Once Again, for The Bradys ...

April 25, 2013:  I had every intention of doing a Blah-ugh! entry on my friend Steven Spielberg, but that's going to have to wait. My inclination to spout about my favorite sit-com family has again grabbed at my groin and I'm going to seize the opportunity the way I seize the towel when I leave the shower naked, although hopefully I won't hurt my back this time ...

Yes, The Brady Bunch is the subject again today. Faithful Blah-ugh! readers -- the 23 of you -- know that I've barfed up some of my Brady ideas in past entries. This time, however, I won't bore you with more Marcia-related revelations, but I will put a new twist on Mike. You see, once again my children and I have slogged through another cycle of our DVDs and now, after the 14th -- or 40th, I'm not sure which -- viewing, it's become abundantly clear that Mike Brady is really the antithesis of the great father role model I always presumed him to be. (And no, Shannon, it has nothing to do with Robert Reed being gay and from Chicago.)

You see, though I've tried to deny it, I can't now watch one of these episodes without noticing how often Mike hits the kids. Yes, it's absolutely true. He swats them like insects on a regular basis, particularly in the first couple of seasons. It's a wonder he wasn't reported sooner, or that he hasn't now been cast in the sour light of other psychopathic television parents -- Homer Simpson, Archie Bunker, and Cloris Leachman. The examples are numerous -- the viewing of Greg's film on the pilgrims, Greg buying the lemon, Greg learning something-or-other ... In fact, I think Greg took the worst of his blows, which were often loud slaps on the back, but also sound whacks on the butt, the leg or the arm, depending on Robert Reed's mood.

It's ironic that Reed was such a fussbudget about the numerous implausibilities in Brady scripts, such as the time so-called Method actress "Meerna" Carter gave him and Henderson (a.k.a. Carol) tips on how to be motivated in the Safe commercial. All that time he was focusing his somewhat warped Shakespearean sensibilities on script revisions and scolding memos to the Schwartz family, he might have better served everyone by refraining from hitting the children so often.

That said, I think it's important to address the spectacle of Cousin Oliver. It was a dark day in Brady history when this pesty little jinx ambled onto the set looking like a shrunken John Denver. His smarmy one-liners and irritating glasses all served to beg the question of why Robert Reed didn't hit him more often.

Hmmmm... I see there are many, many more involved Brady-related points that require broaching, and I simply don't have the time or fortitude to address them right now. Why is Carol wearing Marcia's shirt in that episode with Lovey Howell and the Good Ship Lollipop? Does Jim Backus have a toupee or a comb-over in the pool episode? And what happened to Mr. Phillips? Was the new City Hall built in Woodland Park? Did Alice and Sam ever marry, and did he ever repair that gaping space in his front teeth? Did the kids ever record a family-version of "Clowns Never Laughed Before?" Did Maureen McCormick ever stop pronouncing words with that California patois, such as "dinist" for "dentist," etc. Does she still hate Alan Anthony? (I know I do and always will!) ...

May & Me

May 5, 2010: It's May and I'm still annoyed. Not really annoyed in any harsh way, but I continue to be fed up that people across America, and the world, don't do things MY way (the fools!).

I'm reminded of an early book by the famous poet Ronald Walter Ludley entitled, "Why Don't You Listen?" A wise work that was, and still nobody listens.

But here I find myself ready to rant, and believe it or not, I can't remember any of the 15,000 issues I wanted to rant about. That's sad, because it's obviously a reflection of my decaying mind, coupled with the fact that I don't find anything I have to say of that much interest.

Let's move on ... I'm watching "Magnum Force" as we speak. (It's actually paused, but it's out there in the living room, waiting for my return; I merely stopped to get some peanut butter cookies, and then got distracted.) The point is, it's a grand movie. Not at the level of the original "Dirty Harry," which was brilliantly directed by the great Don Siegel (and which I watched LAST night, and during which I ate many more peanut butter cookies), but it's still very enjoyable. Hal Halbrooke is smashing, as is the young David Soul. Of course, what makes the movie great -- aside from our beloved Mr. Eastwood -- is the exquisite Lalo Shifrin music. (Am I spelling that right? Fucking Yugoslavians!) Nothing beats that man's work, except maybe mine. Let's be honest. Who writes a better blog? (Certainly not Shannon!) And I'm humble enough to admit that what makes it good has nothing to do with me -- remember, I don't actually have much of interest to say. It's what you, dear reader, bring to it. You see, there would be no Mona Lisa were it not for the perception of the Mona Lisa. Now follow me. In a very real sense, I don't even exist, which is why it's so hard for me to get a credit card.

But I digress. And why not? It's May, and all my favorite flowers have already bloomed and decayed, but the first tart, noxious smells of summer foliage are stinking the air, like the overhead sun of L.A. Which reminds me, when are we all going to openly acknowledge that Ashley Tisdale is a great actress. (Has anyone else seen "High School Musical II"? It rocks! Especially the "Fabulous" number!)

But enough about movies, enough about me ... and enough about May. You see, the fact is I despise the hot weather -- I simply despise it beyond belief -- and so I'm literally waiting impatiently for autumn to return ... And then I'll finally be happy and satisfied and pleasant to be around ... Probably ...

