The Republican Weak in Review

Not a very good week for conservative tv and radio personalities. First a former Marine counsels Rush Limbaugh on the true meaning of being an American and gets the blame for the Republican party's failures, then the "tea-baggin'" antics of a few wealthy folks sort of vaporizes like steam and now this from, of all people, a pulitzer-prize winning film critic...


Thoughts on Bill O'Reilly and Squeaky the Chicago Mouse


By Roger Ebert / April 7, 2009

To: Bill O'Reilly
From: Roger Ebert

Dear Bill: Thanks for including the Chicago Sun-Times on your exclusive list of newspapers on your "Hall of Shame." To be in an O'Reilly Hall of Fame would be a cruel blow to any newspaper. It would place us in the favor of a man who turns red and starts screaming when anyone disagrees with him. My grade-school teacher, wise Sister Nathan, would have called in your parents and recommended counseling with Father Hogben.

Yes, the Sun-Times is liberal, having recently endorsed our first Democrat for President since LBJ. We were founded by Marshall Field one week before Pearl Harbor to provide a liberal voice in Chicago to counter the Tribune, which opposed an American war against Hitler. I'm sure you would have sided with the Trib at the time.

I understand you believe one of the Sun-Times misdemeanors was dropping your syndicated column. My editor informs me that "very few" readers complained about the disappearance of your column, adding, "many more complained about Nancy." I know I did. That was the famous Ernie Bushmiller comic strip in which Sluggo explained that "wow" was "mom" spelled upside-down.

Your column ran in our paper while it was owned by the right-wing polemicists Conrad Black (Baron Black of Coldharbour) and David Radler. We dropped it to save a little money after they looted the paper of millions. Now you call for an advertising boycott. It is unusual to observe a journalist cheering for a newspaper to fail. At present the Sun-Times has no bank debt, but labors under the weight of millions of dollars in tax penalties incurred by Lord Black, who is serving an eight-year stretch for mail fraud and obstruction of justice. We also had to pay for his legal expenses.

There is a major difference between Conrad Black and you: Lord Black is a much better writer and thinker, and authored a respected biography about Roosevelt, who we were founded to defend. That newspapers continue to run your column is a mystery to me, since it is composed of knee-jerk frothings and ravings. If I were an editor searching for a conservative, I wouldn't choose a mad dog. My recommendation: The admirable Charles Krauthammer.

Bill, I am concerned that you have been losing touch with reality recently. Did you really say you are more powerful than any politician?

That reminds me of the famous story about Squeaky the Chicago Mouse. It seems that Squeaky was floating on his back along the Chicago River one day. Approaching the Michigan Avenue lift bridge, he called out: Raise the bridge! I have an erection!

It's time for the Republicans to regroup and focus their opposition on the issues. Please. I'm tired of watching Glenn Beck cry.

Good at Cars, Lousy at Decoration

(I Swear I'll Fix These Cars, One Day)I went to get a smog check today so I went to an auto mechanic strip mall near my home. It's a C-shaped building with garages galore, but I couldn't escape the sight of many automobile "work-in-progress" on display taking up all of the parking spaces. Do the shop owners not realize that the customer can see them? I mean it's disconcerting to pull into the driveway and see something out of Mad Max. It's like owning a butcher shop and leaving cow, pig and dog carcasses on the floor just before the cash register.

When I slowly approached the Smog Test Area I tried hard not to acknowledge the graveyard of crippled cars with missing engines, naked front ends where the bumpers usually covered, or sans windshield glass. I swear I heard a Chevy Nova say "don't look at me! I'm hideous!"

But I like these small, "mom & pop" places. The mechanic who performed the test was thorough. And the good news is I passed. But how about a little decorative renovation on the outside? And would it hurt to get a tv in the waiting room?

Little League Comeback Part III

First game. Dominic scattered 45 hits enroute to a 26 to 2 loss against the Angels. I didn't play so I sulked in the dugout. However I did accomplish 2 things. One I found a group of private investors who have agreed, tentatively depending on the success of the team, to sponsor us. AlpInvest Partners N.V., The Blackstone Group L.P., The Carlyle Group, Hellman & Friedman LLC, Kohlberg Kravis Roberts & Co. L.P. and Thomas H. Lee Partners, L.P will send over a rep to troubleshoot any "talent fat" and trim it by downsizing the current roster, and there's even talk that the Investors will not only outsource the coaching staff to India, but also change the name to THE INVESTORS. The second accomplishment was getting Dominic's mom to be the "team mother." Thanks to her recent divorce from "ass face," she treated the entire team to pizza, soda and some wine coolers for her, the coach and the benchwarmer, me. One negative note, I noticed Coach Ramos' clumsy attempt at a pass at Dominic's mom. He better not mess with the bull or he'll get the horns. Tune in and find out what happens next week.

