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!) ...
Showing posts with label The Brady Bunch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Brady Bunch. Show all posts
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memories of Coleytown Cafeteria Food
May 29, 2012: Before I talk about the Killer Bees, as I've been promising to do (and the Brady Bunch), let me spend a few heartfelt minutes recounting the marvelous memories of the food they used to serve in the cafeteria of my old elementary school.
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Brady Bunch & Me (and You ... and SPACE CASE)
May 20, 2012: Where do I begin? I'm acutely aware that my film and entertainment-related posts are clearly the most popular, so going forward I've decided to make every effort to please you. (Yes, I know -- it's so unlike me!) Toward that end, I was finally going to offer the second part of the popular "Very Brady" analysis, which you were promised three years ago. (The fact that I'm finally following through demonstrates something, but I'm not entirely sure what ... especially since, by the time this Blah-ugh! entry is over, I may not have even followed through after all ...) For you see, as Marcia Brady was so famously taught to say by Greg in that brilliant episode where she finally gets the date with quarterback Doug Simpson (Big Man on Campus), and therefore has to break her lame date with nebish Charlie, son of the wallpaper guy, who stupidly ties his smelly shoe to the bench and falls over ... "Something suddenly came up!" (or as Marcia says it, "seddinly")
And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...
Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.
Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.
In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...
I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...
Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.
Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...
But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...
The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...
Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...
That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...
And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...
And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...
Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.
Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.
In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...
I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...
Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.
Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...
But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...
The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...
Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...
That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...
And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Very Brady Analysis (Part I)
September 14, 2009: As it's touched our lives so vehemently, it's always worth space (unlike Sherlock Holmes, for you dedicated readers) to add a few more insightful words about The Brady Bunch.
Unlike your typical past analyses, which focus on the more obvious elements of the show -- like how hot Marcia was, or Jan's ongoing self-esteem issues -- I thought I'd go a bit more in-depth, and examine the show not only in relation to Robert Reed's homosexuality, but Barry Williams' enjoyable and sometimes candid tome "Growing Up Brady" (where he shamelessly reveals his attraction to Florence Henderson, as well as the flagrant nepotism that tarnished the shaky reign of creator Sherwood Schwartz).
When considering the Brady family, I feel it's important to take an honest look at Mike's almost saintly involvement with each episode's problems (except of course the last, when he was sloppily written out of the script owing to Reed's refusal to participate -- and who can blame him, with such a silly storyline?!). While he generally played golf every Saturday morning -- and we all know his archietecture work kept him busy (and sometimes too busy, as was the case when Bebe Gallini sought his services), Mr. Brady was almost always around to lend an ear, float an epigram, or lovingly slap a bottom. My belief is that part of Mike's motivation to be such a dedicated husband and father lied in some inherent guilt woven into the character by the great Reed, who saw room to inject a modicum of his own gayness into the family dynamic. You see, Mike Brady, while obviously not the active alternative lifestyle individual that Reed was, may have had some very subtle latent tendencies at work. Part of his coping mechanism (and a handy manner of fostering his own denial) was to maintain a very busy lifestyle, coupled with a nagging need to always be available, never show his anger, and often give advances on allowances.
Another aspect of Mike's "condition" can be seen in relation to Alice Nelson. No raving beauty, Mike (who employed Alice long before Carol and her girls entered the picture) understandably holds no particular attraction toward her, and yet the comfort level he demonstrates with her in the household can be seen as another indicator of his latency.
Next time, I hope to examine some of the bedroom dynamics between Mike and Carol, and also discuss just what makes Marcia so hot.
Unlike your typical past analyses, which focus on the more obvious elements of the show -- like how hot Marcia was, or Jan's ongoing self-esteem issues -- I thought I'd go a bit more in-depth, and examine the show not only in relation to Robert Reed's homosexuality, but Barry Williams' enjoyable and sometimes candid tome "Growing Up Brady" (where he shamelessly reveals his attraction to Florence Henderson, as well as the flagrant nepotism that tarnished the shaky reign of creator Sherwood Schwartz).
When considering the Brady family, I feel it's important to take an honest look at Mike's almost saintly involvement with each episode's problems (except of course the last, when he was sloppily written out of the script owing to Reed's refusal to participate -- and who can blame him, with such a silly storyline?!). While he generally played golf every Saturday morning -- and we all know his archietecture work kept him busy (and sometimes too busy, as was the case when Bebe Gallini sought his services), Mr. Brady was almost always around to lend an ear, float an epigram, or lovingly slap a bottom. My belief is that part of Mike's motivation to be such a dedicated husband and father lied in some inherent guilt woven into the character by the great Reed, who saw room to inject a modicum of his own gayness into the family dynamic. You see, Mike Brady, while obviously not the active alternative lifestyle individual that Reed was, may have had some very subtle latent tendencies at work. Part of his coping mechanism (and a handy manner of fostering his own denial) was to maintain a very busy lifestyle, coupled with a nagging need to always be available, never show his anger, and often give advances on allowances.
Another aspect of Mike's "condition" can be seen in relation to Alice Nelson. No raving beauty, Mike (who employed Alice long before Carol and her girls entered the picture) understandably holds no particular attraction toward her, and yet the comfort level he demonstrates with her in the household can be seen as another indicator of his latency.
Next time, I hope to examine some of the bedroom dynamics between Mike and Carol, and also discuss just what makes Marcia so hot.
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