November 27, 2010: Gosh, there are so many things I want to talk about, but right now all I can think of is this amazing version of "Go Tell It On The Mountain" I just heard Jim Nabors singing ...
It's odd, for I've heard it many, many times, but I never knew it was him. I thought it was some old baritone black guy, in fact -- "Old Man River" kind of thing. But, no, this was Gomer Pyle. My God! I'm flabbergasted ...
On that note, it's great to have my Christmas music going once again. Johnny Mathis, of course, remains my favorite, but others continue to grow in importance -- the Beach Boys, for instance, and now Jim Nabors! (Actually, the Jim Nabors is off of this old Columbia House two-record album I've carried around since my childhood -- "The Best-Loved Music of Christmas" -- and am now happily playing again and again with that great turntable I got at Target. (You dedicated readers may remember something about this turntable from past entries; I hope you do, because I don't, but I know I said something -- probably something angry.) The records are all scorched and scratched, but that's not stopping me from playing them over and over. (Several of the tracks skip so much, they only last about six seconds, but it's all lovely music to my season-starved ears.)
Isn't it nice to know what you like, and what makes you happy? More accurately, isn't it nice that I know?!
I think I also praised Celine Dion last year as well, although that might have just been in an email to Lindsay. She somehow looks like her to me, although I only wish she had her money, then we'd be closer friends. But I digress. And Lindsay, as you're one of the only people who ever reads this, it won't do me good to offend you, certainly not before Christmas! (I won't make any promises for what I may or may not do after the new year.)
On a parallel note, I can't for the life of me understand why it's so hard for me to memorize Christmas lyrics. I'm something of a musician/singer after all, as many of you know, and fewer of you care. Certainly the catalogue of my brain contains literally hundreds of songs that I know the words to, backwards and forwards ... But despite my annual over-indulgence in holiday tunes, I can't ever seem to retain but the most rudimentary parts of most of the songs. Why, I even go to Midnight Mass some years just to sing along, but I never know the words. Instead, I often have to phonetically fake them, like the singers in Abba, or Celine Dion.
Did you know that every year (for at least the past 20) I buy at least one new X-mas album? (For that matter, did you know I keep my underwear in the vegetable crisper?) This year I have my sites set on finding a good Robert Goulet compilation. There are two of his numbers on this record, and he's just a champ. He does this one called "Penis Angelicus" that's just remarkable, and not at all dirty, as the title might suggest.
Last year ... or was it the year before ... I went to see a whole choral production of the Hallelujah Choir. (It's called something -- the whole piece -- but I can't remember what. The Epistle? The Stovepipe? Something-or-other! I think it's by Handel ... or Handle, who came centuries later ... ) Anyway, they had this castrato singing, and it was remarkably embarrassing! He was beyond woman's-voice high, he was like a chipmunk, and we all had to sit there trying not to laugh, and if you closed your eyes he sounded like Ethel Merman hitting high notes ... But I just can't remember what that thing was called ... The Mendelsohn! Something like that ...
Anyway, I like Christmas music, even though I'm Jewish. That's the good thing about being the kind of Jew I am -- I don't take Hanukkah all seriously, like Sammy Davis Jr.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thing One & Thing Two
October 30, 2010: Two things are on my mind this morning, and so in an effort to clear my mind and get back to something important (like fantasizing about naked women), I want to dump them here and move on with my life.
The first involves the dictionary, or at least the stupid "pocket" paperback dictionary I have. Per se, there's nothing wrong with it -- American Heritage is a fine company, I'm sure, and it has more than served my purpose for the 10 years or so I've owned it. What I find so terribly annoying, however, is the fact that they include so many strange and irrelevant entries, but leave out so many others -- in particular people.
For starters, who the fuck is Margeret Bourke-White? Does anyone know, and do those who know really care? Yet this weird little dictionary feels compelled to include a picture of her and everything. James Boswell gets an entry on the same page, although sans picture. What makes him so special? He never won a Super Bowl. (And by the way, couldn't they have done us all a favor and left out Joyce Carol Oates' picture instead; she looks like a disturbed owl who snuck into the medicine cabinet.)