MTV: Reality Killed The Music Stars

There was a time when MTV original shows like The Real World was innovative. 5 strangers from different, sometimes conflicting, backgrounds share living quarters with cameras rolling and mikes attached 24/7. The sociological ramifications of this televised experiment could have revolutionized television as a healing, educational medium while at the same time providing entertainment for people of all ages. The Youth could relate. The Old could understand the Youth. Success could have spawned copycat cable and network shows that held a mirror to the viewing public and addressed issues that usually went ignored. Think of the recent elections and the spark of dialogue stemming from the vote to overturn the ban on gay marriage, or the first African-American President and its affect on race relations? Sadly it seemed MTV was strong on the idea, but weak on the execution. The Real World, which is in its 21st season, has grown stale and the lame attempts to generate more viewers, though ratings for the show did go up 18% from previous season’s first episode, seemed to finish rather sluggishly, even with a cast that featured a trans-gender young woman and an Iraq War Veteran. Even the latest installment of the uber-adrenaline The Inferno II, Real World/Road Rules Challenge follows the same pattern of focusing on the same petty squabbles instead of the overall scope of competing on foreign soil and learning. It seems the group of familiar “reality stars,” some of whom are approaching 40 now, just don’t get it in terms of life’s lessons. Either that or producers of these shows believe that the audience loves drama and will artificially create one for ratings. Perhaps the producers are right. But after so many years, the formula becomes unbearably repetitive. Yes, C.J. is an asshole, and he has problems which leads him into fights and getting kicked out of the show. Here’s a question, why continually invite him back? Because people love train wrecks. It’s not his fault. The Producers of these types of shows love to exploit the insecurities and problems of their cast. There is nothing juicier than a Narcissist with a drinking problem or a tragic past. That’s great TV. But it’s also a step backwards from the educational aspect of what the Real World was supposed to be about. Think of Pedro Zamora from the San Francisco Cast from 1994.

Here’s an idea. The “M” in “MTV” stands for Music. How about playing music videos from fresh, unsigned artists? That’s pretty innovative. Layoff the faux-reality shows like “The Hills” and “The City” with its ridiculous disclaimer at the start of every episode proclaiming that what was captured so pristinely on video was indeed real. Not even the most ardent follower of these shows believes in its authenticity. Really, like they totally don’t, OMG!

My Return to Little League Baseball- Part II

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The Big Giant- Day 1 of my return to Little League Baseball

Michael Jordan did it. So did Roger Clemens and recently Brett Favre. Now I join the ranks of athletes who come out of retirement and rekindle their passion for the love of the game. In my case I am returning to the site of my greatest glory, little league baseball.

My first step was to contact the league reps at Grant Rea Park in Montebello, my hometown where I had played for 6 years. I set up a meeting with a Luis Castillo who heads up the Pony League. I drove out to the park and met with Mr. Castillo, a youthful-looking man in a long-sleeved Jersey and Dodgers baseball cap. We sat on the bleachers that overlooked the baseball diamond. Sprinklers watered the outfield and infield and a gardener snipped the rim around the pitcher’s mound.

“Where’s your son?” Mr. Castillo asked looking around for a glimpse of the phantom boy.

“I don’t have one,” I said.

Luis blinked in rapid succession out of confusion and smiled.

“So who is the person interested in joining our league?”

“Me,” I said confidently.

“You? Is this a joke? I don’t get it.”

“It’s really simple, Mister Castillo. I’m coming out of retirement to play in the Pony League.”

“Mister Gonzalez, you can’t be serious. I mean with all due respect you’re…how old are you?”

“Thirty eight and a half. But don’t worry I’m getting in shape in time for the season.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that this is a league for boys or girls thirteen and fourteen years of age.”

“Yeah. I know. I figured this was the most challenging league. All the lower leagues seem too easy.”

Luis stroked the beard of his goatee in frustration. Deep in the stubborn wiring of my brain I knew the naysayers would try to talk me out of my dream but I was determined to not let anyone spoil my goal.

“Look, Mister Gonzalez, I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to get at. The Pony League is only open to kids who are thirteen and fourteen. You can’t play here because you’re too old.”

Aha! I thought. Checkmate. I was prepared for this response. I recoiled my words and they sprang out like a skinny French dude from Cirque du Soleil.

“Sir, that’s ageism. Just so you know I had contacted a lawyer prior to our meeting and I have secured his services in case you pulled that age crap on me. And I can assure you my lawyer knows Gloria Allred.”

“Fine! I don’t want any problems. We’ll put your name in the drawing and a coach will contact you Saturday morning. Alright?”

Success! Not even the disgusted expression on Castillo’s face could dampen my victorious spirit. I drove back home after the meeting with a feeling of euphoria, similar to the restless anticipation I felt as a kid when Winter finally ended and the sun heralded the coming of the new baseball season.

Saturday morning arrived and at nine forty seven as I stuffed the last of my egg, cheese, sausage and ham burrito into my mouth the phone rang. I leapt seemingly from the kitchen to the living room and lifted the receiver before the second ring.

“Hello,” I mumbled. I quickly swallowed the burrito. I knew I would pay for that later with nighttime heartburn.

“Can I speak to Jaime?”

“I’m Jaime. What’s up?”

The voice on the other end of the line paused.

“Jaime Gonzalez?”

“Yup, that’s me. Who is this?”

“This is Coach Ramos. Wait, you’re not one of those kids that develops really early are you? I mean you sound like an adult.”

“I am an adult.”

Another long pause followed.

“Oh, are you interested in being a coach or something?” Ramos asked.

