Hey, Katie Couric, welcome back from your vacation! Here’s a tip, sweetie…if you want to allay suspicions that there’s a “liberal bias” in the media, it’s probably best NOT to begin your interview with Republican strategist Mary Matalin with the question, “So how worried ARE you about tomorrow night’s debate?” Maybe something more along the lines of asking how Ms. Matalin feels, rather than trying to put words in her mouth, which is a favorite tack of your fellow idiot, Sean Hannity.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hey, Mary Matalin – STOP HAVING PLASTIC SURGERY. Your eyes are on opposite sides of your head, you look like an anime drawing. For God’s sake, grow old gracefully. You’re not even THAT old. Trust me, there’s only one thing that looks worse than a woman who’s had plastic surgery, and that’s a man who’s had plastic surgery. Luckily, I and my kin are blessed with plump faces and strong cheekbones, we will always look fifteen years younger than we really are, and that’s no joke!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
So, tomorrow’s the big debate, that may very well be a key deciding factor in the future of our nation…with that in mind, can’t we PLEASE find something more substantive to talk about than the color of John Kerry’s skin? Honestly, if that’s the worst the Republicans can do, then they really have nothin’, and they know it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
There are lots of things DC needs, like better schools, and better roads, and representation in Congress, and Marion Barry run out of town. They do NOT need a baseball team and a forty-million dollar stadium plunked down in the middle of a slum, that no one will be able to get to because the Metro sucks and the traffic gridlock will be impassable. So shut up already about the baseball team. Sports suck.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Attention, all men who are on the approved substitute list for the Washington National Cathedral Choir of Men and Boys: if someone calls you and asks you to sub for them, answer your goddamn phone messages. And if someone calls you AND emails you, and then calls you AGAIN, answer SOMETHING. And if someone secures your services and trusts you to be there the next day, GO. And if you don’t go, CALL SOMEONE AND TELL THEM YOU”RE NOT GOING. Idiots. I am petty and vindictive, and I have all your names. You’ve been warned.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
5 Comics that are stupid and should stop being printed in the newspaper:
Beetle Bailey – Hey, Mort Walker , next time you want to “spice up” the strip, instead of adding a new racial stereotype character, why not ship Beetle off to Iraq?
Family Circus – I’ve just gotten hold of Bil Keane’s Monthly Planner. Here’s what it says:
Sunday strip ideas:
Oct 3- Drawn by 7-year old Billy
Oct 10 – Not Me/Ida Know
Oct 17 – Dead Grampa
Oct 24 – Trail of dotted lines around the neighborhood
Oct 31 – All the kids talk at once
November – repeat
Cathy – too many damn words.
Zippy the Pinhead – I’m smart and I love pop culture, and even I don’t know what the hell drugs this guy’s on.
Garfield – Okay, he likes to eat. I get it.
Honorable mention: Heloise – if you need to save money so badly that you will cut up old towels in order to make washcloths, or hoard old cardboard paper towel rollers so you have a place to store your hair scrunchies, THEN have the time to WRITE A LETTER ABOUT IT, then you have enough time on your hands to get a second job and alleviate your money woes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
READER MAIL: Okay, I don’t have any. I DO have lots of comments from known associates, as well as many anonymous posts (I’m certain it’s all the same person, but I delude myself into believing that each “anonymous” post is from a new reader). Rest assured, if you DO write me a letter that invites response, you’ll get one, and it will be pithy.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Yes, we have second bananas, Part II
3. Lok, Valley of the Dinosaurs
Okay, I may lose some of you with the next two. Valley of the Dinosaurs has been largely ignored, having premiered the same magical autumn as the more popular and much-beloved Land of the Lost. But, since VotD premiered fully a month before LotL, I have to give my Valley peeps credit for launching a life-long love of dinosaurs, valleys, and buff young cavemen wearing loincloths.
The show revolves around the Butler family, who are rafting down the Amazon River (maybe not the most family-friendly vacation spot) and are sucked down into a whirlpool. They end up in a prehistoric land and are befriended by a caveman family, and the Butler family spends the rest of the series condescendingly teaching the brutish savages how to make useful things, like soap, fishing rods and espresso machines.
Lok was the buff young son of the cave family, who had a thing for the Butler’s similarly-aged daughter (who looked remarkably like a young Susan Dey). Contrary to cartoon custom of the day, the teenage characters were not the sole focus of the show. The comedy bits were given to the Butler’s dog and the cave family’s pet (!) stegosaurus, and the problem solving was always done by father Butler (except on the rare occasion when the producers threw a bone to the cave father, in the interest of showing that cavemen aren’t always backward morons). So Lok and his gal-pal did a lot of standing around looking pretty.
The cards pictured above were found in packages of Wonder Bread, and though I remember having the cards, I don’t remember how I acquired them, as Wonder Bread was far too fancy to have ever been seen at the Rubble household. Store brand was good enough for us! Perhaps I stole them from one of my little friends. Around the same time, I stole a pack of Viewmaster slides from the Big Bear, with pictures from Land of the Lost (although I had no Viewmaster to view them with). Mother Rubble discovered the crime, and dragged me back to the store to confess, assuring me that there was nothing she could do if they decided to take me to jail. And you see, I’ve been a good boy ever since!
2. Clarabelle Cow, Walt Disney Cartoons
So low on the totem pole, she even ranks below the shrewish Daisy Duck and Johnny-come lately Gyro Gearloose. On a recent trip to Disney World, Jet Screamer spent many a patient hour waiting for me to scour a gift shop for a single image of my beloved Clarabelle, to little avail (I did buy the only thing they had, a mini-milk pail filled with packets of coffee creamer. I cherish it to this day).
Clarabelle, like yours truly, is an odd mixture of liberated views and traditional values. She is always seen in a modest, floor-length skirt, and one can only imagine the undergarments necessary to conceal a full rack of udders. The more liberated Daisy resents how Clarabelle is satisfied to spend her time guzzling soda-pop with her beau, Horace Horsecollar, and not in a more original pursuit.
On the other hand, her inter-species romances show a remarkably forward-thinking worldview. She has apparently been engaged to the aforementioned Horace, a horse, for about sixty years. (These things happen. I had an uncle who was “engaged” to his girlfriend for that long. They ended their days living in sin.) Clarabelle also spent much of the 1960’s dating Goofy, and who knows what the hell HE is.
Ignored by Americans since Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic, Clarabelle (like David Hasselhoff) has enjoyed huge success in Europe. Next time you’re at a fancy cocktail party with Europeans, bring up her name and see if their eyes don’t just light up with delight! Here’s a translation guide:
German: Klarabella Kuh
Danish: Nora Malkeko
Finnish: Heluna Ammu
French: Clarabelle
Italian: Clarabella
Dutch: Clarabella Koe
Norwegian: Klara Ku
Swedish: Klarabella Ko
And now, the moment you’ve all been breathlessly awaiting……
1. Ethel Mertz, I Love Lucy
Ethel, we love you. Who couldn’t? While I grew up knowing only of the far less frumpy “Viv” on The Lucy Show (which I would watch in carefully planned rotation with Captain Kangaroo, Luci’s Toy Shop and Gomer Pyle, USMC, against my day-care provider’s better judgement), as an adult I came to appreciate Vivian Vance’s energentic performance as Ethel, Lucy and Ricky’s ex-Vaudevillian landlady.
And surely, there has not been a more put-upon actress than Ms. Vance, has there? Not only was she paired with an old druink twenty-five years her senior (William Frawley, who himself is a great performer, though he can barely contain the shakes from episode to episode), but she was contractually obligated to remain at all times fifteen pounds heavier than Lucille Ball, so as never to appear too glamorous. And yet, she remained true to Lucy the rest of her days. Brings a tear to me eye.
Vivian got her big break understudying for Ethel Merman in “Anything Goes”, and was signed by Desi Arnaz to play America's archetypal wacky neighbor. She was rewarded by becoming the first winner of a supporting actress Emmy in history.
Ethel was always willing to risk life, limb, and Fred’s wrath by helping Lucy in one of her schemes, which always involved tricking Ricky in order to get Lucy 1) more money, or 2) on stage, even though Ethel was clearly the poorer of the two, as well as the more talented (at least within the conceit of the show). So loyal was Ethel that she talked her skinflint husband into accompanying the Ricardos to Hollywood, Europe, and moving with them to Connecticut to live on a chicken farm. Only one time did Ethel refuse to help, and luckily Betty Hutton was guest starring that day and was able to fill in. (Lucy exclaimed, “Betty, you’re just what I’ve always dreamed of – Ethel Mertz with money!”)
Ethel, with or without money, the underdogs of the world salute you. Remember, the meek shall inherit the Earth!
Tomorrow – comic strips that should be banned from the newspaper, according to ME! Plus – reader mail!
Okay, I may lose some of you with the next two. Valley of the Dinosaurs has been largely ignored, having premiered the same magical autumn as the more popular and much-beloved Land of the Lost. But, since VotD premiered fully a month before LotL, I have to give my Valley peeps credit for launching a life-long love of dinosaurs, valleys, and buff young cavemen wearing loincloths.
The show revolves around the Butler family, who are rafting down the Amazon River (maybe not the most family-friendly vacation spot) and are sucked down into a whirlpool. They end up in a prehistoric land and are befriended by a caveman family, and the Butler family spends the rest of the series condescendingly teaching the brutish savages how to make useful things, like soap, fishing rods and espresso machines.
Lok was the buff young son of the cave family, who had a thing for the Butler’s similarly-aged daughter (who looked remarkably like a young Susan Dey). Contrary to cartoon custom of the day, the teenage characters were not the sole focus of the show. The comedy bits were given to the Butler’s dog and the cave family’s pet (!) stegosaurus, and the problem solving was always done by father Butler (except on the rare occasion when the producers threw a bone to the cave father, in the interest of showing that cavemen aren’t always backward morons). So Lok and his gal-pal did a lot of standing around looking pretty.
The cards pictured above were found in packages of Wonder Bread, and though I remember having the cards, I don’t remember how I acquired them, as Wonder Bread was far too fancy to have ever been seen at the Rubble household. Store brand was good enough for us! Perhaps I stole them from one of my little friends. Around the same time, I stole a pack of Viewmaster slides from the Big Bear, with pictures from Land of the Lost (although I had no Viewmaster to view them with). Mother Rubble discovered the crime, and dragged me back to the store to confess, assuring me that there was nothing she could do if they decided to take me to jail. And you see, I’ve been a good boy ever since!
2. Clarabelle Cow, Walt Disney Cartoons
So low on the totem pole, she even ranks below the shrewish Daisy Duck and Johnny-come lately Gyro Gearloose. On a recent trip to Disney World, Jet Screamer spent many a patient hour waiting for me to scour a gift shop for a single image of my beloved Clarabelle, to little avail (I did buy the only thing they had, a mini-milk pail filled with packets of coffee creamer. I cherish it to this day).
Clarabelle, like yours truly, is an odd mixture of liberated views and traditional values. She is always seen in a modest, floor-length skirt, and one can only imagine the undergarments necessary to conceal a full rack of udders. The more liberated Daisy resents how Clarabelle is satisfied to spend her time guzzling soda-pop with her beau, Horace Horsecollar, and not in a more original pursuit.
On the other hand, her inter-species romances show a remarkably forward-thinking worldview. She has apparently been engaged to the aforementioned Horace, a horse, for about sixty years. (These things happen. I had an uncle who was “engaged” to his girlfriend for that long. They ended their days living in sin.) Clarabelle also spent much of the 1960’s dating Goofy, and who knows what the hell HE is.
Ignored by Americans since Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic, Clarabelle (like David Hasselhoff) has enjoyed huge success in Europe. Next time you’re at a fancy cocktail party with Europeans, bring up her name and see if their eyes don’t just light up with delight! Here’s a translation guide:
German: Klarabella Kuh
Danish: Nora Malkeko
Finnish: Heluna Ammu
French: Clarabelle
Italian: Clarabella
Dutch: Clarabella Koe
Norwegian: Klara Ku
Swedish: Klarabella Ko
And now, the moment you’ve all been breathlessly awaiting……
1. Ethel Mertz, I Love Lucy
Ethel, we love you. Who couldn’t? While I grew up knowing only of the far less frumpy “Viv” on The Lucy Show (which I would watch in carefully planned rotation with Captain Kangaroo, Luci’s Toy Shop and Gomer Pyle, USMC, against my day-care provider’s better judgement), as an adult I came to appreciate Vivian Vance’s energentic performance as Ethel, Lucy and Ricky’s ex-Vaudevillian landlady.