Ode To Shannon (Woolfe) & Spring

April 25, 2010: I don't know why I like Shannon Woolfe so much, but I do. Perhaps I feel she's one of the few people who understands me (although a lot of that's probably just my imagination). Perhaps I just like her name, (despite the flagrant misspelling), or the recurring image I have of her staggering angrily out onto her porch in the middle of the night to scare away rednecks by bellowing, "Can I help you?!" in a real yocal dialect.

Whatever it is, I wanted to take a moment to celebrate her, and acknowledge her worth ...

Okay, good. Now let's move on. I also wanted to talk about spring flowers, in particular the lilacs I pirated this evening. They're currently filling my bedroom with their lofty sweet scent, and believe me, my bedroom never smells this good.

Spring flowers like these are just good enough to eat, and in fact almost look edible when I'm in the right mood. I've never tried them, of course. I'm not some kind of weirdo. But is it wrong for a writer to fantasize about such things? (Many of you would say Yes, and that's why I withhold Blah-ugh entries (or are they really entrails?).

Anyway, the point is, spring is here, and women are in heat. (I see it all over, though I try to politely pretend I don't.) Men apparently go into heat in the fall, when the autumn temperatures cool their testicles. (I'm not making this up!) But spring is when all our feminine sides comes blossoming out, like so much lavendar in a smelly sash. Isn't that why we have spring? Be honest. You ladies know more about this than I do!

I could go on, because like Bobby Troop, my heart is full of spring. But I'm thinking that I have to shower and shave, too, and I want to watch the end of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" -- the masterpiece one with Donald Sutherland, which I've seen 10 times but still never tire of.

Someone remind me to write a review of it soon. (Shannon, if you remember.) I've got to go and put my balls on ice.

Why I Hate My Blog

March 11, 2010: The fun's been slipping with this stupid Blah-ugh! Now, every time I open the site to see if anyone's been reading this dreck, I get a familiar cramp that tells me I hate being responsible for producing regular content that has to not only be intelligent and informative, but also funny.

Granted, there are little tastes of hope and satisfaction -- seeing Terry and S. recently join filled my heart ... for like a minute, then I realized they were just like the rest of you -- a horrible band of bloodsucking fanatics bent on pulling the life right out of my soul (or is it the soul right out of my life) with your merciless insistence that I be funny and wise and tasteful all at the same! Please, people, I can't be all three! Can't you just pick two?!

Anyway, I started this Blah-ugh! to share some of my hopes about life, including revelations around my sexual prowess and hatred of people who wear loafers without socks. (I also wanted to show Matt and Shannon up by beating them to the top of the Internet, but instead they both chose to steal my thunder with their own wordy rant sites.) Now, months later, I'm finding I have less and less to say, even though my mind still rattles on uncontrollably, like a runaway train. And in truth, it's not even really sure I'm doing my best part to improve humanity. To be honest, I've become torn between practicing an evergrowing enlightened awareness involving the spirituality of non-judgment, and simply wanting to be funny.

Anyway, anyway, I guess the real point is that I'm getting more and more lazy about bothering to write things out ... And that's why, going forward, I intend to devote more energy into nurturing the sexual prowess ...

Westport & Me (Part I)

February 13, 2010: In an effort to be more like Shannon (and perhaps Dan Woog as well), I've decided to focus more frequent entries on the community around me -- Westport, and Fairfield County -- and the many memories I've garnered there -- both pleasant and stomach-curdling -- ones which helped shape this dysfunctional lad and make him the frustrated, under-employed clod you see before you. (Of course, this is only until I become bored with it and decide to write about something else).

Westport, Connecticut, as many of you know (and yet refuse to believe) is my hometown. While I was born at Norwalk Hospital on a salty day in September, my parents quickly saw to it that I was transported back over the border before I developed any kind of small inner-city habits, like a penchant for boccie. Ironically, the Westport News -- I think it was the News, but it may have been the Town Crier, or some now-defunct variation -- actually ran my picture and a cutline announcing that I was the only baby born there that week. This was, of course, largely because it was a slow news week, but at the very least clearly debunks my parents' later claim that there was some kind of mix-up in the maternity ward.

We lived on Easton Road, which even then was a busy thoroughfare. Our home was a 200-year old former tollhouse that still stands today, and remains one of the few dwellings in the area not grotesquely compromised by modern man's fear-driven need to make everything bigger and tackier.

Life was good and simple, at least for me, being only a baby. We had a dog named Pepper, although his full name was Maximillian Pepper Liotta -- an old English sheepdog, the kind that doesn't have any eyes. Some of my earliest memories involve my evil brother locking me in his outdoor pen, where I'd cry and scream until someone -- usually my grandfather -- came and retrieved me. (Since he lived in New York, imagine how long I sometimes had to wait.)

