As a person who has been retired from the working rat race for a number of years, this writer finds ample time to view a private DVD collection and browse the internet at will. Although relaxing in some ways, such practice can also bring on discouragement, depending upon what happens to be watched.
Just a day or two ago, we chose to replay a 1972 film entitled The Candidate, with Robert Redford in the lead role as a chap who rose from the ashes to win a U.S. Senate seat from California, against a typically stodgy Republican old-liner. Not unexpectedly, this movie struck a decided parallel tone with the 2008 presidential race, wherein a man overcame an inherent two-strike handicap to eventually succeed after a most arduous campaign.
One major difference between real life and tinseltown is that Barack Obama has proven to be a more composed and outwardly self-assured candidate than the character portrayed by actor Redford. Nevertheless, we found the true sincerity of both the fictional and living parties virtually identical. In turn, each one faced the usual small-minded Republican opposition, promoting its customary “make the rich richer and to hell with the little guy” practices, along with the “God bless the special interest groups” motif.
Furthermore, we recently called up the 2008 election night rally in Chicago on the internet, to listen again to Obama’s acceptance address. We can confidently say that it rates with the best public speeches ever heard, not only from the standpoint of the principles advocated, but the new president’s unswerving poise as well. It is no wonder the massive crowd felt tremendously inspired.
Our estimation is that the time elapsed between Mr. Obama’s closing words and the start of rolling the ball toward discrediting him at every turn thereafter to have been no more than three minutes. In fact, we can be sure that contingent plans for such dedicated undermining of his cause had already been conceived even before the vote-counting was over.
For as long as we can personally remember, and that goes back to Roosevelt in 1932, Republican tactics have been predicated strictly upon negativity. The philosophy of “If you can’t beat ‘em, ridicule ‘em ad nauseam” hasn’t abated one bit throughout every national and lower level election ever since. The same fabricated and grime-laden accusations were hurled at John Kennedy, Bill Clinton, and plenty of others. Today, the devoted mudslingers have an even more readily available listening audience, in that the current president doesn’t belong to the “superior” white race.
It is always easier, not to mention desirable, to believe the dirt cast upon a person or collective group rather than what true good he, she, or they are striving for, and this has forever been the foundation for Republican back room tactical maneuvering.
Having offered personal support and encouragement to the Obama efforts throughout 2008, we now receive the administration’s policy comments via email every week. The most notable feature is the outright cleanliness of each such message, coupled with sound logic and fair play, consistent with the man’s campaign issues.
On the other hand, we strenuously object to the disgustingly foul Republican mudslinging which has been evident for so long, as an unfitting substitute for constructive thinking.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
A NEWLY-DISCOVERED WAY TO "BEAT THE SYSTEM"
As a recently reformed foodaholic, this writer has been blessed with a hitherto unappreciated personal satisfaction source. A 180-degree switch from cholesterol-laden meats, ultra-high calorie sweets, and other fattening delicacies in huge consumptive quantities over to fish, fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grain cereals, and the like has proven to be a major event for a guy who previously spent many decades stuffing whatever he damn pleased down his gullet. The results to date have been noticeably beneficial, leading to a strong desire to remain atop the proverbial wagon at all costs.
Undoubtedly, however, the biggest satisfaction comes from dining in restaurants which feature those all-you-can-cram-down buffet tables. It has literally become fun to stroll about and scoop up such healthful offerings as sweet potatoes, corn on the cob, lima beans, and similar healthful commodities, while nonchalantly observing women who might make excellent defensive tackles for the Indianapolis Colts, and men who look as though they could be seven months pregnant digging into the fat-ringed roast beef and deep fried potatoes, followed by double portions of gooey dessert.
It’s a glorious feeling indeed to leave the eatery with the sincere knowledge of having beaten the system once more.
Undoubtedly, however, the biggest satisfaction comes from dining in restaurants which feature those all-you-can-cram-down buffet tables. It has literally become fun to stroll about and scoop up such healthful offerings as sweet potatoes, corn on the cob, lima beans, and similar healthful commodities, while nonchalantly observing women who might make excellent defensive tackles for the Indianapolis Colts, and men who look as though they could be seven months pregnant digging into the fat-ringed roast beef and deep fried potatoes, followed by double portions of gooey dessert.