And surely, there has not been a more put-upon actress than Ms. Vance, has there? Not only was she paired with an old druink twenty-five years her senior (William Frawley, who himself is a great performer, though he can barely contain the shakes from episode to episode), but she was contractually obligated to remain at all times fifteen pounds heavier than Lucille Ball, so as never to appear too glamorous. And yet, she remained true to Lucy the rest of her days. Brings a tear to me eye.
Vivian got her big break understudying for Ethel Merman in “Anything Goes”, and was signed by Desi Arnaz to play America's archetypal wacky neighbor. She was rewarded by becoming the first winner of a supporting actress Emmy in history.
Ethel was always willing to risk life, limb, and Fred’s wrath by helping Lucy in one of her schemes, which always involved tricking Ricky in order to get Lucy 1) more money, or 2) on stage, even though Ethel was clearly the poorer of the two, as well as the more talented (at least within the conceit of the show). So loyal was Ethel that she talked her skinflint husband into accompanying the Ricardos to Hollywood, Europe, and moving with them to Connecticut to live on a chicken farm. Only one time did Ethel refuse to help, and luckily Betty Hutton was guest starring that day and was able to fill in. (Lucy exclaimed, “Betty, you’re just what I’ve always dreamed of – Ethel Mertz with money!”)
Ethel, with or without money, the underdogs of the world salute you. Remember, the meek shall inherit the Earth!
Tomorrow – comic strips that should be banned from the newspaper, according to ME! Plus – reader mail!
Monday, September 27, 2004
Yes, we have second bananas
In my pack, I am the beta male. It’s a pretty sweet deal, I must say. Lots of power that people don’t realize you have, and little of the responsibility. A few of the perks:
*The dog doesn’t come to me first to be walked or fed
*Like Chandler on Friends, I can say snarky, offensive things to anyone I please, and people still think I’m adorable
*At work, I can goof off all day long writing blogs, and no one cares because I’m not the boss of anything
I think it must be due to my pack position that I’m obsessed with secondary characters. Ever since Big Sister Bamm-Bamm introduced me to the phrase “fourth banana” (in reference to Lee Majors’ role of Heath on Big Valley), I have sought out as much information as I could find on characters from literature and theater (by literature and theater I mean, of course, comic books and TV) that seem unimportant to the grand scheme of things, yet actually are like the grease to the main characters’ wheels, utterly indispensable to the continued success of the storyline.
Just as I am much happier being Jimmy Olsen instead of Superman, so secondary characters are much better off staying where they are, rather than shuffling off to their own shows (witness Rhoda, Gloria, Flo’s Yellow Rose, etc.). One can well imagine NBC’s zeal to retain even ONE of the Friends for Thursday nights, but I fear Joey will not last long without a strong leading cast to antagonize (after all, Friends itself was a cast made up entirely of secondary characters.)
So, without further adieu, I will present my top ten favorite secondary characters. (Okay, one more adieu: it has not escaped me that my list is composed entirely of women, minorities and emasculated men. I’m sure there’s a psychological reason someone can tell me about someday).
10. Bat-Girl, Batman comics
No, not THAT Bat-Girl. You’re thinking of Batgirl, the fiery-haired “Dominoed Dare-Doll” clad in glittery spandex, that never got to anything but jump up on a table and do ballet kicks. I’m talking about Bat-Girl, WITH hyphen, who predates Yvonne Craig by a good five or six years.
THIS Bat-Girl wore a costume she stole from the girl elf in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, complete with skater’s skirt and pointy shoes. In reality, she was tennis champ Bette Kane, niece of circus owner Kathy Kane, who herself was secretly Batwoman. These plucky gals fought crime with their “Crime Compacts”, including powder puffs filled with sneezing powder, spring-loaded lipsticks and the like ( I guess mace wasn’t invented yet). Mostly they rode around on their Vespas, got crowned “Miss Gotham City”, “Miss Police Department”, “Miss Arkham Asylum”, and so on, and tried to insinuate themselves into Batman and Robin’s boys-only club, where it was abundantly clear they WEREN’T welcome. (Well, Robin’s raging teenage hormones led to a couple of uncompromising situations with Bat-Girl, but some strenuous workouts in the Batcave set his head straight again.) Yes, Bat-Girl, we salute you, paragon of an earlier age, when girls were silly, flighty, and flattered to be allowed to do things the same as boys!
9. Miss Beadle, Little House on the Prairie
Miss Beadle, of course, is Walnut Grove’s beloved teacher. Laura likes her because she smells like lemon verbena. (Why this is attractive to Laura is never quite explained. If you’ve ever smelled lemon verbena, you’ll know it falls somewhere between fresh-mown hay and French whore). Like all residents of Walnut Grove EXCEPT THE INGALLS FAMILY, she lives in a fully-finished home with painted walls, glass windows, wood floors, and dainty china cups and saucers on display. If she appears outside the school setting, you know trouble’s afoot – she’ll soon be thrown by a wild horse, or temporarily fired by the school board, or be assaulted by a forty-seven year old actor playing an elementary school student.
She has a tough job, since none of the same children (with the exception of Laura, Mary, Nellie and Willie) ever come to school twice. Occasionally, and without warning, a special needs child will drop by and have to be taught an important life-lesson, as only Miss Beadle can do.
She is not without her enemies; when Mary is told she’ll have to wear glasses, she is horrified to think she’ll turn out to be an “old maid” like Miss Beadle, the only other glasses-wearing woman in town. (Karma pays Mary back in spades for THAT one). In Miss Beadle’s final appearance on the show, she gives Mary a cameo brooch, given to her by HER first teacher. It never fails to bring me to tears. (Jet Screamer interrupts: “You f&!%ing cry at EVERY episode, retard.”) Shut up.
8. Mr. Bingley, Pride and Prejudice
Mr. Bingley is the dandy milquetoast from Pride and Prejudice who waffles around about marrying Jane Bennett, driving the plot for a good 200 pages. He is a lily-livered mama’s boy, who allows his opinions to be molded and re-molded by his sisters and his “friend” Mr. Darcy. He eventually marries Jane, of course, and they spend the rest of their lives sitting around not offending anyone.
Speaking of Regency England, guess what? Back in the day, after dinner, the men and women would separate for a spell so they could all go to the toilet. The women would go stand in a corner someplace, lift their skirts out of harm’s way, and pretend they were lost in thought. The men would retire to the smoking lounge, and whoever needed to would simply whip it out and aim toward the chamber pot without skipping a beat in their political discourse. Read a book on daily life in the 19th Century sometime, kids, it weren’t for sissies!
7. (Tie) The Professor and Mary Ann, Gilligan’s Island
So insignificant, they were collectively known as “the rest” for the first season. Oddly, they are not only the two most attractive people on the island, but arguably the most intelligent and adaptable– the Professor’s MacGuyver-like skill is obvious, of course, and Mary Ann, a hardy farm girl, can do laundry all day, can a bushel of peaches, and still lay out a sumptious dinner complete with coconut cream pie for dessert. All with a smile.
A person’s stature on the island obviously is based on wealth – the Howells and Ginger are clearly in the upper eschelon, followed by the Skipper and Gilligan (they are likely Union men, and thus make a good wage). The Professor teaches at a State University, and so makes next-to-nothing. Mary Ann’s station in life varies with each crop. And so they are sociologically the bottom of the heap. A fascinating reflection of modern society.
One hopes that the Professor and Mary Ann, at some point, found solace in each other’s arms – I mean, really, who ELSE are they gonna get some action with? But if not, at least they can take comfort in the fact that they are the only members of the cast to have a drink named after them
The Professor and Mary Ann
Ingredients:
0.5 oz Apricot Brandy
0.25 oz Lime Juice
1.5 oz Vodka
4.0 oz Seltzer
Directions:
Fill a shaker half full with ice cubes. Pour all ingredients except Carbonated Water into shaker and shake well. Fill a Highball glass almost full with ice cubes and strain drink into Highball glass. Fill with Carbonated Water. Stir well. Garnish with two Banana slices and a Maraschino Cherry.
6. Lt. Uhura, Star Trek
*The dog doesn’t come to me first to be walked or fed
*Like Chandler on Friends, I can say snarky, offensive things to anyone I please, and people still think I’m adorable
*At work, I can goof off all day long writing blogs, and no one cares because I’m not the boss of anything
I think it must be due to my pack position that I’m obsessed with secondary characters. Ever since Big Sister Bamm-Bamm introduced me to the phrase “fourth banana” (in reference to Lee Majors’ role of Heath on Big Valley), I have sought out as much information as I could find on characters from literature and theater (by literature and theater I mean, of course, comic books and TV) that seem unimportant to the grand scheme of things, yet actually are like the grease to the main characters’ wheels, utterly indispensable to the continued success of the storyline.
Just as I am much happier being Jimmy Olsen instead of Superman, so secondary characters are much better off staying where they are, rather than shuffling off to their own shows (witness Rhoda, Gloria, Flo’s Yellow Rose, etc.). One can well imagine NBC’s zeal to retain even ONE of the Friends for Thursday nights, but I fear Joey will not last long without a strong leading cast to antagonize (after all, Friends itself was a cast made up entirely of secondary characters.)
So, without further adieu, I will present my top ten favorite secondary characters. (Okay, one more adieu: it has not escaped me that my list is composed entirely of women, minorities and emasculated men. I’m sure there’s a psychological reason someone can tell me about someday).
10. Bat-Girl, Batman comics
No, not THAT Bat-Girl. You’re thinking of Batgirl, the fiery-haired “Dominoed Dare-Doll” clad in glittery spandex, that never got to anything but jump up on a table and do ballet kicks. I’m talking about Bat-Girl, WITH hyphen, who predates Yvonne Craig by a good five or six years.
THIS Bat-Girl wore a costume she stole from the girl elf in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, complete with skater’s skirt and pointy shoes. In reality, she was tennis champ Bette Kane, niece of circus owner Kathy Kane, who herself was secretly Batwoman. These plucky gals fought crime with their “Crime Compacts”, including powder puffs filled with sneezing powder, spring-loaded lipsticks and the like ( I guess mace wasn’t invented yet). Mostly they rode around on their Vespas, got crowned “Miss Gotham City”, “Miss Police Department”, “Miss Arkham Asylum”, and so on, and tried to insinuate themselves into Batman and Robin’s boys-only club, where it was abundantly clear they WEREN’T welcome. (Well, Robin’s raging teenage hormones led to a couple of uncompromising situations with Bat-Girl, but some strenuous workouts in the Batcave set his head straight again.) Yes, Bat-Girl, we salute you, paragon of an earlier age, when girls were silly, flighty, and flattered to be allowed to do things the same as boys!
9. Miss Beadle, Little House on the Prairie
Miss Beadle, of course, is Walnut Grove’s beloved teacher. Laura likes her because she smells like lemon verbena. (Why this is attractive to Laura is never quite explained. If you’ve ever smelled lemon verbena, you’ll know it falls somewhere between fresh-mown hay and French whore). Like all residents of Walnut Grove EXCEPT THE INGALLS FAMILY, she lives in a fully-finished home with painted walls, glass windows, wood floors, and dainty china cups and saucers on display. If she appears outside the school setting, you know trouble’s afoot – she’ll soon be thrown by a wild horse, or temporarily fired by the school board, or be assaulted by a forty-seven year old actor playing an elementary school student.
She has a tough job, since none of the same children (with the exception of Laura, Mary, Nellie and Willie) ever come to school twice. Occasionally, and without warning, a special needs child will drop by and have to be taught an important life-lesson, as only Miss Beadle can do.
She is not without her enemies; when Mary is told she’ll have to wear glasses, she is horrified to think she’ll turn out to be an “old maid” like Miss Beadle, the only other glasses-wearing woman in town. (Karma pays Mary back in spades for THAT one). In Miss Beadle’s final appearance on the show, she gives Mary a cameo brooch, given to her by HER first teacher. It never fails to bring me to tears. (Jet Screamer interrupts: “You f&!%ing cry at EVERY episode, retard.”) Shut up.