“No. I’m a player. Ask Luis Castillo.”

“Ah, you’re that guy. Weird. Anyway, I’m Coach Ramos. You’re on the Giants now. Appropriately enough. Report to the La Merced Intermediate School’s baseball field next Saturday at nine o’ clock for our first practice. Alright, champ?”

“Sure thing, Coach Ramos. I’ll be there bright and early.”

“Man, this is weird,” he said in a sigh before he hung up.

Wow, I thought, my first baseball team in 24 years. I was ready. I had started the prep work months prior by hitting the batting cages almost daily, lifting weights and walking half mile. I was pumped. That night I placed my Nike spiked shoes on the floor by my gray practice baseball pants and Jersey which hung on the bedroom doorknob. The rest of the week went by slowly and I tossed and turned every night waiting for Saturday morning and it finally arrived.

(NEXT WEEK: The first practice and team meeting)

The Rabbit Situation

"Who would give me up?"

I found a rabbit in my garage. I had no idea how he got in there or where he came from, that was the least of my concern. What do I do with him? My wife and daughter and I own a parakeet. That’s expensive enough, especially with the unavailability of parakeet seeds (see previous blog) and the cost of keeping it alive in general is too much. But a rabbit living with us? Forget about it. It’d be like a relative with expensive taste moving in permanently. Instead of meat and potatoes they’d want shrimp cocktails and crunchy peanut butter instead of the creamy kind. NO WAY!

I asked a neighbor if the cute bunny was hers. I was cognizant of throwing in words like “cute” and “cuddly” and “adorable” to describe the filthy beast in hopes that my neighbor would take it. She said it wasn’t hers nor was she interested in keeping it as a pet. “Fascist” I spat as I took the fluffy bunny back into my garage.

”Why don’t you take him over the lake?” She said, momentarily forgiving my outburst for the bunny’s sake. She informed me that there was a lake a few blocks from our gated community by a school where a colony of unwanted rabbits thrived without human interference. My mind immediately went into panic mode. What if these creatures decide to band together and attack humans for neglecting them? Eh, I can’t picture rabbits possessing any bitter feelings. I looked into the pink eyes of Mr. Buggles, by this point I named the homeless thing, and stroked the white fur. “Well,” I thought. “At least he’ll be with his own kind.”

So off I jettisoned to the lake. I parked the car and took Mr. Buggles, whom I placed in a box, out and looked for the entrance around the high wire fence. The lake looked unkept and probably contaminated with a medley of pesticides and chemicals. I didn’t see any bunny colony with bunny homes and a thriving bunny community with their own laws. Instead I saw patches of crap floating in dark waters. I finally found the opening, right under a sign that read “NO DUMPING OF ANIMALS. ESPECIALLY RABBITS"

Great. Now what do I do? I can’t let Mr. Buggles out in the school yard, the children will eat him alive. Salvation came in the form of the Fire Station across the street. So I dodged traffic and approached the front door to the small, quaint building. I rang the doorbell and within seconds two Firefighters stood before me. They looked at the box and dread overcame their face. “Hey guys, I’ve got a situation here…” The older one, I’m assuming he was the captain, looked at me and shook his head. “We don’t do bunnies. Maybe around Easter time. Why don’t you throw him into the lake? I heard there’s a thriving colony of bunnies in there?” He closed the door. Not even a sorry. I wish someone had photos or video footage of this thriving colony because I don’t see it.

So now what do I do? The choice became clear. I should have done this from the start. I drove over to the animal shelter. On the way I looked at the reflection of Mr. Buggles' box in my rearview mirror. It was still. “It’ll be fine Mr. Buggles. You’ll find a home real soon, I promise. You’re really cute, and well behaved. This is the best thing for both of us, really.” I parked the car and carried him to this older gentlemen stationed inside a room with the top half of the door opened and the lower half closed. He asked a few questions and later took the box and placed it on a shelf like a piece of unwanted furniture. I said a silent goodbye to Mr. Buggles and fondly recalled our adventure together. Such a waste, I thought. Maybe the economy tanking is a good thing. Maybe people need to start appreciating what they already have instead of wasting on things they can’t afford. I’m pretty certain Mr. Buggles did find a nice home where they don’t eat rabbits. I hope.

A Little Less Cowboy, A Little More Jimmy

Back in 2003 my brother, a two-fisted Republican and proud Conservative, remarked that President Bush was “a real cowboy, a guy that can get the job done.” Six years later my brother indirectly regrets the claim in the same way the former President regrets making the “bring them on” bravado aimed at the terrorists putting our proud men and women serving in Iraq and Afghanistan in greater peril by sparking more anger toward the United States. In hindsight we can honestly say Bush ain’t no John Wayne. Then again John Wayne wasn’t John Wayne, but a product of the power of the cinema and a nation’s need for a true American hero merging. In 2009 we have a new President. This time whereas President Bush’s Western persona (by way of Yale) was embedded in our minds by his election campaign and Fox News, a new figure has emerged from the movie classics, Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey and Jefferson Smith.