Saint Theresa also gets a picture, but there's no entry for Deepak Chopra, or Sid Barrett for that matter! I can see Winston Churchill making the cut, but why James Baldwin? Is it just because he's black? Then where's John Amos?? Or Sinbad?? Or even Harry Belafonte, who's both white and black. Equality is one thing, but I call that an embarrassing double standard? (Yes, Lena Horne is there, but her picture makes her look like a Jack O'Lantern.)
Toni Morrison is there too. (How many black writers do we need to equal equity? And I even like her!) Yet there's no entry for Truman Capote or Jack Kerouac. I mean, What the fuck?!! And I don't mean to harp on race. It's just that it's a great source of comic material.
On the whiter side, who the hell (except perhaps Lindsay) cares about Thomas Cranmer, the English Archbishop of Canterbury from 1533 to 1553. Seriously, isn't this just a tad ridiculous??!! (I mean, come on Lindsay!)
Locations are another mystery. Who the hell needs to know, especially in this limited paperback edition, that Swansea is a borough of South Wales, or that Bursa is a city in northwest Turkey?
Anyway, you get the point I hope. (Don't make me drum it into your head, like I would if you were a panda bear.) Instead, let me move on to the second item, which involves knowing what the world is up to.
I'll need to explain this in detail, but you see I've become exhausted, and so can't. I'll have to try another time, because it's important ... but I guess not that important ...
Well, okay, to be perfectly honest, none of this is really that important, is it ...
Thanks for listening!
The first involves the dictionary, or at least the stupid "pocket" paperback dictionary I have. Per se, there's nothing wrong with it -- American Heritage is a fine company, I'm sure, and it has more than served my purpose for the 10 years or so I've owned it. What I find so terribly annoying, however, is the fact that they include so many strange and irrelevant entries, but leave out so many others -- in particular people.
For starters, who the fuck is Margeret Bourke-White? Does anyone know, and do those who know really care? Yet this weird little dictionary feels compelled to include a picture of her and everything. James Boswell gets an entry on the same page, although sans picture. What makes him so special? He never won a Super Bowl. (And by the way, couldn't they have done us all a favor and left out Joyce Carol Oates' picture instead; she looks like a disturbed owl who snuck into the medicine cabinet.)
Saint Theresa also gets a picture, but there's no entry for Deepak Chopra, or Sid Barrett for that matter! I can see Winston Churchill making the cut, but why James Baldwin? Is it just because he's black? Then where's John Amos?? Or Sinbad?? Or even Harry Belafonte, who's both white and black. Equality is one thing, but I call that an embarrassing double standard? (Yes, Lena Horne is there, but her picture makes her look like a Jack O'Lantern.)
Toni Morrison is there too. (How many black writers do we need to equal equity? And I even like her!) Yet there's no entry for Truman Capote or Jack Kerouac. I mean, What the fuck?!! And I don't mean to harp on race. It's just that it's a great source of comic material.
On the whiter side, who the hell (except perhaps Lindsay) cares about Thomas Cranmer, the English Archbishop of Canterbury from 1533 to 1553. Seriously, isn't this just a tad ridiculous??!! (I mean, come on Lindsay!)
Locations are another mystery. Who the hell needs to know, especially in this limited paperback edition, that Swansea is a borough of South Wales, or that Bursa is a city in northwest Turkey?
Anyway, you get the point I hope. (Don't make me drum it into your head, like I would if you were a panda bear.) Instead, let me move on to the second item, which involves knowing what the world is up to.
I'll need to explain this in detail, but you see I've become exhausted, and so can't. I'll have to try another time, because it's important ... but I guess not that important ...
Well, okay, to be perfectly honest, none of this is really that important, is it ...
Thanks for listening!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
At The Theater ... (or was it a "Theatre"?)
October 21, 2010: Seeing my friend Terry tonight -- and I hope you understand that my only friends are the people who've already subscribed to this Blah-ugh!, so don't try and get in my good graces now, you other bastards -- moved me to drum up the energy to do another entry. (Yeah, yeah. Big deal!)