My neighbor across the street was my best friend, Debbie Gilbertie. She was a beautiful, spirited little blonde with a dog of her own named Chipper. How I ever managed to get across Route 136 to visit her at age three I'll never known, although I think my mother may have occasionally brought me. Debbie and I used to take baths together (although I'm sure she'd deny this, despite what a gentleman I always was). I have great memories of us building with these giant orange cardboard box-blocks she had, on her family's kitchen floor, and us running back and forth around my house with my grandfather chasing us with his cane.

One story I often tell my children was of the time Debbie got a cat. I don't remember its name, but when I went over to see it, she explained that cats always land on their feet. She then proceeded to pick it up several times and, standing up on one of those bright-colored beanbag-like footrests so popular in the late '60s, drop it upside down on the floor. "See?!" she proclaimed each time it flipped over. "They always land on their feet!"

I remember her kind father, Mike (who I don't think was any relation to Westport celebrity Mickey Gilbertie), cutting their lawn with his dark-green Locke mower. It seemed like the biggest lawn in the world -- a rolling meadow that disappeared into the distant trees and late-afternoon sun, which set over the rambling little river miles below in that valley just the other side of their lawn ... In the summer there were honeysuckle blossoms and Debbie taught me how to taste the sap from them ... I also remember playing with Debbie's Barbie doll, which had one of those cars, and we'd have her drive to the store naked as a jaybird and shop, and we'd laugh hysterically ... I remember us riding in the back of Mrs. Gilbertie's station wagon, bouncing around in the days before seatbelts, staring out at the quick-passing pavement, "Watching the road go fast," we called it ... I remember her sister, Karen, had those '60s sunflower stickers in her room, and the four portrait pictures of the Beatles from the White Album hung on her ceiling -- a room not far unlike Greg Brady's in the episode when he took over Mike's den ... I remember Debbie and I intended to get married, but somehow it never worked out ...

NEXT TIME: A visit to downtown Westport in 1969 ...

Halloween: The Real Pinnacle of Christian Values

October 31, 2009: I'd be remiss in my duties did I not take a few moments to meditate on my favorite day of the year -- Halloween (or, as it's more popularly known, "October 31st").

Contrary to what many of you rabid Bible-wielding fanatics (Shannon & Matt) may think, this is not some unholy celebration of Satan and those surly, disenfranchised minions of the Dark Lord (meaning those chubby people who wear lots of mascara and face jewelry, and listen to Led Zeppelin). No, in fact Halloween is the very essence of Christian community! Halloween is a powerful demonstration of old-fashioned Christian values, and at its best exemplifies the kind of orderly, clear-thinking unity that makes the Right Wing just get all wet down below.

On what other holiday (and I ask rhetorically) do we have such interaction with our neighbors? While 364.25 days of our average year are spent shunning our neighbor -- avoiding looks when we're cutting the lawn, turning our heads when we pass them on the street to avoid having to speak -- (at least this is how I handle it, and I consider myself quite average, despite my dashing good looks) -- on Halloween the excuse comes to walk right up to our neighbor's door and (through our children) demand gifts, (the whole time assessing how good or bad their home furnishing taste may be as judged by their front foyer). If this isn't a perfect opportunity to "love" our neighbor (as Jesus demanded in one of his mad rants), it's certainly a great chance to tolerate their presence because they're giving us candy.

Let's also not forget how good it is to see everyone in costume. Even ugly people can look brilliant in the right ensemble, and nothing brings the joys of youth and exuberance to the elderly or infirmed like a wolfman mask.

I can't say enough about Halloween. To me it was best captured by a certain old photograph taken by the late George Silk. (See the pic below my profile ... On the right, you fool! ... Yes, I know it's too small to see, but I'm a writer, not a computer technician! What do you want from me?!) Also, the movie "Halloween III," with the underrated Tom Atkins, as well as Orson Welles' "War of the Worlds" broadcast, bare trees, deranged pumpkins, and wooden xylophones played in minor keys.

Keep a Jack O'Lantern burning tonight, or throw food in the yard to appease the dead. (That's Halloween 101.) Expect the weirdest, for the barriers are down, and don't trust that the people you're interacting with are even them themselves, for this is Halloween, and it's not like other nights or days.

But most importantly, remember that Halloween is the antithesis of evil. It is, in fact, the real answer to the notorious moral cavity gaping in our society, like a sperm whale's blow hole. For all you fearful and fearing zealous Christian crazies (Matt & Shannon), who like to bash the off-beat celebration, ironically Halloween is the answer of which Ronald Reagan so rabidly dreamed -- a chance for folks to commune in the safety of darkness, and fool their neighbors into thinking they're all part of a loving, happy, magical world.

My Three Favorite Writers

September 11, 2009: My three favorite writers are Matt Perry, Lindsay Porter, and Shannon Woolfe. This slightly odd group of as-yet unknowns has consistently demonstrated their skill, sensitivity and committment to all that's special about the written word.

Like myself, they forge earnestly onward through the sometimes bitter, sometimes beautiful world of publishing. In process, despite the pulls of professional body English, their focus remains on the quality of each phrase they commit to the page, and each idea they're able, through considerable skill, to raise from the primordial ooze of untethered thought.

I look forward to the day when their individual works are recognized and find the kind of rich admiration they deserve. Until then, I'm only too glad to be among their most dedicated followers.