8. Mr. Bingley, Pride and Prejudice
Mr. Bingley is the dandy milquetoast from Pride and Prejudice who waffles around about marrying Jane Bennett, driving the plot for a good 200 pages. He is a lily-livered mama’s boy, who allows his opinions to be molded and re-molded by his sisters and his “friend” Mr. Darcy. He eventually marries Jane, of course, and they spend the rest of their lives sitting around not offending anyone.
Speaking of Regency England, guess what? Back in the day, after dinner, the men and women would separate for a spell so they could all go to the toilet. The women would go stand in a corner someplace, lift their skirts out of harm’s way, and pretend they were lost in thought. The men would retire to the smoking lounge, and whoever needed to would simply whip it out and aim toward the chamber pot without skipping a beat in their political discourse. Read a book on daily life in the 19th Century sometime, kids, it weren’t for sissies!
7. (Tie) The Professor and Mary Ann, Gilligan’s Island
So insignificant, they were collectively known as “the rest” for the first season. Oddly, they are not only the two most attractive people on the island, but arguably the most intelligent and adaptable– the Professor’s MacGuyver-like skill is obvious, of course, and Mary Ann, a hardy farm girl, can do laundry all day, can a bushel of peaches, and still lay out a sumptious dinner complete with coconut cream pie for dessert. All with a smile.
A person’s stature on the island obviously is based on wealth – the Howells and Ginger are clearly in the upper eschelon, followed by the Skipper and Gilligan (they are likely Union men, and thus make a good wage). The Professor teaches at a State University, and so makes next-to-nothing. Mary Ann’s station in life varies with each crop. And so they are sociologically the bottom of the heap. A fascinating reflection of modern society.
One hopes that the Professor and Mary Ann, at some point, found solace in each other’s arms – I mean, really, who ELSE are they gonna get some action with? But if not, at least they can take comfort in the fact that they are the only members of the cast to have a drink named after them
The Professor and Mary Ann
Ingredients:
0.5 oz Apricot Brandy
0.25 oz Lime Juice
1.5 oz Vodka
4.0 oz Seltzer
Directions:
Fill a shaker half full with ice cubes. Pour all ingredients except Carbonated Water into shaker and shake well. Fill a Highball glass almost full with ice cubes and strain drink into Highball glass. Fill with Carbonated Water. Stir well. Garnish with two Banana slices and a Maraschino Cherry.
6. Lt. Uhura, Star Trek
Legend has it that Uhura’s place in Star Trek legend was assured by virtue of the fact that she was having an affair with Gene Roddenberry. I prefer to think that she was bumped up to semi-prominence because Janice Rand (the checkerboard-hair lady) was dumped after six episodes (because the actress who played her was a drunk that couldn’t get to work on time).
Chief switchboard operator for the starship Enterprise, her total screen time on three years of the original series totals about 17 minutes, but when she WAS given something to do it was usually memorable, like when she was reduced to mental infancy and re-learned everything she had ever known, up to and including how to operate a switchboard, in about half an episode. Or when the floating-in-space Abe Lincoln saw her and gushed, “Oh, a charming negress!” and she shot back with a quick treatise on racial equality. Go, girl.
Though given precious little to do in the original series or subsequent movies (besides stick some sort of metal thing in her ear and fall off her chair whenever there was a Klingon attack – oh, and that embarrassing feather dance in Star Trek V), and rarely if ever seen outside of Star Trek-related media, I would venture to say that more people alive today know who Nichelle Nichols is than could name the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Take THAT, education system!
5. Uncle Henry, The Wizard of Oz
From the novel, The Wizard of Oz:
” Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.”
Editorial note: And apparently, he was a shitty house builder to boot. What, it would have killed him to put in a basement?
4. Betty Rubble, The Flintstones
Turn-ons: Giggling with Wilma, The Ed Sullystone Show, and when Barney does “that thing”
Turn-offs: Fred’s Get-Rich-Quick schemes, kangaroo poachers, and when yours truly throws the family’s Loggin Continental into Pterodactyl Lake.
Betty met her husband while she and Wilma Slaghoople were working as cigarette girls at a Cobblestone County hotel. They quickly fell in love and Barney soon presented to Betty a wedding ring from the Buddy Buddy Credit Jewelers. She happily accepted, and they were wed.
For years, Betty suffered the ultimate indignity of being passed over by the makers of Flintstones Vitamins in favor of the family car. This ludicrous decision was finally overturned in December of 1995, a date still celebrated in the Teenage Bamm-Bamm household (well, we sort of lump it together with Christmas).
Tomorrow: The TOP 3!
Friday, September 24, 2004
Fry in the Not-So-Friendly Skies
So, after Cat Stevens (err...sorry, I mean Yusef Islam. As a devoted reader so rightly commented, "there should be a rule you can't choose a new name that actually includes your new religion: Ex: Esther Judaism, nee Madonna, or Tom Scientology, aka Cruise, Richard Buddhism, aka Gere") effortlessly caught a transatlantic flight, despite being on an INternational No-Fly list, today we discover that only about 1/3 of CONFIRMED TERRORISTS are on said list. Rest easy, frequent flyers!
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Black Eyes for the Queer Guys
"You know how bitchy fags can be" - Jennifer North, Valley of the Dolls
At the risk of being labeled a self-hating queer, I have to disclose that I hate "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy". Although the "Fab Five" are composed entirely of the sorts of silly, giggling nincompoops that I go out of my way to avoid, and perpetuate stereotypical gay behaviors from the Victorian Age, this is NOT the reason I hate the show.
Yes, it IS a despicable minstrel show, as is the inane "Will and Grace" and the horrifying "Queer as Folk", but I AM cognizant of the fact that Halle Berry wouldn't have won an Oscar if Hattie McDaniel hadn't played all those maids.
No, the reason I hate the show is that I've yet to see them impart any knowledge to a hapless straight man that couldn't have been picked up by reading, say, the Style section of the local newspaper, or the wrapper on a bar of soap. Is it really uniquely gay to tell someone that:
* Fruits and vegetables taste best when they are in season
* Fresh pasta cooks faster than dried
* Girls enjoy horse and buggy rides through the park
* Giving presents is a nice gesture
* You should wash your face once a day
I guess information like this seems more special, somehow, when delivered by someone who hasn't brushed his hair, is wearing a t-shirt that cost ninety-five dollars, and can turn any statement into a double entendre.
And now, thanks to the once-watchable Bravo channel, we've discovered that the only thing more annoying than five gay men in wrinkled second-hand clothing is five gay men in wrinkled second-hand clothing with British accents.
At the risk of being labeled a self-hating queer, I have to disclose that I hate "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy". Although the "Fab Five" are composed entirely of the sorts of silly, giggling nincompoops that I go out of my way to avoid, and perpetuate stereotypical gay behaviors from the Victorian Age, this is NOT the reason I hate the show.
Yes, it IS a despicable minstrel show, as is the inane "Will and Grace" and the horrifying "Queer as Folk", but I AM cognizant of the fact that Halle Berry wouldn't have won an Oscar if Hattie McDaniel hadn't played all those maids.
No, the reason I hate the show is that I've yet to see them impart any knowledge to a hapless straight man that couldn't have been picked up by reading, say, the Style section of the local newspaper, or the wrapper on a bar of soap. Is it really uniquely gay to tell someone that:
* Fruits and vegetables taste best when they are in season
* Fresh pasta cooks faster than dried
* Girls enjoy horse and buggy rides through the park
* Giving presents is a nice gesture
* You should wash your face once a day
I guess information like this seems more special, somehow, when delivered by someone who hasn't brushed his hair, is wearing a t-shirt that cost ninety-five dollars, and can turn any statement into a double entendre.
And now, thanks to the once-watchable Bravo channel, we've discovered that the only thing more annoying than five gay men in wrinkled second-hand clothing is five gay men in wrinkled second-hand clothing with British accents.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Love and Marriage
Well, Britney has sold her personal wedding photos to People magazine, bless her heart. Except they’re not really married, since they haven’t taken the trouble to get a wedding license yet, and in fact the whole thing may have been a big put-on. Just as well. Maybe when they’re “really” married, one or both of them will take the trouble to comb their hair.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate to judge a book by its cover, but it certainly looks to me like Chuck Floyd, running for Congress in Maryland’s 8th District against popular incumbent Chris Van Hollen, had enlisted immigrant day workers from the parking lot of the 7-11 to wave his placards at the corner of University and New Hampshire this morning. I’m just saying. He DOES endorse “guest worker visas”, according to his website. He also opposes gay marriage. His campaign office is also in the building where I work. I’ll get something on him yet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So Cat Stevens is being deported, after waltzing onto a plane even though he is on an INTERNATIONAL DO NOT FLY LIST. I guess you’re right, Mr. President, America IS safer! I guess it’s all right, the only danger Cat Stevens presents is the possibility that he might pick up a guitar and start singing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate the Today Show. This morning Katie interviewed Ty Hensley, brother of just-slain hostage Jack Hensley. She ALWAYS gets to do the interviews with victims’ relatives, and she ALWAYS starts the interview with the I-don’t-really-care-but-this-will-make-me-sound-like-I-do question, “How are you doing”?
“Well, gee, Katie, my brother was just beheaded, how the f@#% do you think I’m doing, dipshit?”
Oooh, I’d like to get ahold of her shoulders and just shake and shake.
After keeping the camera on Mr. Hensley just long enough to watch him collapse into racking sobs, we then cut to Matt, who is interviewing White House Communications Director Dan Bartlett, who instead of answering Matt’s question, throws in a couple of administration talking points about the war on terror and tries to make them sound like he’s conveying the President’s condolences. Shameless.
Matt’s got some skeletons in his closet, by the way. I have it from more than one source. Not that there’s much room in the closet for skeletons, if you get my drift. I’m just saying.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate to judge a book by its cover, but it certainly looks to me like Chuck Floyd, running for Congress in Maryland’s 8th District against popular incumbent Chris Van Hollen, had enlisted immigrant day workers from the parking lot of the 7-11 to wave his placards at the corner of University and New Hampshire this morning. I’m just saying. He DOES endorse “guest worker visas”, according to his website. He also opposes gay marriage. His campaign office is also in the building where I work. I’ll get something on him yet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So Cat Stevens is being deported, after waltzing onto a plane even though he is on an INTERNATIONAL DO NOT FLY LIST. I guess you’re right, Mr. President, America IS safer! I guess it’s all right, the only danger Cat Stevens presents is the possibility that he might pick up a guitar and start singing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate the Today Show. This morning Katie interviewed Ty Hensley, brother of just-slain hostage Jack Hensley. She ALWAYS gets to do the interviews with victims’ relatives, and she ALWAYS starts the interview with the I-don’t-really-care-but-this-will-make-me-sound-like-I-do question, “How are you doing”?
“Well, gee, Katie, my brother was just beheaded, how the f@#% do you think I’m doing, dipshit?”
Oooh, I’d like to get ahold of her shoulders and just shake and shake.
After keeping the camera on Mr. Hensley just long enough to watch him collapse into racking sobs, we then cut to Matt, who is interviewing White House Communications Director Dan Bartlett, who instead of answering Matt’s question, throws in a couple of administration talking points about the war on terror and tries to make them sound like he’s conveying the President’s condolences. Shameless.
Matt’s got some skeletons in his closet, by the way. I have it from more than one source. Not that there’s much room in the closet for skeletons, if you get my drift. I’m just saying.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Cause it's a Train Wreck, oh yeah!
First things first, I did NOT get a chance to see “Sky Captain” yet, so all of you who are breathlessly awaiting my review before deciding whether or not to see it, well, you’ll just have to wait. Bide your time by going to Barnes and Noble and drooling over the picture of Jude Law on the front cover.
Second things second, Big Sister Bamm-Bamm has her own blog. Go there now! Not only does she have an eyewitness report from the heart of hurricane country, but she’s just started nursing school and promises lots of delicious gossip about boneheaded medical mishaps!
Now, as promised, I will tell you of my trip to see Trainwreck!