Anyway, I wanted to tell you about my experience last Saturday going to the theater. It was a fair production of the Diary of Anne Frank, and I commend the set designer, director and actors for a good job before what I found to be an embarassing (I never remember how to spell that word!) audience of morons. (I say this because I was amazed at the large number of people who were secretly snacking and drinking from water bottles throughout the show. It was appalling and depressing to see yet another example of thoughtless, self-centered Americans in action.)
But I digress. What I really wanted to comment on was how much I hate the theater. It's taken me some time to realize this, but I finally have decided that the anxiety I experience in watching a live show is simply too much for me to endure, and why I ever put myself in the position of having to sit in a seat for two-and-a-half hours staring at a bunch of people making spectacles of themselves, I just can't tell you.
The main reason for my discontent ties directly to my core issues. You see, I'm literally unable to watch a show without constantly worrying whether the actor is going to blow his line, or whether she's going to lose her character in the middle of a moment, or whether someone in the audience is going to be so disruptive that the actor turns their head, or whether the whole set is just going to fall down, or whether one actor is going to drop a prop, or another step on someone's foot, or snag his shoe on the curtain ...
Can you imagine, it's so absolutely impossible for me to relax and be entertained when I'm perpetually charged with the terrible responsibility of having to keep the whole world together in one piece through my mental and emotional body English.
You can imagine how depressing the Anne Frank play was to begin with -- I mean, who needs to go and sit through that?! It would have been far more enriching to masturbate myself into a coma-like sleep for two hours. But not only was I forced to suffer the sympathetic pains of Nazi Germany, I had to sit there with the further worries of whether or not this play would come off without a hitch.
(And now, as if things aren't bad enough for this poor suffering soul, I think I just inhaled a bug as I was typing furiously. Terrific!)
Now excuse me, as I've got to go and cough for an hour to try and expel this thing ...
Anyway, I wanted to tell you about my experience last Saturday going to the theater. It was a fair production of the Diary of Anne Frank, and I commend the set designer, director and actors for a good job before what I found to be an embarassing (I never remember how to spell that word!) audience of morons. (I say this because I was amazed at the large number of people who were secretly snacking and drinking from water bottles throughout the show. It was appalling and depressing to see yet another example of thoughtless, self-centered Americans in action.)
But I digress. What I really wanted to comment on was how much I hate the theater. It's taken me some time to realize this, but I finally have decided that the anxiety I experience in watching a live show is simply too much for me to endure, and why I ever put myself in the position of having to sit in a seat for two-and-a-half hours staring at a bunch of people making spectacles of themselves, I just can't tell you.
The main reason for my discontent ties directly to my core issues. You see, I'm literally unable to watch a show without constantly worrying whether the actor is going to blow his line, or whether she's going to lose her character in the middle of a moment, or whether someone in the audience is going to be so disruptive that the actor turns their head, or whether the whole set is just going to fall down, or whether one actor is going to drop a prop, or another step on someone's foot, or snag his shoe on the curtain ...
Can you imagine, it's so absolutely impossible for me to relax and be entertained when I'm perpetually charged with the terrible responsibility of having to keep the whole world together in one piece through my mental and emotional body English.
You can imagine how depressing the Anne Frank play was to begin with -- I mean, who needs to go and sit through that?! It would have been far more enriching to masturbate myself into a coma-like sleep for two hours. But not only was I forced to suffer the sympathetic pains of Nazi Germany, I had to sit there with the further worries of whether or not this play would come off without a hitch.
(And now, as if things aren't bad enough for this poor suffering soul, I think I just inhaled a bug as I was typing furiously. Terrific!)
Now excuse me, as I've got to go and cough for an hour to try and expel this thing ...
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I'll Jog Tomorrow
October 14, 2010: Well, I've just come back from an invigorating jog around town, and even though I'll probably develop a rash if I don't shower presently, I wanted to take a moment to file my latest report.
