Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - February 2014

This is one of the oddest movie trailers I have ever seen.  Ed Sullivan, we can see you reading the cue cards.

Dinner last night:  Bacon and turkey sandwich at Karl Strauss.

The 28 Days of Awkward

I guess birth control is tough to come by.

You can't get juice from a baby.\

Pretty soon they can share the same bra.

A family with way, way, way too much time on their hands.

This may seem weird now, but you'll want to be in these types of positions on Date Night in college.

What happens when you apply lipstick in a closet.

Let's relax and take in the view.

I have these strange voices in my head.

That's one way to hang onto a woman.

And they'll wonder why the kids pick up bad habits.

The real story is the picture on the wall.

These poses ain't exactly Diana Ross in "Mahogany."

Dinner last night:  Roast chicken at the Tasting Kitchen.

It's A Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad World

In my yearly effort to see all the Best Picture nominees for the Oscar, I found myself seeing "12 Years A Slave."  I don't necessarily understand my logic.  I mean, it's not like I have a vote in the Academy.

But, movie buff that I am, I went nonetheless.  Knowing fully well what I would see.  

Hollywood's annual nominee devoted to making us remember again one of the following:

1.  The Holocaust.

2.  The AIDS virus.

3.  The history of slavery in this country.

Go back over the Oscar rolls the past two decades.   You will always find at least one Best Picture nominee devoted to one or all of the above.  Of course, if a producer really wants to pin down that Oscar, you'd develop a plot line of a Jewish Black man whose ancestors survived both Auschwitz and the burning of Atlanta now afflicted with AIDS.   Wow.  Back up the truck for the golden trophies now.

But I digress.

"12 Years A Slave" is one more movie devoted to reminding us all of the ugly history this nation ultimately endured.  You've see the plot over and over and over.  The movie, indeed, is no different than an episode of "Roots" or "The Color Purple" or two dozen other films devoted to the same subject.  And, despite that fact that this one is "based on a true story," you can actually predict everything that happens minute by minute.

God, America's a horrible country, isn't it?   How the hell could this have possibly happened?

Well, it did.  And it was horrific.

And it also happened a century and a half ago.

At the beginning of "12 Years A Slave,"we meet Solomon Northup, a violinist living in Saratoga, NY around 1840.   Blessed with a wife and two children, they are the Huxtables of the pre-Civil War era.

Solomon goes out to dinner one night with two traveling magicians, the Penn and Teller of the 19th Century.  Before you can say "Whoopi Goldberg," Solomon is unconscious.  He wakes up in chains somewhere in the South.  Talk about your bad karma.  Slave trader Paul Giamatti slaps him around a bit and then sells him off to the highest bidder.  We are now off to the Camptown races.

Solomon winds up being called 'Platt" and ultimately ends up in the hands of the most despicable White plantation owner you have ever met, played with overwrought ferociousness by Michael Fassbender.   What follows is an endless series of beatings, whippings, and other assorted means of torture.   The movie is relentless in its violence.  The audience around me was appalled by every slap and punch.   What the hell did they think they were going to see?  This isn't advertised as "The Band Wagon" with Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse.  Meanwhile, if Solomon lived 12 years a slave, so did I.  For me, it was "Two Hours and Fourteen Minutes A Slave."

Director Steve McQueen (no, not the guy who screwed Ali McGraw) never lets the audience up from the canvas for a single moment.  Platt and the other slaves are pummeled constantly and so were we.  Uncle!  Then, to complicate things ever further, we meet fellow slave Patsy, played with constant tears and sobs by Oscar nominee Lupita Nyong'O.  Along with holding the plantation's record for most cotton picked in a single day (that's not a joke---it's really in the script), Patsy also regularly "services" Fassbender's character.  You know that never ends well in these films, because I've seen it two dozen other times on screen.  Patsy is ultimately tied to a tree and, at this point in the movie, we are numb to any further abuse.  Poor Patsy.  Poorer us.