Disclaimer Number One: I am, perhaps, not the best person to write a review of a rock band. Ages 8 through 13 were spent checking out the same 3 LPs, over and over, from the Grandview Heights Public Library (The Mickey Mouse Club Soundtrack, The NEW Mickey Mouse Club Soundtrack, and the Meco disco-mix of The Wizard of Oz Soundtrack) which I would play and play while I locked lLitte Sister Bamm-Bamm in her room and made up my own choreography.
Ages 13 through 16 were spent playing “The Magic of Abba” from K-Tel, which I begged my mother to get me for Christmas.
Age 16 was the first record I bought with my own money, the Go-Gos’ “Beauty and the Beat”.
Age 22 was the first and only non-classical concert I’ve ever attended, Debbie Gibson’s “Electric Youth” tour. Yes, I said age 22. Shut up.
Disclaimer Number Two: The show was in Baltimore. Baltimore is a stinking cesspool of filth and despair. I can think of no reason why anyone would want to live or go there. It’s ugly, and frightening even in the full sun. It was a tremendous act of will and perseverance to be able to resist my fight or flight instinct for an entire evening.
Now, the whole thing came about because Little Sister Bamm-Bamm, well, she’s real tight with the T-wrecks. Even sings with them sometimes. So one day we were emailing back and forth, which we are prone to do at work instead of WORKING, and discussing important matters of pop culture, including dreamy lead singer of Trainwreck JR Reed, and things of that nature. Before I could stop myself, I had emailed not only JR Reed to tell him he was as dreamy as Lee Majors, but also T-wreck’s driving creative force, Kyle Gass, to tell him how I wrote to William Shatner when I was 12 to ask him why he shaved his chest on Star Trek (which I did because Little Sister BB promised to buy I prize if I did so, which I have STILL NOT RECEIVED).
So, off I went, posse in tow (Jet Screamer and our friend Floozie Flingland). The show was at “Fletcher’s” which is, like most structures in Baltimore, a DUMP. Floozie, a long-time Maryland resident, assures me that, aside from the stadium, it is probably the nicest place in town to have a concert. Swell. I WAS heartened to find, amid the sea of black negligees worn with combat boots, girls dolled up like rejects from the cast of “Sailor Moon”, and the occasional out-of-place looking sorority girl, that I was NOT the oldest person there.
We arrived just in time to hear the end of “The Mudsharks”, who proved tiresome in only one-and-a-half songs. The only bit of interest in their act was the screen behind them, on which was projected my favorite DVD of all time, Educational Archives Vol. I: Sex & Drugs.
So then we thought, “Terrific! We’ve arrived just in time for Trainwreck, and we can get home at an early hour, since it’s a school night and all!” No such luck. The Mudsharks weren’t even the REAL warm-up band, they were, like, some sort of pathetic PRE-warm-up band. The REAL warm-up band was Dingleberry Dynasty. Here’s what Jet Screamer had to say about THAT:
“About Dingleberry Dynasty, if there’s a bodily function or something you do with your hand involving sex, you can be sure they’ll sing a song about it, and they did. Words cannot express how much I hated them. Bamm mentioned that I like Southpark, so I should like them, right? No, Southpark is clever, very clever. These boys on stage are idiots, oh, and they can’t write songs.”
Well. I didn’t think it was all THAT bad, they did have SOME catchy tunes, but they were trying AWFULLY hard for laughs, with all the subtlety of a Police Academy film. “Funny” bits included pretend crap eaten out of a diaper, a dog costume complete with erect phallus, a giant phallus costume, a man in drag, and three men in jockstraps humping each other (one of whom had accidentally smacked himself on a door frame and was bleeding profusely from the head). I suppose if someone were in the MOOD for such a thing, or if one thought “Jackass” was a REALLY, REALLY cool show, they would be quite funny.
And now, Jet Screamer’s assessment of Trainwreck:
“Trainwreck is very good.”
Yes, it’s true. They are very good. I was fully prepared not to like them, as I’m old and crotchety and set in my ways, but there you have it, I liked them. If Dingleberry Dynasty is a “Porky’s” movie, T-wreck is a Christopher Guest film. Their self-described “Country-Fried Rock” is peppered with enough musical jokes and pop-culture references to please even me. They’re even good musicians, to boot.
Trainwreck is the co-creation of Kyle “Klip Kalhoun” Gass and JR “Darryl Lee Donald” Reed, of Tenacious D fame. They met as members of Tim Robbins’ Actors' Gang Theater Group. Besides Tenacious D: The Complete Master Works (now available on DVD) and the forthcoming Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny, you can see Mr. Gass in the most unexpected places, like playing “Officer Drake” in Evolution, or “Tony” in Jacob’s Ladder. I had been warned ahead of time that Kyle was suffering laryngitis, but the collective covering for his not speaking or singing by the rest of the group was so seamless, I would have otherwise assumed his silence was part of the act.
JR Reed is best described by his recent write-up in Tiger Beat:
Height: Six feet, three inches of dreamy delight!
Weight: 205 pounds of sinewy muscle!
Best known for: Being Lee of the D!
Cool guest star role: playing a “Vamp Guard” on Buffy!
Turn-ons: Old-school pro wrestling, walks on the beach
Turn-offs: John Tesh, people who bring him down
Best-kept secret: Playing the title role in “Peer Gynt” (THAT’S a PLAY!)
If he’s your prom date: Not to worry, gals, if Prince and Justin Timberlake had a baby, it would dance like JR!
The band is rounded out by cute little John “Boy Johnny” Spiker, Chris “Lance Branson” Darienzo, John “Shreddy” Konesky, and Nate Rothaker, all of whom display ample talent despite the humorous bent, most notably Konesky on his frequent guitar solos, and Darienzo on keyboards and the occasional vocal solo.
My only fear for the band is that the subtleties of their humor are lost on the predominantly idiot-teen audience I was with last night. Jet was, in fact, left wondering why they didn’t just be a real band, since they’re all good enough. Well, being a creative type myself who often needs to stretch genres a little bit to feel completely satisfied, I approve wholeheartedly. I suggest you go to their website right away and find out when they’ll be in your town, and then go see them.
Second things second, Big Sister Bamm-Bamm has her own blog. Go there now! Not only does she have an eyewitness report from the heart of hurricane country, but she’s just started nursing school and promises lots of delicious gossip about boneheaded medical mishaps!
Now, as promised, I will tell you of my trip to see Trainwreck!
Disclaimer Number One: I am, perhaps, not the best person to write a review of a rock band. Ages 8 through 13 were spent checking out the same 3 LPs, over and over, from the Grandview Heights Public Library (The Mickey Mouse Club Soundtrack, The NEW Mickey Mouse Club Soundtrack, and the Meco disco-mix of The Wizard of Oz Soundtrack) which I would play and play while I locked lLitte Sister Bamm-Bamm in her room and made up my own choreography.
Ages 13 through 16 were spent playing “The Magic of Abba” from K-Tel, which I begged my mother to get me for Christmas.
Age 16 was the first record I bought with my own money, the Go-Gos’ “Beauty and the Beat”.
Age 22 was the first and only non-classical concert I’ve ever attended, Debbie Gibson’s “Electric Youth” tour. Yes, I said age 22. Shut up.
Disclaimer Number Two: The show was in Baltimore. Baltimore is a stinking cesspool of filth and despair. I can think of no reason why anyone would want to live or go there. It’s ugly, and frightening even in the full sun. It was a tremendous act of will and perseverance to be able to resist my fight or flight instinct for an entire evening.
Now, the whole thing came about because Little Sister Bamm-Bamm, well, she’s real tight with the T-wrecks. Even sings with them sometimes. So one day we were emailing back and forth, which we are prone to do at work instead of WORKING, and discussing important matters of pop culture, including dreamy lead singer of Trainwreck JR Reed, and things of that nature. Before I could stop myself, I had emailed not only JR Reed to tell him he was as dreamy as Lee Majors, but also T-wreck’s driving creative force, Kyle Gass, to tell him how I wrote to William Shatner when I was 12 to ask him why he shaved his chest on Star Trek (which I did because Little Sister BB promised to buy I prize if I did so, which I have STILL NOT RECEIVED).
So, off I went, posse in tow (Jet Screamer and our friend Floozie Flingland). The show was at “Fletcher’s” which is, like most structures in Baltimore, a DUMP. Floozie, a long-time Maryland resident, assures me that, aside from the stadium, it is probably the nicest place in town to have a concert. Swell. I WAS heartened to find, amid the sea of black negligees worn with combat boots, girls dolled up like rejects from the cast of “Sailor Moon”, and the occasional out-of-place looking sorority girl, that I was NOT the oldest person there.
We arrived just in time to hear the end of “The Mudsharks”, who proved tiresome in only one-and-a-half songs. The only bit of interest in their act was the screen behind them, on which was projected my favorite DVD of all time, Educational Archives Vol. I: Sex & Drugs.
So then we thought, “Terrific! We’ve arrived just in time for Trainwreck, and we can get home at an early hour, since it’s a school night and all!” No such luck. The Mudsharks weren’t even the REAL warm-up band, they were, like, some sort of pathetic PRE-warm-up band. The REAL warm-up band was Dingleberry Dynasty. Here’s what Jet Screamer had to say about THAT:
“About Dingleberry Dynasty, if there’s a bodily function or something you do with your hand involving sex, you can be sure they’ll sing a song about it, and they did. Words cannot express how much I hated them. Bamm mentioned that I like Southpark, so I should like them, right? No, Southpark is clever, very clever. These boys on stage are idiots, oh, and they can’t write songs.”
Well. I didn’t think it was all THAT bad, they did have SOME catchy tunes, but they were trying AWFULLY hard for laughs, with all the subtlety of a Police Academy film. “Funny” bits included pretend crap eaten out of a diaper, a dog costume complete with erect phallus, a giant phallus costume, a man in drag, and three men in jockstraps humping each other (one of whom had accidentally smacked himself on a door frame and was bleeding profusely from the head). I suppose if someone were in the MOOD for such a thing, or if one thought “Jackass” was a REALLY, REALLY cool show, they would be quite funny.
And now, Jet Screamer’s assessment of Trainwreck:
“Trainwreck is very good.”
Yes, it’s true. They are very good. I was fully prepared not to like them, as I’m old and crotchety and set in my ways, but there you have it, I liked them. If Dingleberry Dynasty is a “Porky’s” movie, T-wreck is a Christopher Guest film. Their self-described “Country-Fried Rock” is peppered with enough musical jokes and pop-culture references to please even me. They’re even good musicians, to boot.
Trainwreck is the co-creation of Kyle “Klip Kalhoun” Gass and JR “Darryl Lee Donald” Reed, of Tenacious D fame. They met as members of Tim Robbins’ Actors' Gang Theater Group. Besides Tenacious D: The Complete Master Works (now available on DVD) and the forthcoming Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny, you can see Mr. Gass in the most unexpected places, like playing “Officer Drake” in Evolution, or “Tony” in Jacob’s Ladder. I had been warned ahead of time that Kyle was suffering laryngitis, but the collective covering for his not speaking or singing by the rest of the group was so seamless, I would have otherwise assumed his silence was part of the act.
JR Reed is best described by his recent write-up in Tiger Beat:
Height: Six feet, three inches of dreamy delight!
Weight: 205 pounds of sinewy muscle!
Best known for: Being Lee of the D!
Cool guest star role: playing a “Vamp Guard” on Buffy!
Turn-ons: Old-school pro wrestling, walks on the beach
Turn-offs: John Tesh, people who bring him down
Best-kept secret: Playing the title role in “Peer Gynt” (THAT’S a PLAY!)
If he’s your prom date: Not to worry, gals, if Prince and Justin Timberlake had a baby, it would dance like JR!
The band is rounded out by cute little John “Boy Johnny” Spiker, Chris “Lance Branson” Darienzo, John “Shreddy” Konesky, and Nate Rothaker, all of whom display ample talent despite the humorous bent, most notably Konesky on his frequent guitar solos, and Darienzo on keyboards and the occasional vocal solo.