You see, as I jogged by the river and became aware of the Christmas lights they keep in the trees year-round, it suddenly occurred to me that Jews should really get more into the spirit of Christmas.
Now you understand, I'm half Jewish, so I'm very comfortable bashing the whole race and stereotyping. (You'll also remember how vigorously I worked to try and ban the Nazi flag in Connecticut -- an effort I abandoned when I saw how the least amount of support came from the Jewish community, including the Anti-Defamation League (lousy Jews!).
No, but I jest. I jest because I love. And I also know that my tiny Blah-ugh! readership is solely composed of three anti-Semites, so it really doesn't matter what I write.
The point is, however, that these lovely white lights are just that, and while all the associations for me stem from picturesque homespun Christmas celebrations in my youth -- (Who am I kidding? My parents were drunk half the time!) -- I don't really see what difference it makes what religious holiday we're celebrating, as long as the lights are pretty. I myself could care less about Jesus (if that is his real name!). He means little to me, except he always looks so depressed in those church pictures. Mind you, I have nothing against him as Messiahs go, I only think he gets too much superfluous media attention, especially around the holidays.
All of this reminds me that Halloween is coming, and as you know I vehemently subscribe to the belief that it's really our most social holiday. (See last year's entry if you don't believe me ... you lousy skeptics!) People are even getting into the spirit with orange lights in recent years, and who can say anything bad about that. And the leaves are changing, as do the seasons, and so do I, and you need not wonder why.
I'm starting to itch now, so I've got to go. Try to keep an open mind as Halloween approaches this year, especially if you're Jewish or some extreme Christian who poo-poos the lessons demon worship can teach you.
You see, as I jogged by the river and became aware of the Christmas lights they keep in the trees year-round, it suddenly occurred to me that Jews should really get more into the spirit of Christmas.
Now you understand, I'm half Jewish, so I'm very comfortable bashing the whole race and stereotyping. (You'll also remember how vigorously I worked to try and ban the Nazi flag in Connecticut -- an effort I abandoned when I saw how the least amount of support came from the Jewish community, including the Anti-Defamation League (lousy Jews!).
No, but I jest. I jest because I love. And I also know that my tiny Blah-ugh! readership is solely composed of three anti-Semites, so it really doesn't matter what I write.
The point is, however, that these lovely white lights are just that, and while all the associations for me stem from picturesque homespun Christmas celebrations in my youth -- (Who am I kidding? My parents were drunk half the time!) -- I don't really see what difference it makes what religious holiday we're celebrating, as long as the lights are pretty. I myself could care less about Jesus (if that is his real name!). He means little to me, except he always looks so depressed in those church pictures. Mind you, I have nothing against him as Messiahs go, I only think he gets too much superfluous media attention, especially around the holidays.
All of this reminds me that Halloween is coming, and as you know I vehemently subscribe to the belief that it's really our most social holiday. (See last year's entry if you don't believe me ... you lousy skeptics!) People are even getting into the spirit with orange lights in recent years, and who can say anything bad about that. And the leaves are changing, as do the seasons, and so do I, and you need not wonder why.
I'm starting to itch now, so I've got to go. Try to keep an open mind as Halloween approaches this year, especially if you're Jewish or some extreme Christian who poo-poos the lessons demon worship can teach you.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Call to Yarns
September 27, 2010: It's been a dreadful summer, but I'm not one to complain ... Well, actually I complain a lot, but I'm well aware that no one listens. And you see, that's what makes me wise.
Which is why I've devoted so little time to this silly Blah-ugh! I do most of my complaining in the shower now, and I listen intently. (I try not to comment or give advice, but I nod a lot while I'm speaking and go, "Mmm." It's not always the most satisfying venue for sharing my pains, disillusionment and discoveries, but at worst I end up with cleaner hair.)
The point is -- if ever there was one -- I've actually had the nerve to mention this failed (or forever failing) venture to two different people this week (mainly as a means of bragging and sounding technologically advanced), so I felt obligated -- remember, this has always been about you all, and not my pathological need to be heard -- to offer some new spins on life and all that it means to me today ... just today ... for tomorrow I'm back to spending my time watching television.