Meanwhile, McQueen's direction here is so heavy-handed that the audience might as well be hit in the head repeatedly with a pair of pliers.  You are telegraphed repeatedly who are the good guys and who are the bad ones.  All the slaves speak eloquently like they're from the Royal Shakespeare Company while every White slave owner sounds like Jethro Bodine.  Of course, the only White character who has a conscience and becomes a hero is the one played by Brad Pitt.  Wait, Brad is also one of the executive producers of the film.  Hmmm, how did that happen?  And just what past sin is Pitt trying to absolve himself of?  Gee, that might be a more interesting movie.

Okay, okay, I'm not belittling the plight of slaves in our country's history.  I wish it had never existed, because, frankly, we have never been allowed to escape it.  Thanks to movies like this, we get constant reminders and our nation has never been allowed to move on.  Despite the fact that this country has made humongous strides in race relations, especially over the past fifty years, we are continually shown what happened in the past.   We always are forced to remember, because we are not allowed to forget.

This is Hollywood's way of being socially conscious.  Yet, if hack filmmakers like Steve McQueen really wanted to make some movies that can help us as a country and a population, why not take a look at what is happening today?  Hey, film what happens every single weekend on the south side of Chicago.   There are hundreds of other stories that need to be told that will help us today, not remind us of yesterday.  

But they won't.   Because it's a lot easier to make trash and propaganda like "12 Years A Slave," which is not entertainment, but a history lesson.   Simply tie a slave to a tree and beat him to a pulp.

How many more Oscars can we whip out of that?

LEN'S RATING:  One star.  Barely.

Dinner last night:  Had a big lunch so just a sandwich.

This Date in History - February 19

Happy birthday to Smokey Robinson.  Ah, the miracle of childbirth.

197:   EMPEROR SEPTIMIUS SEVERUS DEFEATS USURPER CLODIUS ALBINUS IN THE BATTLE OF LUGDUNUM.

Five points if you know either of these guys and where Lugdunum is.

356:  EMPEROR CONSTANTIUS II ISSUES A DECREE CLOSING ALL PAGAN TEMPLES IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE.

So, I'm assuming he is anti-Pagan.

1600:  THE PERUVIAN STRATOVOLCANO HUAYNAPUTINA EXPLODES IN THE MOST VIOLENT RECORDED ERUPTION OF SOUTH AMERICA.

Was the stratovolcano by the same people who produced Strat-O-Matic Baseball?

1807:  FORMER US VICE PRESIDENT AARON BURR IS ARRESTED FOR TREASON IN ALABAMA.

Hence, the word "former."

1846:  IN AUSTIN, TEXAS, THE NEWLY FORMED TEXAS STATE GOVERNMENT IS OFFICIALLY INSTALLED.  

Today, they want to be their own country.

1847:  THE FIRST GROUP OF RESCUERS REACHES THE DONNER PARTY.

And why do I think this group failed, necessitating a second group of rescuers?

1859:  DANIEL E. SICKLES, A NEW YORK CONGRESSMAN, IS ACQUITTED OF MURDER ON GROUNDS OF TEMPORARY INSANITY.

As opposed to NY Congressman Charles Rangel, whose insanity was permanent.

1861:  SERFDOM IS ABOLISHED IN RUSSIA.

Serfs Up!

1878:  THOMAS EDISON PATENTS THE PHONOGRAPH.

So we should blame him for Lady GaGa.

1884:  MORE THAN SIXTY TORNADOES STRIKE THE SOUTHERN US.

The nineteenth century's edition of Global Warming.

1916:  JOCKEY EDDIE ARCARO IS BORN.

Paying $5.50, $4.30, and $3.70.

1940:  SINGER SMOKEY ROBINSON IS BORN.

Named because one of his relatives wanted to remind him always that he was Black.  Okay, done.

1942:  DURING WORLD WAR II, NEARLY 250 JAPANESE WARPLANES ATTACK THE AUSTRALIAN CITY OF DARWIN.

I never knew that Australia was under attack, too.

1942:  PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT SIGNS THE EXECUTIVE ORDER 9066, ALLOWING FOR JAPANESE-AMERICANS TO BE RELOCATED INTO INTERNMENT CAMPS.

That's what they get for bombing kangaroos.

 1945:  ABOUT 30,000 US MARINES LAND ON THE ISLAND OF IWO JIMA.

Who's got the flag???