Yesterday President Obama held another in a long series of town hall meetings with ordinary citizens in Costa Mesa, California, in the heart of the Republican stronghold of Orange County. All the while he spoke I kept picturing George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life” trying to calm the panicked customers of his father’s building and loan company urging them not to take out their money. Perhaps it was the message of faith and patience from Mr. Obama that conjured up the parallels, or perhaps that physically both James Stewart and Barack Obama share the same lanky build. Even the former Senator from Illinois’ rise in Washington mirrors that of Jefferson Smith in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” Both men emerged out of nowhere, captured the pessimistic press with their common sense and folksy approach to get their messages across and championed the working people. But unlike other politicians, both Smith and Obama seemed to really mean it.
That is to say that Bailey, Smith and Obama are not perfect but if something is not right one gets a sense that they will listen and try to find a solution instead of continuing in the wrong direction.

Jefferson Smith and George Bailey represent the high ideals Americans hold for themselves and for their country. In Smith we find a pure innocence and in Bailey we find a righteous man struggling to survive in a not-so-kind world where in the end he realizes that wealth is not as important as the friends you have. Do these virtues exist in 2009?
Only time will tell. If President Obama holds true to his ideals and campaign promises, who is to say that we can’t keep this country from becoming Cheneyville?

Reality TV: Really Unreal

Is it really reality? Last week “The Bachelor” chose the wrong contestant. How the hell do you choose the wrong bachelorette? In fact the whole premise of the show seems so unreal. .
A man or a woman becomes the center of a wooing ritual created by desperate-for-ratings television people. They suss out the rejects by going on dates that involve hot tubs, wine and sleepovers. So the bachelor or bachelorette in question gets the opportunity to sample everyone before eliminating the competition down to 2 contestants. Our boy, Jason, chose a cute, chirpy brunette though he agonized terribly over the decision. Cameras happened to be at the right place as he blubbered emphatically to illustrate how horrible he felt. Poor guy. Geez. If I were on that show I would convert to Mormonism, take on the whole lot as my wives and boom, happy ending. Either that or start my own cult and live in a nudist ranch near Phoenix. Now THAT is real.

Over on “American Idol” there was a haze of confusion over the new system of voting. Instead of the usual 24 would-be singers, there were 36. Look, it’s confusing enough listening to Paula Abdul’s ramblings, but it was even more confusing when they allowed a couple of questionable contestants to pass all the way through to the show. First was some hammy guy who sang fairly well but it was obvious he wasn’t take the whole experience serious. Second was Tatiana, the tortured, unpredictable mess whose over-the-top dramatics must have made the producers of the show think “crazy brings in ratings.”
Worse yet is that she’s Latina. It’s bad enough Alberto Gonzales has sent our people back 50 years in Politics, but it’s even worse when our sole Latin representative on the show is overwrought with looney behavior. But I did learn my lesson watching the show. I watched as Paula tried to console the twice-rejected hopeful. I realized then that everyone, I mean EVERYONE has a soulmate.

“Survivor” is in its 4th week and once again the firsts to go are African-Americans. Maybe the show is trying to say “the reason racism exists in this country is because African-Americans are intimidating.” .
All I know is if I were on that show I would hold hostages until the producers gave me the million dollars. It might shorten the process but I did outwit everyone by smuggling an AK-47 to the islands.

Art Rhymes with Fart- A Commentary

I hate movies that make me think. I want to go to the movie theater, go take a dump and return without missing anything or asking my paid escort what happened. The less conversation the better, that’s my motto. So it really pisses me off to hear about the “artistic” crap people put into the movies like symbolism and metaphors. I have a cushy, non-descript executive job thanks to my bro Thomas from Pepperdine, I work out five days a week and I scan the internets all day, I have no time to capture the little messages and stuff like that. Going forward I am also going to movies with a simple, direct title like “Transformers.” You know going in it’s a movie about transformers. Or “Rush Hour.” You know it’s got Jackie Chan and that black dude…Chris something or other. The point is that I know to expect kung fu and funny stuff. Like the other night, I was over at this artsy chick’s house. I really wanted to bang her but she instead puts on a dvd of a movie called “400 Blows.” Dude, you should have seen the disappointment on my chiseled, Nordic face when I realized it was in French and to the best of my recollections it was about some kid. And I was out of Viagra.

Moving forward I vow never to watch any movies critics love. Who are critics anyway? Eggheads who watch movies and evaluate the content for the audiences who are unaware of what to expect, that’s all. That’s just it. I want to watch a flick and know what’s going to happen. I wanna watch something that allows me a few minutes to think of a good opening line on that Yoga instructor hottie at my gym without losing any plot points. For this reason I pack my own collection whenever I make my frequent business trips to Bangkok. Seriously, if I don’t get an explosion or boobs within the first 5 minutes, I make my executive decision and move on to another movie. I have no patience and time during my 12-hour flight.

So I say this to all the director bros making good, quality movies for guys like me. Keep it up. You dudes won’t get awards, but who cares. Awards are for those who have shown excellence and a passion for their art. The “Art” I know works on my Beamer engine and he’s fat. Just know that when you movie directors cash your hefty checks there is one hombre you rock like a freakin’ hurricane.

FOX NEWS: THE SCARE NECESSITIES

Halloween is over seven months away however the folks over at Fox News celebrate it everyday.