That said, I'm again at a loss. All I can think about at the moment is that some dumb bunny in my house bought one of those ridiculous soap dispensers that squirts the soap out. And lo and behold, it did just that all over my working clothes when I raced home just now to use the bathroom. And it couldn't have been targeted more inappropriately at the front of my pants -- let me say no more! And I'm still fretting, crouched at a computer console, over whether it will ever dry before I encounter anyone walking in the hall and they look at me in shocked disbelief ... And to top it all off, the cream-colored crap that splattered me doesn't even smell like anjou pear, as the bottle claimed, but more like sour apples! Bastards!
So, anyway, with that going on, how I can free any concentration to address the myriad social and political issues plaguing mankind at this moment?! I can't, and that's why, if it serves as nothing else, this entry should be yet another reminder that there's nothing to gain by investing your time reading this glib tripe. Your hours will be better spent focusing on how you can safely and practically dispense soap in your home. That's important! My sharp, witty rambling -- cute, coy and cloying as they may be -- are not ...
But keep reading anyway!
Which is why I've devoted so little time to this silly Blah-ugh! I do most of my complaining in the shower now, and I listen intently. (I try not to comment or give advice, but I nod a lot while I'm speaking and go, "Mmm." It's not always the most satisfying venue for sharing my pains, disillusionment and discoveries, but at worst I end up with cleaner hair.)
The point is -- if ever there was one -- I've actually had the nerve to mention this failed (or forever failing) venture to two different people this week (mainly as a means of bragging and sounding technologically advanced), so I felt obligated -- remember, this has always been about you all, and not my pathological need to be heard -- to offer some new spins on life and all that it means to me today ... just today ... for tomorrow I'm back to spending my time watching television.
That said, I'm again at a loss. All I can think about at the moment is that some dumb bunny in my house bought one of those ridiculous soap dispensers that squirts the soap out. And lo and behold, it did just that all over my working clothes when I raced home just now to use the bathroom. And it couldn't have been targeted more inappropriately at the front of my pants -- let me say no more! And I'm still fretting, crouched at a computer console, over whether it will ever dry before I encounter anyone walking in the hall and they look at me in shocked disbelief ... And to top it all off, the cream-colored crap that splattered me doesn't even smell like anjou pear, as the bottle claimed, but more like sour apples! Bastards!
So, anyway, with that going on, how I can free any concentration to address the myriad social and political issues plaguing mankind at this moment?! I can't, and that's why, if it serves as nothing else, this entry should be yet another reminder that there's nothing to gain by investing your time reading this glib tripe. Your hours will be better spent focusing on how you can safely and practically dispense soap in your home. That's important! My sharp, witty rambling -- cute, coy and cloying as they may be -- are not ...
But keep reading anyway!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Jarret's Frank Film Forum: The Godfather(s)
June 21, 2010: I'm nearly through the three Godfather movies ... again ... and I'm alive (or awash) with lots of clever -- No, correct that! -- a handful of observations. (I don't want to promise anything I can't deliver.)
For starters, what I think most people fail to realize, or perhaps accept, is that the script itself is not that good. Well, certainly it has its moments, its clever lines, etc. And mind you, I love the films (certainly the first two). But I've watched that first movie 20 times at least, and for the life of me I still can't see any difference between Barzini and Tatalia, and I can't figure out what it is they do, or who double-crosses who, nor can I even pick them out from amongst the cast in the film. It's really weird, but so much drama seems to rest on it, and when Vito finally says, while driving in the car, that it was "Barzini all along," and the music dips dramatic, again and again I find myself befuddled by what it is that I'm supposed to care about.
That said, what really makes these movies, in my estimation, is the cinematography, which is brilliant and powerful, and I'll quickly add that the set designing (and costumes) are close behind. Cheers to Gordon Willis, who really demonstrates how important that art is to film, and credit to Coppola for being smart enough to work with him.
