland would not be without mishap for me. I puked up lunch on one of those spinning toy rides. And there was another attraction where they set “the Chicago Fire” every twenty minutes and all the customers had to pump the water out of the antique fire truck. I was a little too young and short to be doing this, and that resulted in me getting conked in the cocoanut by the iron pump lever. The fire went out and so did I. You can see the pump in this video.
Elsie the Cow from Borden’s was on regular display at Freedomland and there were plenty of Borden’s ice cream products available for purchase while you waited on line. Of course, by the time you got to Elsie, she was usually taking her hourly bathroom break, which made the chocolate popsicle in your mouth a lot less appetizing.

One part of Freedomland was designed like the Jetsons’ space age house and that’s where they held concerts and shows with some big name talent. That’s actually what propelled my parents there on multiple occasions. I can remember hearing “Moonlight Serenade” from the Glenn Miller Orchestra, “Diana” as sung by Paul Anka, and the Four Seasons.  Frank Fontaine, “Crazy Cuggenheim” from the old Jackie Gleason Show, performed there and he shook my hand.  The first TV star I would ever meet.

When Lawrence Welk and the lovely Lennon Sisters were due to perform there, we were joined at Freedomland by some very special guests.

Grandma and Grandpa, who generally didn't leave the backyard unless they were going to church, the supermarket, or the doctor down on Bathgate Avenue in the Bronx.  But their Saturday night TV hero was enough of a lure for them.  Their reaction to seeing the bubblemaker in person: “He looks better on TV.”

Our glory would be shortlived.  There were some ride accidents at the park.  Allegations of money laundering.   And you just know that the mob probably had their fingers in the pie.  But, in reality, Freedomland was pretty much killed by the opening of the NY World’s Fair. And the real culprit for us was what annoyed my parents every time we went there. 

Because the park was literally built on a swamp, nobody had bothered to tell the mosquitoes to vacate. Once you were there past 6PM, you were a virtual buffet table for any insect with wings. I remember getting sprayed with Off every time I got off a ride at night. Ultimately, I smelled like an industrial plant on fire. So, as a result, all my Freedomland visits ended the same way. With either my mother or my father uttering those fateful words.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

Dinner last night:  Bratwurst and fries at The Stand in Westwood.