One dark and stormy night I switched over to the cable news show to find Sean Hannity in the midst of a spine-tingling tale. I’m sitting in the living room as thunder rumbles and lightning flashes outside my window. The lights mysteriously go out and I’m left all alone. I feel like the sacrificial teen under the influence skinny dipping in the lake while a homicidal maniac runs loose. With fingernails firmly ensconced between chattering teeth Hannity introduced his next segment. “Really Scary.” Cue sinister organ chord and damsel’s shriek. I turned up the volume in blood-pumping anticipation at the discovery of what is really scary. Is it an 8 foot creature created in a lab someplace running afoul of my town? Or perhaps an 8-ton fire-breathing lizard headed toward me? No, the source was…THE STIMULUS PACKAGE! Muahah ahahh ahaha!

When I pulled my senses together I found myself interested to hear where the “scary” was in the “really scary” reference. Hannity announced his guest for the segment to explain the “monster” costs to the taxpayers. An economist? Like the Pulitzer-Prize winning Paul Krugman? Through the murky haze appeared the marshmallowy visage of Karl Rove. Duh-duh-DUHN! My bones shook. Not because he is not an expert on the subject matter, though he did read a “134 page document” and “more importantly 66 pages of charts.” Nor was it that he was the guy responsible for Bush getting into the White House and is under subpoena. I was becoming one of those uncontrollable idiots scared out of their wits who do something stupid in a disaster movie, which explained why my channel was stuck on Fox News. No, I got scared when Rove described the costs as “scary.” So horrific in fact that Rove produced a “whiteboard” to explain the frightening large numbers. “3.7 trillion dollars to the deficit.” BOO! OMG! I peed in my pants! I waited for him to cite the sources of his figures. To my surprise there were none. Then I waited for the graphics highlighting the costs. Bupkiss. It was like Dr. Frankenstein warning the villagers that the monster was on the loose.

“How do we protect ourselves, Doctor?”

“He’s big and scary. He’s over eight feet tall.”

“Again, what steps should we take to protect our families, good doctor?”

“He’s got bolts coming out of his neck. And he’ll tear your arms out.”

“You’re not listening to us, doctor…”

“Out of the sockets, I tells ya! He’s one scary monster.”

I wonder which “document” did Rove actually read and which “charts” did he research? Could it have been from Bush’s term in the White House perhaps? MUAHAHAH! Then a strange thing followed. The thunder and lightning ceased. I peeked out my window to find a half moon sitting comfortably in the starry sky. The lights come back on and the organ note is replaced by the wacky sound effects from a neighbor watching cartoons. Wah-wah-wah.

What are Words For? When No One Listens Anymore

I love fast food joints. When I was employed many was the time I’d pop in and order an instant meal quickly and make it home in time for the 8:00 pm primetime tv shows. However I have noticed one drawback to utilizing the seemingly painless, efficient drive-thru window, the person taking the order. Now I know not to expect too much from technology. If there is one thing I learned from Rod Serling and Stanley Kubrick it’s that machines will fail and probably kill you. Now it’s downright silly to assume that the box you order through will pull out a switchblade and lunge at you like one of the Sharks from “Westside Story,” but if one particular burger spot does not hire someone who actually listens I am liable to raise some HAL.

Listening is not a difficult chore. In fact it doesn’t require you to speak, or move. You simply have to stop and open your ears to the person doing the talking. And yet, such an easy task is often mishandled for whatever reason. I don’t know why each time I venture at a particular fast food place my order is always wrong. Not to name names, but when I order a Famous Star with cheese, I do not want a chicken club with bacon. It’s not even close! I would understand it if I received an offshoot of the Famous Star name. And instead of a salad I get Criss Cut fries. Salad and fries are two distinct entities like breasts and cardboard. How is it possible to miss by such a large margin? I have this urge to park my car and walk in and speak to the person manning the drive-thru to ask if they even care enough to make a valiant attempt. Granted these places do get busy and the drive-thru folks are multi-tasking with speaking to an interior and exterior customer at the same time but for chrissakes manage one thing at a time. “Excuse me, sir, one moment.” That doesn’t seem too difficult to say.

I love that the last visit to this place the guy at the window asked if I wanted a combo with my fish sandwich and salad order. “No.” I said. I ride up to pay and then receive my order when he blurts out “what kind of drink do you want?” I said “Um, I didn’t order a drink.” “I thought you said you wanted the combo.” “No,” I said. “I did not want a combo. Where did I say combo? Not once did I use the word ‘combo.’ I said ‘sandwich,’ I said ‘salad’ and I specifically said ‘I do not want the combo.’” The guy looked at me dumbfounded. “So, you don’t want the combo?” “NO! No fucking combo!” I hate to curse but even Gandhi himself would have flung so many expletives at this guy it would have made a teamster blush. “I have your drink ready.” “Are you shitting me?” “Because I thought you said combo.” Right, the only combo I thought of was a combination of left jab and right upper cut to his chubby jaw. “FINE! Give me the goddamn combo.” So I took the combo and went straight home. When I settled to eat I looked into my bag and found that my sandwich had magically turned into a double-decker guacamole cheeseburger and my salad became Criss Cut fries. Why do I bother speaking?