The acting, of course, is pretty good too, except I've come to have less and less respect for the craft of acting, because I think it's a lot easier to do it well than people realize, especially on film. There's a great quote from Richard Dreyfuss, which I love so much, I actually bothered to look it up and include here: He said, "I don't think film acting is necessarily a triumph of technique. Film stardom is a friendship that happens between an audience and a performer. It's like you meet someone and you click with that person for whatever reason." Brilliant, and refreshingly honest. (And Dreyfuss rules, of course!) Of course, we love all the principals in this cast, and that's that. I know I'm willing to forgive Brando for using cue cards, Duvall for being bald, etc.
But God, I'm being so drearily serious about this. I really thought this would be a great opportunity to rip into Godfather III and garner some great laughs at the expense of Sophia Coppola. (My God, that girl is unattractive, and I'm sorry to have to say it, but somebody needs to. And to watch her in love scenes with the dashing Andy Garcia is not far from the bizarre juxtaposed spectacle of seeing a handsome male guest star flirting with Miss Piggy on the Muppet Show.
I saw Godfather III only once before, and I was amazed at how awful it was. Much to my surprise, this time I'm enjoying it much more and even see some merit there (although not much, I'm afraid, for the better part of it is residual ... But see how much I've grown in my acceptance and tolerance.)
But the director's daughter aside -- and she's really not that bad an actor, if I'm to be fair -- the film has some moments that are such painful parodies of the first two movies, it's ridiculous. Clearly Francis and company have read too much historic material on the first two movies, and included a lot of embarrassing regurgitations, references and such. ("Never tell anyone what you're thinking," Michael tells Vinnie, paraphrasing (or should I say mis-paraphrasing his father from the first film, and just sounding stupid in the process). Oh Please Francis!
And Pacino, who had such a personality in the first two movies, dreadfully falls back on his later-life acting method (complete with the raspy Devil's Advocate delivery), and chews the scenery beyond all recognition when he has his diabetes-induced attack in the kitchen. I found myself laughing outloud in hysterics at this "dramatic" scene.
And what the hell's with Connie. My god, she looks like the winner of an Anne Rice lookalike contest. And how about Joe (The Simpsons' Fat Tony) Montagne, and his wooden, over-articulated play at Joey Zsaza (or is it Zahzah? ... or Zaa Zaa?) Oh Please Please!! (Duvall was no fool to miss #3.)
But at the end of the day, the package is so terrific -- nine hours of the family we love! Such fun and voyeuristic feasting. One only wishes they'd made it into a TV series when the cast was still young. Kudos to all of them. Yay Mario Puzo, you fat guinea hack! My people will be forever grateful to you! Ciao!
For starters, what I think most people fail to realize, or perhaps accept, is that the script itself is not that good. Well, certainly it has its moments, its clever lines, etc. And mind you, I love the films (certainly the first two). But I've watched that first movie 20 times at least, and for the life of me I still can't see any difference between Barzini and Tatalia, and I can't figure out what it is they do, or who double-crosses who, nor can I even pick them out from amongst the cast in the film. It's really weird, but so much drama seems to rest on it, and when Vito finally says, while driving in the car, that it was "Barzini all along," and the music dips dramatic, again and again I find myself befuddled by what it is that I'm supposed to care about.
That said, what really makes these movies, in my estimation, is the cinematography, which is brilliant and powerful, and I'll quickly add that the set designing (and costumes) are close behind. Cheers to Gordon Willis, who really demonstrates how important that art is to film, and credit to Coppola for being smart enough to work with him.
The acting, of course, is pretty good too, except I've come to have less and less respect for the craft of acting, because I think it's a lot easier to do it well than people realize, especially on film. There's a great quote from Richard Dreyfuss, which I love so much, I actually bothered to look it up and include here: He said, "I don't think film acting is necessarily a triumph of technique. Film stardom is a friendship that happens between an audience and a performer. It's like you meet someone and you click with that person for whatever reason." Brilliant, and refreshingly honest. (And Dreyfuss rules, of course!) Of course, we love all the principals in this cast, and that's that. I know I'm willing to forgive Brando for using cue cards, Duvall for being bald, etc.