My only fear for the band is that the subtleties of their humor are lost on the predominantly idiot-teen audience I was with last night. Jet was, in fact, left wondering why they didn’t just be a real band, since they’re all good enough. Well, being a creative type myself who often needs to stretch genres a little bit to feel completely satisfied, I approve wholeheartedly. I suggest you go to their website right away and find out when they’ll be in your town, and then go see them.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Stepmommie Sluttiest
So, Britney’s married. And a stepmother. THAT'LL make a good book in about fifteen years. 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of imbecilic twits, Madonna’s in Israel as part of her Kaballah study. Madonna says it’s no more dangerous in Israel than it is in New York City.
Umm, I’ve been to Israel, AND New York City, and YES IT IS TOO. People in Israel can carry machine guns around the street. Little kids, even! And people in New York City don’t regular board the 317A crosstown and BLOW THEMSELVES UP.
Madonna’s also upset, apparently, because there was so much hubbub around her entourage that she couldn’t get close to the Wailing Wall. I’ve been there, too. Madonna, honey, maybe if you would put some modest clothes on and a cloth over your head, and not give news conferences announcing where you’re going, and be accompanied by one bodyguard instead of, like, seventeen, and go places during regular visiting hours instead of at midnight, you would be able to go where you please because no one would know or care who the f@#! you were.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of people I used to like, John Kerry and his abrasive wife are appearing on tonight’s Dr. Phil primetime special. Could he do anything ELSE to not get elected?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of TV, has anyone seen this? I love TV. I mean, I REALLY LOVE TV. I would watch TV all day long if I could.
But NO ONE needs a TV in the DOOR OF THEIR F@#!ING REFRIGERATOR.
I’m sorry for the terrible language, but that’s what it comes to when something is so retarded that a clever quip can’t make it seem even more so.
And to think of the millions of idiots that will run out and buy one.
Tonight Jet Screamer and I are to go see Train Wreck, and then tomorrow, a review!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of imbecilic twits, Madonna’s in Israel as part of her Kaballah study. Madonna says it’s no more dangerous in Israel than it is in New York City.
Umm, I’ve been to Israel, AND New York City, and YES IT IS TOO. People in Israel can carry machine guns around the street. Little kids, even! And people in New York City don’t regular board the 317A crosstown and BLOW THEMSELVES UP.
Madonna’s also upset, apparently, because there was so much hubbub around her entourage that she couldn’t get close to the Wailing Wall. I’ve been there, too. Madonna, honey, maybe if you would put some modest clothes on and a cloth over your head, and not give news conferences announcing where you’re going, and be accompanied by one bodyguard instead of, like, seventeen, and go places during regular visiting hours instead of at midnight, you would be able to go where you please because no one would know or care who the f@#! you were.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of people I used to like, John Kerry and his abrasive wife are appearing on tonight’s Dr. Phil primetime special. Could he do anything ELSE to not get elected?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Speaking of TV, has anyone seen this? I love TV. I mean, I REALLY LOVE TV. I would watch TV all day long if I could.
But NO ONE needs a TV in the DOOR OF THEIR F@#!ING REFRIGERATOR.
I’m sorry for the terrible language, but that’s what it comes to when something is so retarded that a clever quip can’t make it seem even more so.
And to think of the millions of idiots that will run out and buy one.
Tonight Jet Screamer and I are to go see Train Wreck, and then tomorrow, a review!
Friday, September 17, 2004
Hannitize This!
Is it just me, or does anyone else wish Theresa Heinz Kerry would just shut up once in a while?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I want to hate Gwyneth Paltrow, I really do, if for no other reason than she named her child after produce. But I just can’t. She’s sweet and pretty, and according to my Hollywood sources it’s not an act. I will go dutifully to see “Sky Captain” tomorrow, even though I get a panic attack whenever I see Jude Law on screen, and Angelina Jolie makes me feel like I need a shower, and I will likely buy the DVD even if it sucks. Rest assured, if it DOES suck, I’ll have a juicy review next week.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sean Hannity is a psychopath. Normally, I would not be so harsh, preferring something innocuous like, “Sean Hannity is a moron”, or, “Sean Hannity has his face so far up Bush’s a** I’m surprised he can even speak”, but I have it on good authority from a psychologist friend of mine that he is, indeed, a psychopath. I’m not going to list the indications of psychopathy, because I’m a hypochondriac, and reading such lists will make me think I’m a psychopath, too, and ruin my weekend. But I trust my friend’s judgment implicitly.
At my place of employment, I am wont to listen to talk radio all day, and the only station that comes in clearly is WMAL, the conservative station (as if there’s another kind). I know, I know, I can hear Air America on the internet, and occasionally tune in, but they drive me crazy too. It’s like listening to grass grow. At least conservative shows are fast-paced and have decent intro/outro music.
So, the line-up for the morning is: The news with Andy Parks and Fred Grandy (yes, that Fred Grandy, “Gopher” from TV’s Love Boat ; he sounds really friendly on the radio, but I did a stage show with him and found him rather standoffish, frankly); Michael Graham, a former stand-up comic who at least gets a laugh out of me now and again; Rush Limbaugh, a puffed-up hypocrite who's become so ridiculous that he’s ceased to even draw my ire; and Sean Hannity who, as I said, is a psychopath.
Sean likes to speak of “Hannitizing” people (get it! Ha ha, it rhymes with “sanitize”!) It puts me in mind of Papa Smurf wanting to “smurf” Smurfette, and one was never quite sure what the smurf the old fool was smurfing about.
In the past, I generally found him annoying but harmless. That was until this past April Fool’s Day, when Sean’s big joke was to spend most of his show pretending he had turned liberal, demonstrating his turnaround by publicly forgiving Bill Clinton, advocating charity for the poor, rallying against the war in Iraq, and generally espousing the teachings of Jesus Christ. The scariest part was not actually that he used Christ’s teachings as an April Fool’s joke, but the ire and fear in the voices of people calling in who really thought their boy had abandoned them. “Deliver Us From Evil” indeed.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This is neither here nor there, but occasionally I find myself in the oddest places, like on a comic book message board discussing religion and sexuality. And after pouring out my views on being a gay Christian, and promptly being told to “enjoy Hell”, it struck me what it is about fundamentalists that….well, that I just don’t like very much. (It’s probably something that has been patently obvious to everyone else for some time now, but I’m a little slow on the uptake when it comes to these things. Too many years of reading Cliff’s notes instead of the actual novel).
The way I see it, their condemnation of all things “sinful” is a desperate attempt to avoid personal responsibility. If they can craft a world without temptation, they will never have to make a moral choice and risk it being the wrong one. Nor will they ever have to deprive themselves of anything enjoyable, because nothing enjoyable will be available to them.
My advice is, if you don’t want to drink or smoke or have get an abortion or have gay sex, then please don’t.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I want to hate Gwyneth Paltrow, I really do, if for no other reason than she named her child after produce. But I just can’t. She’s sweet and pretty, and according to my Hollywood sources it’s not an act. I will go dutifully to see “Sky Captain” tomorrow, even though I get a panic attack whenever I see Jude Law on screen, and Angelina Jolie makes me feel like I need a shower, and I will likely buy the DVD even if it sucks. Rest assured, if it DOES suck, I’ll have a juicy review next week.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sean Hannity is a psychopath. Normally, I would not be so harsh, preferring something innocuous like, “Sean Hannity is a moron”, or, “Sean Hannity has his face so far up Bush’s a** I’m surprised he can even speak”, but I have it on good authority from a psychologist friend of mine that he is, indeed, a psychopath. I’m not going to list the indications of psychopathy, because I’m a hypochondriac, and reading such lists will make me think I’m a psychopath, too, and ruin my weekend. But I trust my friend’s judgment implicitly.
At my place of employment, I am wont to listen to talk radio all day, and the only station that comes in clearly is WMAL, the conservative station (as if there’s another kind). I know, I know, I can hear Air America on the internet, and occasionally tune in, but they drive me crazy too. It’s like listening to grass grow. At least conservative shows are fast-paced and have decent intro/outro music.
So, the line-up for the morning is: The news with Andy Parks and Fred Grandy (yes, that Fred Grandy, “Gopher” from TV’s Love Boat ; he sounds really friendly on the radio, but I did a stage show with him and found him rather standoffish, frankly); Michael Graham, a former stand-up comic who at least gets a laugh out of me now and again; Rush Limbaugh, a puffed-up hypocrite who's become so ridiculous that he’s ceased to even draw my ire; and Sean Hannity who, as I said, is a psychopath.
Sean likes to speak of “Hannitizing” people (get it! Ha ha, it rhymes with “sanitize”!) It puts me in mind of Papa Smurf wanting to “smurf” Smurfette, and one was never quite sure what the smurf the old fool was smurfing about.
In the past, I generally found him annoying but harmless. That was until this past April Fool’s Day, when Sean’s big joke was to spend most of his show pretending he had turned liberal, demonstrating his turnaround by publicly forgiving Bill Clinton, advocating charity for the poor, rallying against the war in Iraq, and generally espousing the teachings of Jesus Christ. The scariest part was not actually that he used Christ’s teachings as an April Fool’s joke, but the ire and fear in the voices of people calling in who really thought their boy had abandoned them. “Deliver Us From Evil” indeed.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This is neither here nor there, but occasionally I find myself in the oddest places, like on a comic book message board discussing religion and sexuality. And after pouring out my views on being a gay Christian, and promptly being told to “enjoy Hell”, it struck me what it is about fundamentalists that….well, that I just don’t like very much. (It’s probably something that has been patently obvious to everyone else for some time now, but I’m a little slow on the uptake when it comes to these things. Too many years of reading Cliff’s notes instead of the actual novel).
The way I see it, their condemnation of all things “sinful” is a desperate attempt to avoid personal responsibility. If they can craft a world without temptation, they will never have to make a moral choice and risk it being the wrong one. Nor will they ever have to deprive themselves of anything enjoyable, because nothing enjoyable will be available to them.
My advice is, if you don’t want to drink or smoke or have get an abortion or have gay sex, then please don’t.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Paris, Barbie, and the Wisdom of sisters
Yesterday’s snippet about Britney Spears put me in mind of another hypocritical twit, Paris Hilton, whose family and friends continually claim that deep down inside, she’s really a shy, insecure thing who grew up embarrassed by her big feet and flat chest.
Errrr…okay.
Paris, sweetie, if you want people to see the “real you”, the first step will be to stop making that pouty porn-star face EVERY TIME SOMEONE TAKES A PICTURE OF YOU.
Maybe it’s all Barbie’s fault. The doll, I mean. Mother Rubble always tsk-tsk’d the thing and proclaimed that “she looks like a streetwalker”, and indeed she did, and still does. Not to say Barbie wasn’t allowed in the house, for she was, but only when accompanied by a paperboard closet full of clothes made by Mother Rubble herself – thick, woolen, sensible numbers that one might have seen worn by hip-but-chaste gals like Marlo Thomas or Mary Tyler Moore.
Mother Rubble’s sensible compromise has been lost on the current generation of parents, I’m afraid. When I was a lad, I didn’t wear anything that wasn’t bought or made for me, as I didn’t have any money of my own, and what little I did have went for comic books and Reece’s cups. I can’t imagine things have changed so much that children are now independently wealthy, with teams of servants ready to rush out to the mall and buy them hip huggers and baby-doll tees. Parents of America, I urge you: STOP DRESSING YOUR CHILDREN LIKE PROSTITUTES. You see where it gets us, spoiled starlets complaining because someone has actually judged them by their cover.
Little sister Nelly Olsen (see comment below) has promised to chime in occasionally with wry observations. No prude herself, she nonetheless remembers that in HER day (not so long ago), girls wore their pants up to their navels and they liked it just fine! I’m glad that young women are finally confident, secure, and not ashamed of their bodies, but honestly, how did confidence translate into walking the town wearing jeans down around one’s ass-crack, with rolls of fat spilling over?
Speaking of fat, I’ve another sister, older than me no matter what she tells you, that has just begun nursing school, and has been charged with the task of finding our why, at every doctor’s office in the country, there is at least one nurse who always weighs, like, FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS.
I must away, but I imagine I’ll be back soon, to relate my sighting of Alan Greenspan and Andrea Mitchell, and thoughts on the psychopathic Sean Hannity and my recent revelation about fundamentalist Christians. Whoopee!
Errrr…okay.