1953:  GEORGIA APPROVES THE FIRST LITERATURE CENSORSHIP BOARD IN THE US.

For those in the state who could actually read.

1963: THE PUBLICATION OF BETTY FRIEDAN'S "THE FEMININE MYSTIQUE."

The end of the American housewife begins.

1969:  ACTRESS MADGE BLAKE DIES.

Aunt Harriet on TV's "Batman."

1976:  EXECUTIVE ORDER 9066, AS BEGAN IN 1942, IS RESCINDED BY PRESIDENT GERALD FORD.

Well, it was fun while it lasted.

1985:  WILLIAM SCHROEDER BECOMES THE FIRST RECIPIENT OF AN ARTIFICIAL HEART TO LEAVE THE HOSPITAL.

Key phrase is "leave the hospital."

1996:  BASEBALL OWNER CHARLIE FINLEY DIES.

Now who's the real jackass?

2001:  THE OKLAHOMA CITY BOMBING MUSEUM IS DEDICATED.

Wow, that went up fast.  Unlike the memorial near Ground Zero.

2001:  FILM DIRECTOR STANLEY KRAMER DIES.

Guess Who's Coming to Heaven?

2003:  SINGER JOHNNY PAYCHECK DIES.

Cashing it in.

Dinner last night:  Leftover ravioli.

That Was The Week That Sucked --- Special Birthday Edition

I used that title for a blog piece two weeks ago.  And, in the true spirit of today's Hollywood, it didn't take me long to turn out a sequel.

Of course, I could title today's column a number of ways.

What Was I Thinking?

Why The Hell Did I Do This?

Kill Me Now.

Happy F-ing Birthday!

Enjoy the photo above.  I took it from my terrace during one of two dozen snowstorms that I experienced in New York.  It's beautiful coming down.  Ten seconds later, not so much.

Except perhaps for the city of Los Angeles, the United States is having an awfully lousy winter.  I had already tasted some of it on my December trip to the New York homestead.   But, in a very weak nano-moment in January, I thought how nice it might be to spend my February birthday with the East Coast cadre of friends.  This decision was helped along when some business meetings popped up for the same week.  It all seemed to fall together perfectly.

Ahem.

The entire trip was so disaster-laden that even Irwin Allen would have thought it was too unbelievable to produce.  One calamity after another.  Every lousy step of the way, I kept thinking to myself --- "I ditched 80 degrees and sunny skies for this???"

It actually started to go downhill before I even left the tarmac at LAX.  Our flight out was delayed because the crew needed to rest.  Once they got their union-dictated catnap, we boarded the plane only to sit for an hour while Maintenance tried to fix a buggy computer chip.  Ultimately, we were told that the plane was not going to be used.   In two basic words, "get off."

We trudged back to the terminal and were instructed to stick around because they needed to find us another plane.  I guess American Airlines doesn't have them in reserve.  After forty-five minutes, we got the surprising announcement.

"We fixed the problem."

Ummmmm.......

More than one person worried as they reboarded the aircraft and assumed their former seats.  Had the Geek Squad at Best Buy been called?   As I walked by the open flight cabin, I peeked inside to see if I could some duct tape hanging off the console.

I settled into my coach seat and probably shouldn't have.  I was approached by one of the flight attendants.   My upgrade to Business Class had cleared when two business travelers never made it back to reboard.  Okay, I was going to be four hours late arriving in NY but, at least, I'd be eating freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies on the way. 

I nestled into the comfy seat 9H.  The guy in 9G smiled at me.   And then sneezed.   And coughed.  He never stopped.   From Nevada all the way to Long Island.  My seat had been upgraded and my health was being downgraded at the same time.

By the time I plodded into my New York apartment, my sinuses felt like they were full of cement blocks.

My so-called birthday weekend was full of Sudafed doses, swigs of Robitussin, and Ricola drops.  If there was a cake with candles, I would have needed an oxygen mask to blow them out.

Back in the part of my life that was New York-based, I was prone to getting at least one cold and two sinus infections every year.  In California, I have been phlegm-clean.  On this trip, the winter radiator heat immediately had me so clogged that I suddenly felt it was 1992 all over again.  Colors were coming out of me that I didn't even know existed.