But God, I'm being so drearily serious about this. I really thought this would be a great opportunity to rip into Godfather III and garner some great laughs at the expense of Sophia Coppola. (My God, that girl is unattractive, and I'm sorry to have to say it, but somebody needs to. And to watch her in love scenes with the dashing Andy Garcia is not far from the bizarre juxtaposed spectacle of seeing a handsome male guest star flirting with Miss Piggy on the Muppet Show.
I saw Godfather III only once before, and I was amazed at how awful it was. Much to my surprise, this time I'm enjoying it much more and even see some merit there (although not much, I'm afraid, for the better part of it is residual ... But see how much I've grown in my acceptance and tolerance.)
But the director's daughter aside -- and she's really not that bad an actor, if I'm to be fair -- the film has some moments that are such painful parodies of the first two movies, it's ridiculous. Clearly Francis and company have read too much historic material on the first two movies, and included a lot of embarrassing regurgitations, references and such. ("Never tell anyone what you're thinking," Michael tells Vinnie, paraphrasing (or should I say mis-paraphrasing his father from the first film, and just sounding stupid in the process). Oh Please Francis!
And Pacino, who had such a personality in the first two movies, dreadfully falls back on his later-life acting method (complete with the raspy Devil's Advocate delivery), and chews the scenery beyond all recognition when he has his diabetes-induced attack in the kitchen. I found myself laughing outloud in hysterics at this "dramatic" scene.
And what the hell's with Connie. My god, she looks like the winner of an Anne Rice lookalike contest. And how about Joe (The Simpsons' Fat Tony) Montagne, and his wooden, over-articulated play at Joey Zsaza (or is it Zahzah? ... or Zaa Zaa?) Oh Please Please!! (Duvall was no fool to miss #3.)
But at the end of the day, the package is so terrific -- nine hours of the family we love! Such fun and voyeuristic feasting. One only wishes they'd made it into a TV series when the cast was still young. Kudos to all of them. Yay Mario Puzo, you fat guinea hack! My people will be forever grateful to you! Ciao!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Political Notebook #1 (Why Do So Many Republicans Look Like Nazis?)
June 4, 2010: As many of you know -- well, I'd hope that all of you knew -- I've refrained from sharing my varied opinions on political matters. It's not that I don't have them, you have to understand, but I just feel that religion, sex and politics are too sensitive to explore in this vaguely impersonal medium. And while I like to write constantly about sex and religion, bashing both of course, heretofore my political observations have been suspiciously absent.
But a news article I saw on the GOP candidate for Connecticut's 4th District congressional seat -- "Dan" Debicella of Shelton -- prompted me to say something. Now please understand, I didn't really read the article, but I read enough of it to become thoroughly annoyed. (Three paragraphs, actually, and this is more newspaper reading than I usually do in a week!) Also, there was a picture of "Dan," and this alone was enough to prompt a whole essay speaking out against him. (Why do so many Republicans look like Nazis?)
The point is -- you see, I don't want to just make fun of his picture, because that would be too easy -- he describes himself as "being in the mold of President Ronald Reagan," according to the article. Now I came of age in the Reagan era, and through the 1980s I was a fervent student of American politics and government. Back then I devoured newspapers and news magazines, and could name you all the players in the Reagan administration and what their most detestable traits and crimes against humanity were. I also followed with shock and depression all the awful things that that administration orchestrated, the negative ripples of which are still felt to this day. And when the Iran-Contra scandal broke -- and isn't it AMAZING how many people have forgotten about that, or never even thought about George Bush's role in it -- I sat and watched with awe as this madman (Reagan) wasn't impeached for his crimes. (No, instead they named an airport after him, put him on a stamp, and continue to hail him as some great leader of white men.)