Paris, sweetie, if you want people to see the “real you”, the first step will be to stop making that pouty porn-star face EVERY TIME SOMEONE TAKES A PICTURE OF YOU.
Maybe it’s all Barbie’s fault. The doll, I mean. Mother Rubble always tsk-tsk’d the thing and proclaimed that “she looks like a streetwalker”, and indeed she did, and still does. Not to say Barbie wasn’t allowed in the house, for she was, but only when accompanied by a paperboard closet full of clothes made by Mother Rubble herself – thick, woolen, sensible numbers that one might have seen worn by hip-but-chaste gals like Marlo Thomas or Mary Tyler Moore.
Mother Rubble’s sensible compromise has been lost on the current generation of parents, I’m afraid. When I was a lad, I didn’t wear anything that wasn’t bought or made for me, as I didn’t have any money of my own, and what little I did have went for comic books and Reece’s cups. I can’t imagine things have changed so much that children are now independently wealthy, with teams of servants ready to rush out to the mall and buy them hip huggers and baby-doll tees. Parents of America, I urge you: STOP DRESSING YOUR CHILDREN LIKE PROSTITUTES. You see where it gets us, spoiled starlets complaining because someone has actually judged them by their cover.
Little sister Nelly Olsen (see comment below) has promised to chime in occasionally with wry observations. No prude herself, she nonetheless remembers that in HER day (not so long ago), girls wore their pants up to their navels and they liked it just fine! I’m glad that young women are finally confident, secure, and not ashamed of their bodies, but honestly, how did confidence translate into walking the town wearing jeans down around one’s ass-crack, with rolls of fat spilling over?
Speaking of fat, I’ve another sister, older than me no matter what she tells you, that has just begun nursing school, and has been charged with the task of finding our why, at every doctor’s office in the country, there is at least one nurse who always weighs, like, FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS.
I must away, but I imagine I’ll be back soon, to relate my sighting of Alan Greenspan and Andrea Mitchell, and thoughts on the psychopathic Sean Hannity and my recent revelation about fundamentalist Christians. Whoopee!
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
If I wasn't dressed appropriately, I wasn't allowed to leave the house
If anyone still doubts that the problem with kids today is parents....
http://www.local6.com/entertainment/3729829/detail.html
Memo to Mrs. Spears: get your daughter a Spiegel catalogue and a copy of Emily Post and stop letting her dress like a whore, maybe THAT will improve her image.
http://www.local6.com/entertainment/3729829/detail.html
Memo to Mrs. Spears: get your daughter a Spiegel catalogue and a copy of Emily Post and stop letting her dress like a whore, maybe THAT will improve her image.
Make it so: The Politics of Star Trek
And speaking of supermarkets, why can I go NOWHERE without seeing Dr. Phil’s leering face peering back at me? I know hate is a strong word, but I hate Dr. Phil with every fiber of my being.
First, the obvious reason: he’s fat. And he’s making millions peddling the “ultimate” weight-loss solution. As far as I can tell, his solution involves eating less and exercising more. Ummmm……..DUH! I’m certainly not the first to point out this glaring hypocrisy, but I’m tired of hearing Dr. Phil’s explanation that he’s not fat, just a “big jock”. If he’s a big jock, I’m Mr. Universe. I think it wise that I stop now, and not talk about the “Ultimate Weight Loss Solution for Teens” by Dr. Phil, Jr., who is a) fat, and b) NOT a teen.
I hate bullies in general, and Dr. Phil is a bully. As Jet Screamer (an astute observer of people’s characters) has pointed out, his wife’s body language seems to indicate that she’s terrified of him.
Finally, and most damaging, he’s making millions by berating people for what’s wrong with their lives, which is blatantly unhelpful. As anyone, like myself, who has spent any time on the crazy doctor’s sofa can tell you, identifying the problem does not equate solving the problem, and in many cases does not even contribute to solving it. Allowing people to believe that their lives will get better if someone would just tell them what’s wrong with it is a dangerous, dangerous game. I think it telling that, by his own admission, Dr. Phil is not a practicing psychologist because he didn’t have the patience to deal with people on a long-term basis. Neat.
Now, who to elect President? It’s quite a pickle, isn’t it? I'll be honest up front, I hate to talk about politics, and am only doing so because a trusted ally said it was the best way to get noticed by Wonkette, but that being said I DO have a few opinions to share.
Being that I’m poor, gay, and artistic, it would seem clear that I’m a Democrat, and indeed that’s what it says on my voter registration card. But frankly, I haven’t been too impressed with Senator Kerry of late. I hate to bandy the phrase “flip-flopper” about, but good Lord, what could this man be thinking? “Ah, let’s see, I’m behind in the polls, I think I’ll go out today and contradict myself, maybe shoot a rifle that I’m in favor of banning, and then resurrect questions about a war that nobody under forty cares about.”
Okay, maybe SOMEBODY cares about it, but they’re not here today. Honestly, I don’t care if Kerry crafted his own medals by melting down the cooking pot of an old Vietnamese woman (after shooting her in the back, of course). I don’t care if Dubya was snorting coke in the White House bowling alley last night while Jenna and Barbara wrestled in pudding. What I DO care about is that over a thousand young American soldiers and uncounted Iraqi civilians have been killed for no reason, Iraq is a fetid breeding ground of hatred for America (not that it matters, since the whole world hates America already) and no one has the foggiest idea what to do about it.
I will admit, I have never been a fan of G.W. I even sang in a protest concert, right here in sWDC, when he was inaugurated. He is incurious, he does not (by his own admission) read a newspaper or watch the news, and that bothers me. I look in his eyes, and I see not one hint of intelligence. I spoke recently with an acquaintance of mine, I’ll call him “Mike”. Okay, you caught me, that’s his real name. Mike owned a successful catering business and catered affairs at the White House from the tail end of the Reagan administration through Clinton. Mike is now out of a job, because Bush goes to bed at 9:30, and when he DOES host a foreign dignitary, shuttles them off to Crawford for a barbecue. That bothers me, too. As the self-proclaimed leader of the free world, he should be able to host a dinner party, don’t you think?
Kerry, I just don’t know about. I was a Dean man, m’self, but had no illusions that he could actually be elected. I don’t think Kerry thought he would be the nominee, and in fact it looked for a long while like he wouldn’t be. But now he is, and it seems like he’s living out that dream people have, when you go in to take your final exam and realize you haven’t studied all semester.
The difference between the two is clear: Bush is Kirk, Kerry is Picard. Bush is intent on proving that his ship is the baddest ship in the whole galaxy. Kerry is intent on having his ship be the most respected, while conforming to the letter of Federation protocol. Bush has his Mr. Spock, Dick Cheney, who is sour and emotionless (but, unfortunately, devoid of logic). Kerry has his brash young Riker, John Edwards, who is prettier than him and has better hair.
Poor Colin Powell is Dr. McCoy, the one with the most sense that nobody pays any attention to. Rumsfeld and Wolfowitz are a composite Scotty, making sure the ship runs when it pleases them. And, loathe as I am to be so obvious as to equate Condi with Uhura…what does she DO, really, but repeat the captain’s orders over the intercom? (Incidentally, I wonder if even she believes a word she says. Watch her. Every time she’s explaining away some asinine decision of the administration, her head shakes back and forth as if saying “don’t believe me” )
Kerry has yet to assemble his crew, but chances are, like Picard’s, they will be more diverse and less interesting.
And waiting in the wings with bated breath is Captain Hillary Rodham Janeway.
So who to vote for?
Mmmm….can we write in Scott Bakula?
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Herded, not seen: Recommendations for ridding the grocery store of dull-witted children
I didn’t always hate going to the grocery store. In fact, there was a time when I quite enjoyed it. That all changed when I arrived in suburban Washington DC, which as you’ll recall, is where I live.
There are two choices available to us here in sWDC: Giant and Safeway. No angry letters, please. I know all about Shopper’s Food Warehouse (which incidentally, is NOT a warehouse, but nonetheless conjures up images of my just-bought food having sat on a dusty shelf for God-knows-how-long before being purchased) and Food Lion (which I’ve been wary of ever since I bounced a check there in my mis-spent youth). I hold out hope for the long-promised arrival of Wegman’s, which is the best grocery store ever in the history of the world, but the closest one right now is a 55-minute drive without traffic, and I have enough trouble getting home in the evening in time to let Dino out to pee.
In our former abode, my Domestic Cave-Mate Jet Screamer and I preferred Safeway, although the Giant was closer. But the Safeway had better produce, brighter lighting, and didn’t have birds flying around INSIDE THE STORE.
But the best thing about Safeway was fun we had inventing imaginary lives for its employees, and then would talk about the employees and their lives as if we were all old friends. Our particular favorites were Joe C. and Troy B. Joe C. used to work at Giant, where Jet Screamer noticed that he was a “looky-loo”, a particular breed of presumed-gay man who will sort-of check you out, but not REALLY, and will avert his eyes the moment he’s discovered looking. Joe C. is not wholly unattractive, though he’ll never grace the cover of the fireman’s calendar, and he feels compelled to keep a stringy, barely-visible mustache which does him no favors. Still, he has a pleasant, friendly manner and is a splendid example of what a grocery store employee should be.
While Joe C. was still working at Giant, we saw him one day at the pet store with Troy B. This is what put the notion in our heads that they were a couple, and when we later saw them BOTH working at Safeway, we couldn’t have been more delighted. Troy B. was probably a cute thing at one time, but now has the look of someone who has had one too many hangovers, smoked more than he should, and spent too much time in the sun. He bleaches his hair, and always looks as if he’s just had a whiff of something unpleasant. All in all, we find him completely wrong for Joe C. All the better to spice up our breathless tales of Joe C.’s and Troy B.’s activities, charting the success of a shopping trip by whether Joe C. was cashiering or working the Service Desk (a sign of his standing among the supermarket employees’ community, we imagined), or whether Troy B. had been spotted sneaking a cigarette or overheard saying something bitchy or asinine (as when he was overheard telling a co-worker that he had just bought a “two-story one-level house”).
Now Jet Screamer and I live in a new neighborhood, and as it happens, the Giant has the better produce and brighter lighting. And more children. LOTS of children. Children in droves, so thick I’m forced to wonder if they’ve been taken there to roam free while their parents are at work. I tried the new local Safeway for a while, out of brand loyalty, but found myself wondering why, at the busiest times of day, they would staff EVERY 15-item-or-less aisle, and have only ONE regular aisle open. That’s all right if you’re stopping in for a lemon pepper-roasted chicken, or carton of Dulce de Leche ice cream (2 for six dollars!) but it won’t do for a weekly shop when you’re trying to hurry home to poor Dino.
The great attraction of Giant, I thought, was the addition of Self-Checkout lines. I suppose they were invented to make the checkout process quicker, but the plan seems to have backfired along the way. So far, I have found two major problems:
1) I am smarter and quicker than the checkout scanner. As so often happens when I am confronted with technology, I soon find the quickest and easiest (i.e. laziest) way to make it operate. With the self-scanner, this means that I often scan an item and shoot it down the belt, then stand furiously waving the next item in front of the scanner while the machine “catches up”. Which it does just in time to catch two waves of said item, thus charging me twice and necessitating a visit from the roaming troubleshooter, who ALWAYS looks disgruntled.
2) The checkout scanner is smarter than everyone else. Last evening I stood for fifteen minutes behind someone who was having trouble getting a “read” on their child’s box of Nerds candies, and then when they finally DID get a read, took an additional ten minutes figuring out how to pay with a credit card.
Aside from my self-scanning troubles, any trip to Giant is marred by the presence of children, who in my opinion should either be penned up outside while the adults shop, or not brought in the first place. For such potent little bundles of energy, they sure do walk slowly. And the slower they walk, the less sense they seem to have that they might conceivably be in someone’s way. And when made aware that they are, indeed, in someone’s way, they seem to have little idea of what to do about it, except to stare dully at you until you exasperatingly fling your cart in a different direction to avoid their relentless, directionless march.
Jet Screamer has had an idea, that one should immediately go to the cookie aisle upon entering the grocery store, and snag a package or two of Keebler Fudge Rounds. These Frisbee-like concoctions can easily be flung about the store and attract the children to one area, so one can do one’s shopping quickly and peacefully (Jet recommends ditching the empty package in the pet food aisle, to avoid paying for it; I myself think it would be a small price to pay to get in and out of the store in under an hour).