It’s a glorious feeling indeed to leave the eatery with the sincere knowledge of having beaten the system once more.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
NO SUBSTITUTIONS, PLEASE
According to the internet, some feeble-minded film industry moguls recently did a film remake of Gone with the Wind, set in Australia, heaven forbid. In this writer’s opinion, that is virtually tantamount to rewriting the Bible as though the Garden of Eden were a small Pacific island and Jesus had delivered the Sermon on the Mount in New York’s Central Park.
As we view such matters, GWTW isn’t the only film upon which the “never again” label should be permanently affixed. Taking it from there, we intend to present below our private selection of ultraclassical movies, wherein certain individual or collective performances can never possibly be equalled, no matter how hard the directors and actors may try.
Unhappily, several of our chosen flicks have already been subject to attempted duplication, in one form or another. The listless results will also be covered below, as appropriate.
Without further ado then, we consider the following movies as being far too sacred to either be or have been redone, along with brief reasons why, presented in alphabetical sequence.
1. Butch Cassady and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Without the joint performances by Newman and Redford and their ultra-snappy dialogue, this production would have been no more than just another western. A prequel appeared a few years afterward, portraying the two legendary outlaws in their more youthful days, but amounted to mighty little.
2. Casablanca (1942)
Imagine this one without Bogie and Bergman! Had anyone else been cast in those leading roles, today we’d be asking “Casa where?” whenever it might be mentioned. Claude Rains did an unmatchable job as well.
3. The Godfather (1972)
The team of Brando, Pacino, Caan, and Duvall proved itself so memorable, that only the world’s biggest dunderheads would even think of a potential remake. Had it not been for that crew, the end result would have been a dry update of Little Caesar.
4. The Old Man and the Sea (1958)
Here is a very simple story, with Spencer Tracy turning out the best all-by-oneself acting we’ve ever witnessed. We didn’t see the 1990 rehash with Anthony Quinn playing the lead, and most assuredly never want to.
5. On Golden Pond (1981)
Despite all his previous successes, Henry Fonda was never better than in the old codgerish role which brought his sole Oscar award. Christopher Plummer’s subsequent rendition for television some years later didn’t even come close.
6. Psycho (1960)
As the disturbed and unbalanced killer, Anthony Perkins was nothing short of brilliant, in perhaps the most frightening top-of-the-line movie ever filmed. Describing that 1998 remake as utterly insipid is being polite and considerate.
7. Finally, we have an unbreakable tie, since the two lead parts dealt with a blind person making use of his and her remaining faculties to the fullest extent. The films we’re honoring are:
Scent of a Woman (1992)
Wait Until Dark (1967)
In our book, Al Pacino and Audrey Hepburn rank with the greatest the industry has produced. Their respective performances in the aforementioned flicks aren’t easy to forget.
We’ll be more than pleased, as always, to hear any reader arguments.
As we view such matters, GWTW isn’t the only film upon which the “never again” label should be permanently affixed. Taking it from there, we intend to present below our private selection of ultraclassical movies, wherein certain individual or collective performances can never possibly be equalled, no matter how hard the directors and actors may try.
Unhappily, several of our chosen flicks have already been subject to attempted duplication, in one form or another. The listless results will also be covered below, as appropriate.
Without further ado then, we consider the following movies as being far too sacred to either be or have been redone, along with brief reasons why, presented in alphabetical sequence.
1. Butch Cassady and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Without the joint performances by Newman and Redford and their ultra-snappy dialogue, this production would have been no more than just another western. A prequel appeared a few years afterward, portraying the two legendary outlaws in their more youthful days, but amounted to mighty little.
2. Casablanca (1942)
Imagine this one without Bogie and Bergman! Had anyone else been cast in those leading roles, today we’d be asking “Casa where?” whenever it might be mentioned. Claude Rains did an unmatchable job as well.
3. The Godfather (1972)
The team of Brando, Pacino, Caan, and Duvall proved itself so memorable, that only the world’s biggest dunderheads would even think of a potential remake. Had it not been for that crew, the end result would have been a dry update of Little Caesar.
4. The Old Man and the Sea (1958)
Here is a very simple story, with Spencer Tracy turning out the best all-by-oneself acting we’ve ever witnessed. We didn’t see the 1990 rehash with Anthony Quinn playing the lead, and most assuredly never want to.