Aahhhscar!

The Academy Awards are this Sunday night. I’m curious to see Hugh Jackman host it. Judging from previous telecasts, it’s either a snooze-fest or something akin to a room full of vacuum cleaners…a suckfest. Either way it’s going to be interesting to see who wins and goes home a failed, miserable loser. Here are my pix…

BEST MOVIE
“Milk.” After the Academy, to quote Gandhi after he met with the British government, “pussied out” on giving the Best Picture nod to “Brokeback Mountain” in favor of the less controversial “Crash,” I think the members will definitely feel the guilt and give it to "Milk." Besides, I heard it was a great movie.

BEST ACTOR
Cue all the comeback references because my pick will be MICKEY ROURKE for “The Wrestler.” Sean Penn, the other strong frontrunner, already has a statue and Rourke’s return makes for great television. Let’s face the show needs ratings.

BEST ACTRESS
KATE WINSLET. And it’s about time. Sure Meryl Streep is…well Meryl Streep. But Winslet has been nominated 873 times in her career and lost each time. If she doesn’t get it this year she should change her last name to “Kate Losesit.” Besides, she’s been naked in almost every movie.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR
HEATH LEDGER. No one has been talked about more, and it would be a major letdown for the viewers to see the statue go to someone else. Besides, it would be a nice tribute for his shortened body of work.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS
It depends. If we’re talking about actually acting, my pick will be VIOLA DAVIS. I didn’t see the movie, but she’s highly respected. However if we’re talking about the academy, the statue will go to Penelope Cruz because the supporting category ALWAYS goes to comedies, especially Woody Allen films.

All other categories.

“Slumdog Millionaire” for writing and “Wall-E” for best animated movie.

An Anthropology of Anthologies

As a Beatle fan I always look forward to the latest “anthology” series which unearths unreleased and alternate versions of songs by the Fab Four. Here are list of songs which will appear in “Paul McCartney presents The Beatles. A Second Anthology from The Beatles Library by The Beatles.”

“Octopus’ Garden.” Originally entitled “Octopus’ 12-Acres of Gorgeous Green Fields,” the Ringo Starr tune was stuck in limbo until George Harrison suggested shortening the title to include the word “garden.” Ringo returned 5 months later with the title “The Eight-Tentacled Sea Creature’s Garden,” which explained George briefly quitting the band.

“Private Conversations.” Get rare discussions behind the scenes during the recording of “Beatles For Sale” that includes Paul asking for a match, John eating potato chips and George calling to order pizza.

“I’m a Sole Man.” Not to be confused with the great Sam & Dave tune, this never-before heard outtake from “Rubber Soul” praises the work of shoe salesmen around the world. Later the title and melody were re-worked into “Wild Honey Pie.”

“You’re A Loser” Some say this was Paul’s angry reply to John’s “I’m A Loser.”

“Help Your Damn Self.” This was George’s reply to "Help."

“Yoko In The Shed With Diapers” A cut off The White Album, based on a dream John had after seeing Yoko in the shed loading boxes of diapers on the shelves.

“This Apple is rotten to the Corp.” Paul’s take on the friction in the band after the creation of the ill-fated company. Includes the lyrics “there are blokes that like to point the finger, but don’t forget we discovered James Taylor and Badfinger.”

The Birds and the Bees? That's easy...

My child is rapidly approaching the age when she asks a lot of questions about…well, everything. Given the determined desire to speak now tells me that my wife and I are in for a flood of inquiries. I hope that we are adequately prepped to provide insightful responses that will ease her curiosity. However I am stumped when it comes to answering the following questions…

Q: “Why are boys so icky?”

A: “Well, sweetheart, if you actually get to know someone you will find that they are nice people. That includes boys.”


Q: “Why do Republican Governors say ‘no’ to the stimulus bill but readily accept the money when the bill passes?”

A: “Ooh, that’s a toughie, pumpkin. I guess some folks just don’t take the time to actually read and understand something before they open their mouths. If they truly want to help the people they represent I would think they would go along with the Bill or suggest something that is not found in the Bill. This is why reading is so important.”

Q: “Why didn’t Major League Baseball officials, namely the Commissioner, not ban steroids and other performance enhancement substances back in the 1990’s when it was becoming a real problem?”

A: “See, there is thing called greed. Now the Bible and various Warner Bros. cartoons teach us that greed is bad. However in a competitive free enterprise system greed is necessary. Bottom line is, honeysuckle, more home-runs means more tushies in the ballpark seats, even at the risk of the player’s health. May Lyle Alzado rest in peace.”

Q: “Do I have to eat vegetables?”

A: “Yes.”

Q: “Why are movie studios constantly churning out ‘re-imagined’ ideas taken from old movies?”

A: “Because the screenwriters are lazy, and studio executives who greenlight projects are too busy snorting blow from an escort’s fake boobies to understand that they know nothing of the buying consumer wants.”

Q: “Dad, why are you so bitter?”

A: “Okay. No more questions. Time for bed.”