That’s all for now. Coming tomorrow, my thoughts on Dr. Phil, who I despise, and my analysis of the Presidential election if the candidates were Captains Kirk and Picard.
Monday, September 13, 2004
DVDs, the final triumph of a consumer society
I was going to make a webpage, but I'm too busy and too lazy, and so here we are.
I am your host, Teenage Bamm-Bamm. My identity will remain a secret, not so much for my own protection, but for that of my close associates, who will also occasionally post their thoughts here.
I reside in suburban Washington, DC, and move in the highest circles, so you might expect that I would be commenting on politics and gossip from "the Hill"...and perhaps I will, but not today. They're all crooks, and I've half a mind to vote for Nader.
Right now, I'd like to talk about DVDs, because I have some money coming in the next couple of weeks and I imagine every last penny of it will be spent on DVDs. Much to Teenage Bamm-Bamm's Domestic Cave-Mate's chagrin, I will buy DVDs of things I have never seen, and may not be likely to see even after I've bought it on DVD. However, they DO last forever, and certainly there MAY come a day when I'll have lots of time on my hands and nothing else to do...at least that's what I'm banking on.
So, occasionally, I'll discover a gem in my collection, and write a review of it on this very blog. Rest assured, despite my caustic wit and stinging criticisms, I will only review things that I think everyone should run out and buy right away. HOWEVER, if you think "Mommie Dearest" is a drama, or think Helen Hunt deserved to win an Oscar, you should stop reading right now. You won't "get" it, and should probably stick to things that will be "guaranteed in-stock" at Blockbuster.
First up is “V:The Complete Series”, 19 episodes available in a 3-disc set for around $25. Shop around, I imagine you’ll soon be seeing used copies on Ebay for much less!
For the uninitiated, “V” followed on the heels of “V: The Mini-Series” and “V: The Final Battle”, two NBC movies-of-the-week that dramatized a pre-“Independence Day” battle between humans and aliens for ownership of the Earth. The aliens, initially presenting themselves as friends, soon revealed that they were lizard people wearing human masks, and that they were fond of eating things like mice, hamsters, and…. well, people.
The rag-tag band of human freedom fighters eventually banish the “Visitors” through the deployment of “Red Dust”, a bacterial agent that makes the aliens die horrible deaths but luckily not the humans.
“V” the tv show begins a year after the “red dust” business, when the humans discover that not only have the aliens been biding their time, hanging our behind the moon, but also that the red dust is ineffective in any locale that doesn’t have regular freezes. Like Brazil, Florida, and (luckily!) Southern California. Los Angeles is somehow set up as an “open city” where the humans and aliens can peacefully co-exist, while the aliens presumably go about their business of eating everyone else on the planet.
The special effects, which were state-of–the-art in the movies, have devolved to television standards. Which means they rely on lots of car chases, motorcycle chases, horse chases and anything else they can do to avoid having to use footage of space-ships, which they only have two shots of which they use over and over. Once in a while they’ll show an alien eating a mouse, which involves having the alien pick up a mouse, walk toward the camera so his hands can’t be seen, whereupon the live mouse is replaced with white chocolate or marzipan or something that the actor can pop into their mouth.
The show stars Faye Grant as Dr. Julie McCoy. Her name’s not really “McCoy”, but I can’t remember what it really is so I said “McCoy”. She’s secretly working on creating new red dust with Nathan Bates, CEO of Science Frontiers, who is buddying up with Diana, the leader of the aliens. In real life, Grant is marries to the dreamy Stephen Collins. She would have been better off staying home to tend to her husband, rather than be involved in this mess.
Jane Badler as Diana, and June Chadwick as Lydia, do their best impressions of Alexis and Krystal Carrington, only with more hair and not as much talent. (And saying someone has less talent than Linda Evans is REALLY saying something. Why Diana doesn’t kill and eat Lydia I’ll never understand, since Lydia is apparently an underling and is always catty and quarrelsome.
A pre-“Beastmaster” Marc Singer is Mike Donavan, who proudly announces in the first episode that he’s a “newsman”. His face always looks like he’s suffering extreme lower back pain, and if you’ve seen a recent picture of him you’ll know that all that grimacing didn’t do his face any favors. Sometimes Donavan is looking for his teenage son who’s been brainwashed by the aliens, but the mention of the son dries up after a while, much like older brother Chuck on “Happy Days”.
Michael Ironside is Ham Tyler, some sort of professional freedom fighter. Let me repeat that his name is Ham. For some reason he calls Donavan “Gooder”…I’m really not sure why, but I imagine it must have gone something like this:
Ham: “I’m good.”
Donavan: “Yeah, well I’m gooder.”
Ham: “Hmm, I think I’ll call you Gooder.”
In fact, I’m really not sure of ANY of Ham’s thoughts or motivations, because he mumbles all of his dialogue so low in his voice that I have to turn up the volume whenever he appears just to be sure he’s speaking. Apparently, he and Gooder are involved in some sort of competition to see who can wear the tightest jeans. Gooder’s are tighter, but Ham has more to show for his efforts (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re not gay or female), which may be why he was scuttled off the show mid-way through the season.
Jennifer Cooke is Elizabeth the “Star Child”, the product of a human-alien tryst. In the first episode she was the little girl from “Poltergeist”, then she went into a cocoon that was protected by rattlesnakes, then she emerged as a lovely young woman with a closet full of Laura Ashley. And she can move things with her mind. And play piano. And Diana’s always looking for her. And she likes to flirt with Kyle, the “rebellious but loveable” male ingénue whose only other purpose in the show is to wear tight jeans, take his shirt off and ride motorcycles. Oh, and flirt with Robin, who is ELIZABETH’S MOTHER.
A pre-“Freddy Krueger” Robert Englund is Willie, and alien who’s decided to help the humans out not by providing detailed intelligence, but by TENDING BAR. His most endearing quality is that he mixes up English words, for example, he may say “Glad to feet you”, when he means “Glad to meet you”. Isn’t that cute? Except that he does it, like, every third goddamned word, even though EVERY OTHER ALIEN ON THE PLANET CAN SPEAK PERFECT ENGLISH.
There’s also a black man, who dies halfway through the season. Since it’s the 80’s, he only speaks or appears when someone is needed to own a bar or be argumentative.
Next up is “Muscle Beach Party”, conveniently available on a double-sided disc, paired with the non-beach (and non-Annette) “Ski Party”. (Available at Best Buy for ten bucks).
Let’s begin with some ground rules: Annette Funicello, America’s Sweetheart, is beloved by all, but especially me. Lest anyone construe any remark made by me as “criticism”, and then decide to chime in with their own digs at Ms. Funicello, rest assured this will result in being punched in the face, by me. So, on we go.
“Muscle Beach Party” is the second installment in the wildly popular “Beach” series of movies of the 1960’s, each one made for about five dollars by director William “Bud” Asher, creator of such fine television shows as “Return to Green Acres” and “I Dream of Jeanie: 15 Years Later”. As in the first film, “Beach Party”, Frankie Avalon is “Frankie” and Annette Funicello is “Dee Dee”, young lovers who enjoy nothing as much as a good surf weekend.
The movie opens with Frankie and Dee Dee leading a caravan of jalopies piled high with middle-aged Hollywood extras playing teenagers on their way to the ocean for some sun, sand and surfing. No sooner do they arrive than Dee Dee starts harping on Frankie for not having any ambition in life other than surfing. At the beginning of their SURFING VACATION.
In the first shocking twist, the boys and girls are all sleeping together in the SAME HOUSE. Luckily, sensible Dee Dee is armed with a clothesline and an antique quilt, to block off the “girls area” (which is tastefully provided with frilly curtains and soft lighting) from the “boys area” (which looks like a sub-saharan mud shack). A couple of the “faster” girls bristle at Dee Dee’s prudishness and try to sneak over to the boys’ side, only to find that ALL the boys have already fallen asleep! Ha ha, aren’t boys stupid?
Next day, all the kids head out to stand on their surfboards while someone sprays water on them and a movie of the ocean plays in the background. Their fun is disrupted by the arrival of “Jack Fanny” (artfully played by Don Rickles) and his “Muscle Boys”, who are all wearing pink square-cut swim trunks with matching capes. Pink. Capes. Fanny. What this movie could use is some more sub-text.
Also, there’s an Italian heiress on a boat offshore, who has something to do with Buddy Hackett. I’m not sure exactly what, I nodded off for awhile. The heiress flies a helicopter over to the beach and picks up the head muscle man, “Flex Martian” (Peter Lupus of “Mission: Impossible” fame, who would later doff his pink trunks for Playgirl ) and takes him back to the boat, causing no end of worry for Mr. Fanny.
(Attention smart-alecks: I KNOW a vessel at sea is called a “ship”, and a “boat” is a vessel in inland waters. Lay off.)
Frankie, still miffed at Dee Dee, heads off for a late-night surf with a LIT TORCH IN HIS HAND (I’m still not quite sure what that was supposed to accomplish – to scare off sharks? - or the logistics of riding a surfboard while holding a flaming piece of driftwood. ) While he’s gone, Dee Dee takes the opportunity to sing a plaintive teen ballad. Now, I’m the first to tell you that Annette never had the strongest singing voice, but honestly, it sounds like she was standing in another room with a tin can clamped over her mouth when they recorded this one. Help a girl out, sound engineers!
Frankie returns to shore to enjoy a smoke, just in time to meet the Italian heiress, who hears him singing, forgets all about the captive muscle man she has holed away on her yacht, and decides to fall in love with Frankie. Oh, and arrange a recording contract for him. Now, Frankie Avalon is reasonably attractive, I GUESS, but I’ve seen Peter Lupus’ Playgirl spread, and take it from me, she’s a FOOL!
Anyway, action shifts back and forth between a teen hangout run by Morey Amsterdam, where Dee Dee and Frankie’s respective posses engage in a sort of proto-“serving” of each other, and Jack Fanny’s Home for Wayward Boys, where the muscle men are now wearing tank tops with their names – Rock, Biff, Tug, Sulk, Riff, Mash, and Clod – emblazoned with rhinestones on their chests. I might also mention that there are two muscle GIRLS, “Lisa” and “Flo”, who are treated with contempt throughout the film.
Of course, everything works out okay in the end, with Frankie giving up fame and sex with a foreigner, for the promise of someday getting it on with Dee Dee, who has the biggest breasts on the beach, but isn’t about to give it without a ring on her finger. ‘Atta girl!
The cast is filled out by a bevy of beach party regulars, including John Ashley as “Johnny”, who is always much more respectful of Dee Dee that bad boy Frankie; Jody McCrea as “Deadhead”, so ed not because he is a tripped-out Grateful Dead groupie, but rather an abject moron; Valora Noland as “Animal” – one can only wonder where THAT nickname came from; and Candy Johnson as “Candy”, who looks about 60 years old, has the beer gut and stick legs of a boozehound, wears a pants-suit made of what looks like red cheerleading pom-poms, and STILL manages to drive the kids into paroxysms of ecstasy when she does the frug on the beach.
The real thrill of any beach movie is seeing what big stars are down on their luck enough to take the job. Besides the aforementioned Rickles, Hackett, and Amsterdam, we are “treated” to the dulcet tones of the ever-present Dick Dale and the Dell Tones. You may think that all beach music of the sixties is happy and perky, a la the Beach Boys. If you do, you’ve never heard Dick Dale. His voice sounds like he’s just spent the weekend smoking clove cigarettes and drinking absinthe, and he looks like somebody’s “cool dad” who decided to spend the weekend with “the gang”.
A young pre-“Grizzly Adams” Dan Haggerty is one of the Muscle Men, “Riff”. Despite being shaved and oiled, one can see the beginnings of the beefy good looks that would make him King of the Wilderness.
Peter Lorre plays some sort of ex-muscle man who creeps around and spies on people. Apparently he died four days after this movie premiered. From shame, one would guess.