To me, Debicella's association is not much better than saying he's modeled his politics after Nixon's, or George Wallace's, and to see his dark-eyed kisser in the paper, his mouth agape in Republican wonder, it simply weirds me out. I thought the country had outgrown these kind of people. I thought we were on a road to enlightenment, where the public could not longer be fooled by vague, meaningless mottos lauding "less government," and I thought as such a supposedly educated nation, history would have given us the clarity to see what the Reagan administration was about, why it was evil, and why the Republican party truly is the party of greed, denial, short-sightedness and ... well, stupidity.
Now I'm not saying the Democrats don't have their faults. Incumbent U.S. Rep. Jim Himes seems like a nice man -- he's had the opportunity to chat with me and appeared to really enjoy himself, which obviously says alot about him -- but who knows what ugly skeletons he keeps hidden in his closets. (I think we're all pretty sure that his former company, Goldman Sachs, is its own evil empire, and of course I'm always wary of so-called "nice" people, because they often either want to borrow money or saw you sit on something dirty, like gum, and are gaining pleasure at your unwitting expense.) I don't mean to infer that Himes is the type of candidate who'd actually put gum on your seat, but who really knows? Still, when it's a case of the lesser of two evils, how can you chose someone who looks (and perhaps even thinks) like a Nazi over someone who's nice and probably likes animals.
My point is that those who don't remember the past elected idiots are condemned to screw the rest of us up by electing more of the same. Please, on behalf of thinking men and women everywhere, STOP THAT!
But a news article I saw on the GOP candidate for Connecticut's 4th District congressional seat -- "Dan" Debicella of Shelton -- prompted me to say something. Now please understand, I didn't really read the article, but I read enough of it to become thoroughly annoyed. (Three paragraphs, actually, and this is more newspaper reading than I usually do in a week!) Also, there was a picture of "Dan," and this alone was enough to prompt a whole essay speaking out against him. (Why do so many Republicans look like Nazis?)
The point is -- you see, I don't want to just make fun of his picture, because that would be too easy -- he describes himself as "being in the mold of President Ronald Reagan," according to the article. Now I came of age in the Reagan era, and through the 1980s I was a fervent student of American politics and government. Back then I devoured newspapers and news magazines, and could name you all the players in the Reagan administration and what their most detestable traits and crimes against humanity were. I also followed with shock and depression all the awful things that that administration orchestrated, the negative ripples of which are still felt to this day. And when the Iran-Contra scandal broke -- and isn't it AMAZING how many people have forgotten about that, or never even thought about George Bush's role in it -- I sat and watched with awe as this madman (Reagan) wasn't impeached for his crimes. (No, instead they named an airport after him, put him on a stamp, and continue to hail him as some great leader of white men.)
To me, Debicella's association is not much better than saying he's modeled his politics after Nixon's, or George Wallace's, and to see his dark-eyed kisser in the paper, his mouth agape in Republican wonder, it simply weirds me out. I thought the country had outgrown these kind of people. I thought we were on a road to enlightenment, where the public could not longer be fooled by vague, meaningless mottos lauding "less government," and I thought as such a supposedly educated nation, history would have given us the clarity to see what the Reagan administration was about, why it was evil, and why the Republican party truly is the party of greed, denial, short-sightedness and ... well, stupidity.
Now I'm not saying the Democrats don't have their faults. Incumbent U.S. Rep. Jim Himes seems like a nice man -- he's had the opportunity to chat with me and appeared to really enjoy himself, which obviously says alot about him -- but who knows what ugly skeletons he keeps hidden in his closets. (I think we're all pretty sure that his former company, Goldman Sachs, is its own evil empire, and of course I'm always wary of so-called "nice" people, because they often either want to borrow money or saw you sit on something dirty, like gum, and are gaining pleasure at your unwitting expense.) I don't mean to infer that Himes is the type of candidate who'd actually put gum on your seat, but who really knows? Still, when it's a case of the lesser of two evils, how can you chose someone who looks (and perhaps even thinks) like a Nazi over someone who's nice and probably likes animals.
My point is that those who don't remember the past elected idiots are condemned to screw the rest of us up by electing more of the same. Please, on behalf of thinking men and women everywhere, STOP THAT!
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