Baby's Got HunchBack

The Academy Awards are coming up in a few weeks and once again the elite aristocratic Academy has failed to recognize a certain segment of the population. This time it is not any minority group, although witnessing the long dry spell of Oscar wins by African-American actors makes me believe that it’ll be another 40 to 50 years before a Latino-American gets at the very least a nomination. Hell, we’re lucky if we get a nice role. That would be OUR award. Something other than maid, drug dealer, gardener or immigrant would be nice. Playing latin lovers is adequate, but it adds pressure to our love lives in real life. May God rest Ricardo Montalban's soul but ain't no way I'm smoother with the ladies than he was.

And no this is not about little actors who fail to get work unless it involves Santa Claus or some fairy tale movie or TV show. The self-involved, happy-to-slap-their-own-backs Academy have forsaken the hunchback.

Since the creation of the cinema Hunchbacks have received poor treatment. Beginning with Lon Chaney’s depiction of the tragic yet heroic Quasimodo in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” Hollywood has unapologetically created a pathetic, helpless characterization without really exploring the soul of a hunchback. Let’s start with the title. Sure it was the name of the Victor Hugo book. Fine. But couldn’t the publishers dream of another name? Like “The Heroic Tale of Quasimodo,” or “The Bell Ringing Superstar?” I mean including the word “hunchback” reflects the level of insensitivity slightly above the NFL. Added to that the silent movie version depicts Quasimodo as this wretched deformed patsy for the bad guy. It was repeated again in 1939 with Charles Laughton. Did the filmmakers of this version make any changes to the character? Yes they did. Quasimodo spoke. Wowwee, one giant leap for mankind I guess. With the ability to speak, was it possible that Quasimodo got great lines to utter? Nope, the only memorable thing that came out of Laughton’s Quasimodo was “sanctuary! Sanctuary!” What the hell? I guess Dorothy Parker wasn't around the studio that day.

Then came the “hunchback” servant Igor from the horror movie “Frankenstein.” Come on! The poor souls go from living in the bell tower of a church to the laboratory of a nut. How was that an improvement? I could picture some coked-out exec at Universal saying “who cares? They’ve got hunchbacks. They don’t know nothing. Now blow me, bitch.” Although Marty Feldman’s version from “Young Frankenstein” as a sassy character gave hunchbacks a little encouragement that they may one day rise above the prejudice and play a lawyer, doctor or President of a fruit growers union. But sadly this day would never come. Ever. Their dreams were shattered by that misanthrope William Shakespeare. “Richard III” is one of his most popular plays. And it is constantly adapted for the big screen. Now the hunchback is a scheming, murderous, power-hungry son-of-a-bitch whose story is told somewhere daily on the stage and can be seen on dvd or video with works by Laurence Olivier.
Won’t the Film Industry understand the harm they are doing to this world? Boycott the Oscars this year. Besides, “Dark Knight” wasn’t nominated for Best Picture.

Tom Waits for No Dream

Last night I dreamt that Tom Waits read poetry to my college chemistry class. I don’t recall what the selections were, or who wrote them. But I remember he received a less than favorable response. As he was walking out I kept thinking “that’s Tom Waits.” He stopped by my desk and asked if I could help him carry the large stack of books he had. I helped carry a couple of heavy books out to the parking lot. When we reached his car I see that it is a skeletal jalopy, much like I had always pictured him owning, and a couple physics students were jumpstarting his battery. There were no doors on the car, or a hood. I loaded the books into his trunk. He said thanks and off he went.

(Why am I reading poetry to Chemistry students?)

I feel the need for seeds

Like many folks, I have a pet. A parakeet named Cao Boi (pronounced “cowboy”) to be exact. How he got that name is a different topic. Anyway, Cao Boi was out of food. I went to a certain store to purchase a bag of parakeet seeds like I have done for the last 2 years. Which store did I go to you may ask? I can’t say. But if you said their colors were red and white, you’d hit the “bull’s eye.” Wink wink.
Anyway I chose this store because I had a gift card. I love gift cards. I’ve been out of work since January and fishing for the elusive job is proving difficult since, as one employment service told me, prospects are “dead in the water.” So it feels nice when friends, who have jobs, present a gift card for my birthday. It’s a polite way of handing me cash. It’s more practical than sympathetic.
So I venture to this particular store. I stroll over to the pets section. I see one entire aisle dedicated to dogs. The shelves on one side hold different types of dog food. One type with meat, one vegetarian, one with tofu bits, another mixed with desserts like doggie parfait or tiramisu. The other side is dedicated to canine accessories like dog dishes, leashes, beds, hats, tanning lamps, shaving kits and puppy cell phones. I got the hint that a lot of people have dogs as pets. I’m pretty observant.
Over to the next section I go. I see items for cats which take up about half of one shelf. Next in the animal food chain are the birds. Finally I reach the area of my interest. I find bags of seeds alright, but for cockatiels, finches, parrots…but none for parakeets strangely. My gut sensed something foul in the air. Or should I say no specific fowl food? Yikes, my rage had turned my witty puns into nonsensical mutters. In fact I was cursing in a made up language at the bare section reserved for parakeets. I know for a fact that parakeets are a common feathery pet, if not the most common. Christ Almighty my mom alone has about 500 of them in one small cage in her garage. How can they not have any parakeet seeds? I inspect the area further. As an American I expect things handed to me and when they’re not, I raise hell. Let’s see, there are bags for wild birds. Wait, wild birds? Why can’t wild birds locate their own food? You certainly wouldn’t buy a wolf a rabbit from the grocery store. It is the job of the wild animal to track down and eat their dinner. Who created this animal welfare system? I go on to examine the other bags. Woodpecker seeds? Are you kidding me? Who the fuck keeps a woodpecker as a pet. They’re freakin’ noisy! They peck wood all day long. It’s like keeping a rooster in a small apartment. Upon further inspection I managed to locate a dusty bag of seeds for the Dodo Bird. I rationalized that perhaps this store stocked it in hopes the extinct bird makes a comeback. And still, nothing for my Cao Boi. It seems they care more for the dead than they do the living.
When I stumbled into rabbit and guinea pig pellets I knew my expedition resulted negatively. My outrage turned somber knowing that Cao Boi would go hungry, at least until I went to the nearest pet store, which I should have done in the first place. But I don’t have a gift card from them. Hint hint. (no food for you!)