Last but not least, this movie introduces us for the first time to “Little Stevie Wonder”, who serves the dual role of being the only black person AND the only person with a physical disability on the beach. Little Stevie, backed by the Dell Tones, sings a joyous Gospel-influenced number that the white children go crazy for – at least, they go crazy for it during instrumental breaks. While Stevie is actually SINGING, they return and sit politely in their seats. Just like Talent Round Up Day on the Mickey Mouse Club!
I am your host, Teenage Bamm-Bamm. My identity will remain a secret, not so much for my own protection, but for that of my close associates, who will also occasionally post their thoughts here.
I reside in suburban Washington, DC, and move in the highest circles, so you might expect that I would be commenting on politics and gossip from "the Hill"...and perhaps I will, but not today. They're all crooks, and I've half a mind to vote for Nader.
Right now, I'd like to talk about DVDs, because I have some money coming in the next couple of weeks and I imagine every last penny of it will be spent on DVDs. Much to Teenage Bamm-Bamm's Domestic Cave-Mate's chagrin, I will buy DVDs of things I have never seen, and may not be likely to see even after I've bought it on DVD. However, they DO last forever, and certainly there MAY come a day when I'll have lots of time on my hands and nothing else to do...at least that's what I'm banking on.
So, occasionally, I'll discover a gem in my collection, and write a review of it on this very blog. Rest assured, despite my caustic wit and stinging criticisms, I will only review things that I think everyone should run out and buy right away. HOWEVER, if you think "Mommie Dearest" is a drama, or think Helen Hunt deserved to win an Oscar, you should stop reading right now. You won't "get" it, and should probably stick to things that will be "guaranteed in-stock" at Blockbuster.
First up is “V:The Complete Series”, 19 episodes available in a 3-disc set for around $25. Shop around, I imagine you’ll soon be seeing used copies on Ebay for much less!
For the uninitiated, “V” followed on the heels of “V: The Mini-Series” and “V: The Final Battle”, two NBC movies-of-the-week that dramatized a pre-“Independence Day” battle between humans and aliens for ownership of the Earth. The aliens, initially presenting themselves as friends, soon revealed that they were lizard people wearing human masks, and that they were fond of eating things like mice, hamsters, and…. well, people.
The rag-tag band of human freedom fighters eventually banish the “Visitors” through the deployment of “Red Dust”, a bacterial agent that makes the aliens die horrible deaths but luckily not the humans.
“V” the tv show begins a year after the “red dust” business, when the humans discover that not only have the aliens been biding their time, hanging our behind the moon, but also that the red dust is ineffective in any locale that doesn’t have regular freezes. Like Brazil, Florida, and (luckily!) Southern California. Los Angeles is somehow set up as an “open city” where the humans and aliens can peacefully co-exist, while the aliens presumably go about their business of eating everyone else on the planet.
The special effects, which were state-of–the-art in the movies, have devolved to television standards. Which means they rely on lots of car chases, motorcycle chases, horse chases and anything else they can do to avoid having to use footage of space-ships, which they only have two shots of which they use over and over. Once in a while they’ll show an alien eating a mouse, which involves having the alien pick up a mouse, walk toward the camera so his hands can’t be seen, whereupon the live mouse is replaced with white chocolate or marzipan or something that the actor can pop into their mouth.
The show stars Faye Grant as Dr. Julie McCoy. Her name’s not really “McCoy”, but I can’t remember what it really is so I said “McCoy”. She’s secretly working on creating new red dust with Nathan Bates, CEO of Science Frontiers, who is buddying up with Diana, the leader of the aliens. In real life, Grant is marries to the dreamy Stephen Collins. She would have been better off staying home to tend to her husband, rather than be involved in this mess.
Jane Badler as Diana, and June Chadwick as Lydia, do their best impressions of Alexis and Krystal Carrington, only with more hair and not as much talent. (And saying someone has less talent than Linda Evans is REALLY saying something. Why Diana doesn’t kill and eat Lydia I’ll never understand, since Lydia is apparently an underling and is always catty and quarrelsome.
A pre-“Beastmaster” Marc Singer is Mike Donavan, who proudly announces in the first episode that he’s a “newsman”. His face always looks like he’s suffering extreme lower back pain, and if you’ve seen a recent picture of him you’ll know that all that grimacing didn’t do his face any favors. Sometimes Donavan is looking for his teenage son who’s been brainwashed by the aliens, but the mention of the son dries up after a while, much like older brother Chuck on “Happy Days”.
Michael Ironside is Ham Tyler, some sort of professional freedom fighter. Let me repeat that his name is Ham. For some reason he calls Donavan “Gooder”…I’m really not sure why, but I imagine it must have gone something like this:
Ham: “I’m good.”
Donavan: “Yeah, well I’m gooder.”
Ham: “Hmm, I think I’ll call you Gooder.”
In fact, I’m really not sure of ANY of Ham’s thoughts or motivations, because he mumbles all of his dialogue so low in his voice that I have to turn up the volume whenever he appears just to be sure he’s speaking. Apparently, he and Gooder are involved in some sort of competition to see who can wear the tightest jeans. Gooder’s are tighter, but Ham has more to show for his efforts (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re not gay or female), which may be why he was scuttled off the show mid-way through the season.
Jennifer Cooke is Elizabeth the “Star Child”, the product of a human-alien tryst. In the first episode she was the little girl from “Poltergeist”, then she went into a cocoon that was protected by rattlesnakes, then she emerged as a lovely young woman with a closet full of Laura Ashley. And she can move things with her mind. And play piano. And Diana’s always looking for her. And she likes to flirt with Kyle, the “rebellious but loveable” male ingénue whose only other purpose in the show is to wear tight jeans, take his shirt off and ride motorcycles. Oh, and flirt with Robin, who is ELIZABETH’S MOTHER.
A pre-“Freddy Krueger” Robert Englund is Willie, and alien who’s decided to help the humans out not by providing detailed intelligence, but by TENDING BAR. His most endearing quality is that he mixes up English words, for example, he may say “Glad to feet you”, when he means “Glad to meet you”. Isn’t that cute? Except that he does it, like, every third goddamned word, even though EVERY OTHER ALIEN ON THE PLANET CAN SPEAK PERFECT ENGLISH.
There’s also a black man, who dies halfway through the season. Since it’s the 80’s, he only speaks or appears when someone is needed to own a bar or be argumentative.
Next up is “Muscle Beach Party”, conveniently available on a double-sided disc, paired with the non-beach (and non-Annette) “Ski Party”. (Available at Best Buy for ten bucks).
Let’s begin with some ground rules: Annette Funicello, America’s Sweetheart, is beloved by all, but especially me. Lest anyone construe any remark made by me as “criticism”, and then decide to chime in with their own digs at Ms. Funicello, rest assured this will result in being punched in the face, by me. So, on we go.
“Muscle Beach Party” is the second installment in the wildly popular “Beach” series of movies of the 1960’s, each one made for about five dollars by director William “Bud” Asher, creator of such fine television shows as “Return to Green Acres” and “I Dream of Jeanie: 15 Years Later”. As in the first film, “Beach Party”, Frankie Avalon is “Frankie” and Annette Funicello is “Dee Dee”, young lovers who enjoy nothing as much as a good surf weekend.
The movie opens with Frankie and Dee Dee leading a caravan of jalopies piled high with middle-aged Hollywood extras playing teenagers on their way to the ocean for some sun, sand and surfing. No sooner do they arrive than Dee Dee starts harping on Frankie for not having any ambition in life other than surfing. At the beginning of their SURFING VACATION.
In the first shocking twist, the boys and girls are all sleeping together in the SAME HOUSE. Luckily, sensible Dee Dee is armed with a clothesline and an antique quilt, to block off the “girls area” (which is tastefully provided with frilly curtains and soft lighting) from the “boys area” (which looks like a sub-saharan mud shack). A couple of the “faster” girls bristle at Dee Dee’s prudishness and try to sneak over to the boys’ side, only to find that ALL the boys have already fallen asleep! Ha ha, aren’t boys stupid?
Next day, all the kids head out to stand on their surfboards while someone sprays water on them and a movie of the ocean plays in the background. Their fun is disrupted by the arrival of “Jack Fanny” (artfully played by Don Rickles) and his “Muscle Boys”, who are all wearing pink square-cut swim trunks with matching capes. Pink. Capes. Fanny. What this movie could use is some more sub-text.
Also, there’s an Italian heiress on a boat offshore, who has something to do with Buddy Hackett. I’m not sure exactly what, I nodded off for awhile. The heiress flies a helicopter over to the beach and picks up the head muscle man, “Flex Martian” (Peter Lupus of “Mission: Impossible” fame, who would later doff his pink trunks for Playgirl ) and takes him back to the boat, causing no end of worry for Mr. Fanny.
(Attention smart-alecks: I KNOW a vessel at sea is called a “ship”, and a “boat” is a vessel in inland waters. Lay off.)
Frankie, still miffed at Dee Dee, heads off for a late-night surf with a LIT TORCH IN HIS HAND (I’m still not quite sure what that was supposed to accomplish – to scare off sharks? - or the logistics of riding a surfboard while holding a flaming piece of driftwood. ) While he’s gone, Dee Dee takes the opportunity to sing a plaintive teen ballad. Now, I’m the first to tell you that Annette never had the strongest singing voice, but honestly, it sounds like she was standing in another room with a tin can clamped over her mouth when they recorded this one. Help a girl out, sound engineers!
Frankie returns to shore to enjoy a smoke, just in time to meet the Italian heiress, who hears him singing, forgets all about the captive muscle man she has holed away on her yacht, and decides to fall in love with Frankie. Oh, and arrange a recording contract for him. Now, Frankie Avalon is reasonably attractive, I GUESS, but I’ve seen Peter Lupus’ Playgirl spread, and take it from me, she’s a FOOL!
Anyway, action shifts back and forth between a teen hangout run by Morey Amsterdam, where Dee Dee and Frankie’s respective posses engage in a sort of proto-“serving” of each other, and Jack Fanny’s Home for Wayward Boys, where the muscle men are now wearing tank tops with their names – Rock, Biff, Tug, Sulk, Riff, Mash, and Clod – emblazoned with rhinestones on their chests. I might also mention that there are two muscle GIRLS, “Lisa” and “Flo”, who are treated with contempt throughout the film.
Of course, everything works out okay in the end, with Frankie giving up fame and sex with a foreigner, for the promise of someday getting it on with Dee Dee, who has the biggest breasts on the beach, but isn’t about to give it without a ring on her finger. ‘Atta girl!
The cast is filled out by a bevy of beach party regulars, including John Ashley as “Johnny”, who is always much more respectful of Dee Dee that bad boy Frankie; Jody McCrea as “Deadhead”, so ed not because he is a tripped-out Grateful Dead groupie, but rather an abject moron; Valora Noland as “Animal” – one can only wonder where THAT nickname came from; and Candy Johnson as “Candy”, who looks about 60 years old, has the beer gut and stick legs of a boozehound, wears a pants-suit made of what looks like red cheerleading pom-poms, and STILL manages to drive the kids into paroxysms of ecstasy when she does the frug on the beach.
The real thrill of any beach movie is seeing what big stars are down on their luck enough to take the job. Besides the aforementioned Rickles, Hackett, and Amsterdam, we are “treated” to the dulcet tones of the ever-present Dick Dale and the Dell Tones. You may think that all beach music of the sixties is happy and perky, a la the Beach Boys. If you do, you’ve never heard Dick Dale. His voice sounds like he’s just spent the weekend smoking clove cigarettes and drinking absinthe, and he looks like somebody’s “cool dad” who decided to spend the weekend with “the gang”.
A young pre-“Grizzly Adams” Dan Haggerty is one of the Muscle Men, “Riff”. Despite being shaved and oiled, one can see the beginnings of the beefy good looks that would make him King of the Wilderness.
Peter Lorre plays some sort of ex-muscle man who creeps around and spies on people. Apparently he died four days after this movie premiered. From shame, one would guess.
Last but not least, this movie introduces us for the first time to “Little Stevie Wonder”, who serves the dual role of being the only black person AND the only person with a physical disability on the beach. Little Stevie, backed by the Dell Tones, sings a joyous Gospel-influenced number that the white children go crazy for – at least, they go crazy for it during instrumental breaks. While Stevie is actually SINGING, they return and sit politely in their seats. Just like Talent Round Up Day on the Mickey Mouse Club!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