5. On Golden Pond (1981)
Despite all his previous successes, Henry Fonda was never better than in the old codgerish role which brought his sole Oscar award. Christopher Plummer’s subsequent rendition for television some years later didn’t even come close.
6. Psycho (1960)
As the disturbed and unbalanced killer, Anthony Perkins was nothing short of brilliant, in perhaps the most frightening top-of-the-line movie ever filmed. Describing that 1998 remake as utterly insipid is being polite and considerate.
7. Finally, we have an unbreakable tie, since the two lead parts dealt with a blind person making use of his and her remaining faculties to the fullest extent. The films we’re honoring are:
Scent of a Woman (1992)
Wait Until Dark (1967)
In our book, Al Pacino and Audrey Hepburn rank with the greatest the industry has produced. Their respective performances in the aforementioned flicks aren’t easy to forget.
We’ll be more than pleased, as always, to hear any reader arguments.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
PERHAPS WE'RE JUST TOO OLD-FASHIONED
Despite these super-duper days when many of us are inspired to utter such statements as “Ain’t technology great?”, this writer retains his constitutional right to abhor one particular aspect. To put it more strongly, one thing we’ve learned to hate immensely since returning to U.S. shores following an extended offshore stay is placing a phone call, only to get some (expletive deleted) machine recording instead of an on-the-spot person.
Altogether too often, none of the button pushing options given out by the golden-voiced chick at yonder end seem to fit our particular needs. Having almost reached the exasperation point of no return by this time, we’ve become sorely tempted in future cases to tell the machine to perform an impossible act on itself and slam the phone down.
Altogether too often, none of the button pushing options given out by the golden-voiced chick at yonder end seem to fit our particular needs. Having almost reached the exasperation point of no return by this time, we’ve become sorely tempted in future cases to tell the machine to perform an impossible act on itself and slam the phone down.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
REVISION TO OUR MOST RECENT BLOG TOPIC
In regard to the piece entitled The Saga of Naïve Morton and Misguided Robert, we must confess to having made a slight error which definitely requires correction, and that is what will be attended to herein.
Our corruptive rephrasing of Artimedorus’ written warning to Julius Caesar includes a line which reads as follows:
Latinos love you not;
Considering the era in which this writer was a growing lad, the major influx of Latinos into this supposedly unblemished country still lay a few decades off, meaning that said ethnic group needed no defamation cast upon it for some time to come. However, upon harking back to the indoctrination process administered in our household during those years, it would be fitting to change the above-cited line to read:
Southerners love you not;
Yes, we were also taught that our neighbors down Dixie way held us Yankees in contempt, allegedly due to sour grapes dating back to the outcome of the 1861-1865 fracas. Anyway, that was the party line.
Having recently taken up residence below the Mason-Dixon line, we realize beyond any doubt that such categorization was just as big a crock as the rest of the slurs quoted in our Shakespearean alteration.
Our corruptive rephrasing of Artimedorus’ written warning to Julius Caesar includes a line which reads as follows:
Latinos love you not;
Considering the era in which this writer was a growing lad, the major influx of Latinos into this supposedly unblemished country still lay a few decades off, meaning that said ethnic group needed no defamation cast upon it for some time to come. However, upon harking back to the indoctrination process administered in our household during those years, it would be fitting to change the above-cited line to read:
Southerners love you not;
Yes, we were also taught that our neighbors down Dixie way held us Yankees in contempt, allegedly due to sour grapes dating back to the outcome of the 1861-1865 fracas. Anyway, that was the party line.
Having recently taken up residence below the Mason-Dixon line, we realize beyond any doubt that such categorization was just as big a crock as the rest of the slurs quoted in our Shakespearean alteration.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
THE SAGA OF NAIVE MORTON AND MISGUIDED ROBERT
We begin this piece with a true episode in the life of Morton, a personal acquaintance from long ago, whose last name will be withheld, except to mention its being Hebrew by nature.
Mort was a Jewish lad who grew up in a semi-remote Nebraska location, where his faith had a very sparse membership at the time, which may not have changed since. He once explained how his family needed to travel a great many miles to and from the nearest temple for religious ceremony attendance.