There's a New Sheriff in Town

Barack Obama is our President. How he achieved this goal is the blueprint of how to run a successful campaign. But if future generations of curious kids ask me "what was the election like in 2008?" My reply will be with a straight face "Ever watched BLAZING SADDLES?"


The 1974 Western spoof paralleled the 2008 Presidential bid in so many ways. Firstly there was the ineffectual, incompetent Governor (Mel Brooks) who let his second in command make all the decisions. Sound familiar? Like the Vice-President, Hedy Lamarr (Harvey Korman) used his office for personal gain, like building a railroad through the doe-eyed town of Rockridge. Everything was kept hush hush. Even appointing an African-American sheriff. On the surface the decision was a landmark bit of PR for the governor, but below that surface was the real strategy, to drive out the outraged folks of Rockridge who would never accept a black sheriff. Just like Iraq.

All through the madness of this plan was the calm, quick-thinking Bart (Cleavon Little). A "dazzling urbanite in a rustic setting." That seemed to be an apt description of Mr. Obama when he travelled to the rural towns of Middle America. No offense to the small town folks, but Mister Obama represented the big city fast talkin' politician they resent. However, like Bart, Obama used a simple approach, good old-fashioned common sense. Bart used it to defeat the mighty Mongo (Alex Karras). A brute who when shot would only get mad. Knowing he was smaller and weaker, Bart tricked Mongo by, of all things, inventing the Candygram. One could argue Mr. Obama employed the same tactics to victorious results with his Mongo (John McCain AND Sarah Palin). Obama's strategy? Having a plan.

Eventually Sheriff Bart gained the respect of the angry bigots of Rockridge, got the bad guy and restored everything to its rightful place. Only time will tell if Mr. Obama will do the same in these tough times. Hopefully by the time he is through, he can ride off into the sunset restoring this country to its rightful place.

A DAY AT THE GYM

"MMM, CHOCOLATE"

I was half way to a mile when what my friends call "newbie pains" kicked in. See, I hadn't been to the gym in nearly 3 weeks thanks to the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. Beginning in July I had worked out consistently and I was able to run 2 miles without much effort. But then came the turkey, followed by the sweets, then the sodas, then menudo, lechon...the list went on and on.

I made the pilgrimmage back to the gym. It was a new year and with no major family-oriented holidays in sight, I set out to regain the "eye of the tiger" as it had been. I started slowly with lifting weights, then the elliptical. Okay, I'm a little tired, but not worn out. I was like Muhammed Ali in the later rounds. Exhausted but still dangerous.

I hit the treadmill like a man with a mission. 2 miles. I stretch the legs and begin with a fast walk eventually easing into a slow jog. I'm feeling pretty good as I reach .50 miles. My legs are strong, my breathing smooth. I speed up. I still feel excellent. Maybe my absence didn't make a diff...oh-oh. I feel a little discomfort in my right knee. It's aching. In the past, at the height of my running prowess, I fixated on one object in the gym and relaxed my whole body. The strategy worked and I was able to jog beyond my expectations.

Looking for that focal point I settled on the flat screen tv hoisted above me. The commercial ends and I see a familiar logo. The Food Network. The cooking show returns and a kind, sweet older lady adds a layer of chocolate frosting to a round, sumptuous cake. Shit. I look away the other screen. Fox News? Hell no. A soap opera on CBS. Without sound it does me no good. What the hell is this? A freaking cooking show in front a guy trying to get in shape and FORGET cakes, pies and lovely cookies!

I managed 1.6 miles. Not bad given the situation I was under. I headed for the exit when a young lady behind the counter added a quick "goodbye, thank you for coming." I turned noting the irony of my dilemma and approached.

"Did you know that one of the screens is showing THE FOOD NETWORK?" I said.

The brunette trainer in a tight knit shirt immediately looked alarmed.

"Yes sir, I am aware of that and we'll get that changed right away," she said.

"Oh, no worries. I just think it's funny."

The trainer frowned with helplessness and tilted her head to one side as if to say "what do you want me to do?"

I smiled, nodding and headed out the door. I thought apparently weight isn't the only thing you lose at the gym.