Yeah, what the hell was I thinking???

Meanwhile, in the days prior to my arrival, there were two separate snowfalls of nine inches each.   This crap never melted because the temperature hadn't gone above 25 since Christmas.  Walking on my clumsy knee joints became a life-altering experience. 

Once I had to go on my business rounds in Manhattan, I made a new discovery.   In the past, major snow accumulations always seemed to disappear from the sidewalks of New York the very next day.  I have no idea where they put the snow, but it was always magically gone.   Not this February.   Perhaps this is due to the new boob that is the NYC Mayor.  The streets of Gotham City were still dotted with snow and ice.  I looked for the nearest wall and held on.

For two days in Ice Station Zebra-like temperatures, I dragged myself from one business appointment to another.   From Wall Street to uptown.  Sliding in and out of cabs.   Up and down subway steps.  Sneezing and coughing at every turn.

On the morning of my actual birthday, I relished the comforts of my shower.  That would clear out my sinuses for at least one hour.

Except, on the anniversary of my existence, the hot water in my building decided to take the day off.   I washed my hair in the kitchen sink.   I cleaned myself with a washcloth.  A Parisian bath.  As I dressed, I noticed the hem on my pants leg was ripped.  Flat hair and now this???

My neighbor did a quick sewing job.  I was finally put together for another round of Manhattan wind tunnels.   Sneezing and coughing.  Coughing and sneezing.

My plans for a birthday dinner with one of my good friends was upended by his work schedule, tied very much to the prospects of an impending blizzard.

Oh, yeah, that happened, too.  Ten more inches of snow on the day I was scheduled to fly back to Los Angeles.  Wisely, I switched my flight plan early.  I'd be headed back home, but making a stop.

In Columbus, Ohio.

Yes, it gets a lot worse.   Naturally, my original flight back to LAX left only 15 minutes late in the middle of the Thursday arctic blast.   But driving to the airport would be treacherous.   I had made the right choice.   Friday.   From JFK to Columbus to LAX.  Simple?

The 315 PM flight from JFK to the bowels of Ohio was supposed to land at 530PM.   The Columbus to LAX plane was supposed to leave at 605PM.   I didn't think this provided much wiggle room, but I was assured that, in Ohio, the gates were adjacent.   There would be no problems.

Of course, 315PM came and went and the plane didn't.   We were still in the terminal waiting to board.   The plane needed some maintenance.   As I surveyed around, I noticed about twenty other people nervously looking at their watches or phones.   We were all LA-bound.   And soon to be connected in more than one adventure on this Friday.

Ultimately, we left JFK an hour late and there would be no need for an in-flight manicurist on this flight.   Everybody was chewing down right to the cuticle.  Word circulated that the flight from Columbus to LAX was being delayed.   How thoughtful.

The reason became crystal clear as we approached Columbus.   Or what we could see of it.  There was a blinding snowstorm all around.   The runways were coated with flakes.  This was the last fifteen minutes of "Airport" all over again.  Was Dean Martin flying the plane?  

As we finally touched down and skidded a bit, we could see our next conveyance nestled at the gate.  We had time.  I ran as fast as the knees could, which was not very fast.   But, indeed, our next departing gate was right there for us.  I scanned the board and stopped instantaneously.

I had cleared for an upgrade!  Okay, things were looking up.   Or as much as things could look up when visibility was down to three feet.

As we scampered gleefully onto the plane, one of the twenty LAXers asked the flight attendant if our luggage would make the transfer.

"Of course."

You could see this truck coming a mile away.

We did depart Ohio, but first sat on the runway for a plane de-icing and then a plane anti-icing.   Somebody will have to explain to me why this was done in the less logical order.   But, moments later, we had left Columbus, Ohio behind.

Along with our luggage.

Yes, the twenty of us gathered one more time at American Airlines' Baggage Service.   All on line to speak to the next available attendant.

Okay, truth be told, I can't quibble with this hiccup.  I've flown this airline exclusively for the past 17 years.   I have over 1.5 million miles logged.   This is the first time I have had a luggage snafu.   And, of course, the tried-and-true adage is that, if you want to lose your suitcase, book a connecting flight that gives you less than an hour to make the transfer.  When it was my time, I didn't choose to yell at the other side of the counter.   My fellow passengers were not so understanding.

"I have a wedding tomorrow and there's a six hundred dollar dress in my bag."

Okay, Stupid, don't blame American.   Talk to your dopey friend who booked a wedding in the middle of February.

"My medication is in my suitcase."

And you stowed it away, Moron?

"My child's favorite toy is in the suitcase and she won't go to sleep without it."

Try Children's Nyquil.

I heard it all.   But, perhaps after my week, I had grown numb to it all.  I figured my bag would show up eventually.

At least, I was away from New York.   My hometown.  A city I have now grown to despise unless it's one week in May and one week in October.  With its weather on steroids, I choose to spend the rest of my life under a constant and boring sun.

I send a note to all my friends in Southern California.  If you ever hear of me longing to spend a birthday week in New York, you are hereby encouraged to slap me vigorously.

And often.

Dinner last night:  Beef and sausage ravioli.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - February 17, 2014

Lucy and John Wayne...enough said.

Dinner last night:  Lasagna at Ca Del Sol.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Reluctant Birthday Boy

Yeah, that's sort of the look I have every year at this time.  

Not to be completely narcissistic, my birthday was last week.  This is not mentioned to induce any congratulatory words or merit undue attention.  I clearly hate the spotlight and always have.  Why then, you may ask, do you open up your life every day and in every way on this blog?

I never promised you a simple human being, did I?  

But, indeed, I have always been uncomfortable getting any attention, both good or bad.  And, of course, the celebration of one's birthday is the annual pinnacle of being focused upon.  It has never been easy for me, but, these days, the day arrives with even more intensity.  There are Facebook greetings from people you haven't seen in thirty years.  Folks are reminded on that website that there is a birthday to be recognized on that day.   Like a robot, you respond with a message.   I'm the same way.

"Happy, happy birthday.  Have a great day."

Of course, if it's somebody I am close with, the greeting is more personalized.  But, those folks are likely still getting the old fashioned recognition from me.

Yes, I still send a birthday card.  In an envelope.  With a stamp.  I'm stuck in the past and loving it.

Unlike some people,  I view every birthday equally.  No one year is more important than the next or the last.   I don't pay more attention to those ages that end with a "5" or a "0."  To me, age is still a number and not representative of who you are as a person.  Besides, when I think of my parents at the age that I now possess, we are as different as night and day.  Yes, ninety is the new eighty.  Eighty is the new seventy.  And orange is the new black.  Whatever.

Truth be told, I prefer the day to pass simply.  If there's dinner with a good friend or two, that's ideal.  For years here in Los Angeles, my writing partner and my good friend, Djinn from the Bronx, did this round robin birthday tournament.  Two of the three would take the third out to a surprise restaurant.  We never went to the same place twice.  And ultimately sampled the best eateries in town.  Other friends participate with me throughout the month of February.  A good meal with a terrific pal is perfect.

This year, I actually and unintentionally returned to the scene of the crime.  I spent my birthday in New York for the first time since 1997.  As I look at the calendar, I realize that my birthday, as it did in that year, fell on a Tuesday.  Two days later in 1997, I moved to Los Angeles.  On February 13, 2014, I was also scheduled for a flight to Los Angeles.   Symmetry that is interesting but ultimately means nothing.  I will, however, never fly on my actual birthday.  That's too convenient a feng shui for the fatalist buried inside me.

Meanwhile, the symmetry didn't hold up.   A major snow storm pushed my flight to Friday.  And the birthday week took another hit.

So, as simple as I like my birthday, there have been years where it was much more.  Whether I liked it or, in most cases, not.

Look at the photo above.  In my family, hosting a birthday party for one of the kids was a D-Day-like military ploy.  My older cousins would be there with their minds elsewhere.  The children of my mother's friends would be there and, other than their own birthday parties, we never saw each other.  Where were my neighborhood pals?   Where were my classmates?   The kids I was going through the wars with each and every day.

Another mystery of life I never could understand.   You can see how puzzled I am in this photo.  I still don't.

Dinner last night"  Moo shu pork from First Szechwan Wok.