Upon graduation from the University of Nebraska law school in the early 1950s, Mort underwent various interviews with prospective employers. Having expressed a desire to work in an eastward city, he accepted a position offered by the Cleveland, Ohio office of a major professional services firm.
After taking up his new job, Mort, already married and with an expectant wife, was anxious to settle down in a permanent home. He promptly contacted a real estate agent on Cleveland’s multi-national east side, and soon found a house which he and his missus liked very much. Accordingly, he filed a formal offer and plunked down the requisite deposit.
Having heard nothing from the agent for several days, Mort phoned him to check on the status of his intended deal.
The answer came in a somewhat stumbling tone, well punctuated by umms, ahs, and ers where needed.
“You ….. er ….. won’t be able to buy that house, Morton.”
“Oh!” Our hero quickly chimed back, “Don’t worry. I’m ready to come up a little.”
“Well ….. umm ….. ahh ….. that is, the owner refuses to sell to you.”
“Why?” inquired the young Jewish boy recently out of Nebraska.
“It’s ….. er ….. because of your religion.”
Poor Mort’s immediate reaction was to ask “What does that have to do with it?”
In pretty short order then, Morton learned that Cleveland, Ohio was not Nebraska, insofar as intolerance went.
Nevertheless, this part of our tale has a happy ending, since Mort did eventually acquire a nice house for his budding family.
We’ve long dwelled on that baptism of fire experienced by Brother Morton. One unfortunate aspect is that it recalls the general spirit of this writer’s own Cleveland, Ohio upbringing, in the most bigoted of household surroundings. The best means we can find for summing up such situation is to relate it to Shakespeare’s classic drama Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene III.
Being fully cognizant of the plot to assassinate Caesar on that fateful morning, the minor character Artimedorus had prepared a written message to hand to the imminent victim as he passed by, which amounted to a dire warning about the conspiratorial band.
We’ve thus chosen below to alter the Bard’s words slightly, in conformity with the lessons given regularly and frequently to this growing lad.
Robert, beware of Jews,
Take heed of Catholics,
Come not near Negroes,
Have an eye to American Indians,
Trust not Italians,
Mark well Eastern Europeans;
Latinos love you not;
Thou hast wronged Orientals.
Although a fearless Caesar arbitrarily brushed Artimedorus aside, it took this fellow a few years to outgrow the hatreds ingrained in him as a boy. For that and other reasons, it’s been nice to have escaped from Cleveland.
We can’t resist adding that, despite such atrocious childhood indoctrination, this writer’s closest friends during his (ugh! ptui!) U.S. Army days were Tom Donegan, Milton Feldman, and Phil Daniele.
Mort was a Jewish lad who grew up in a semi-remote Nebraska location, where his faith had a very sparse membership at the time, which may not have changed since. He once explained how his family needed to travel a great many miles to and from the nearest temple for religious ceremony attendance.
Upon graduation from the University of Nebraska law school in the early 1950s, Mort underwent various interviews with prospective employers. Having expressed a desire to work in an eastward city, he accepted a position offered by the Cleveland, Ohio office of a major professional services firm.
After taking up his new job, Mort, already married and with an expectant wife, was anxious to settle down in a permanent home. He promptly contacted a real estate agent on Cleveland’s multi-national east side, and soon found a house which he and his missus liked very much. Accordingly, he filed a formal offer and plunked down the requisite deposit.
Having heard nothing from the agent for several days, Mort phoned him to check on the status of his intended deal.
The answer came in a somewhat stumbling tone, well punctuated by umms, ahs, and ers where needed.
“You ….. er ….. won’t be able to buy that house, Morton.”
“Oh!” Our hero quickly chimed back, “Don’t worry. I’m ready to come up a little.”
“Well ….. umm ….. ahh ….. that is, the owner refuses to sell to you.”
“Why?” inquired the young Jewish boy recently out of Nebraska.
“It’s ….. er ….. because of your religion.”
Poor Mort’s immediate reaction was to ask “What does that have to do with it?”
In pretty short order then, Morton learned that Cleveland, Ohio was not Nebraska, insofar as intolerance went.
Nevertheless, this part of our tale has a happy ending, since Mort did eventually acquire a nice house for his budding family.
We’ve long dwelled on that baptism of fire experienced by Brother Morton. One unfortunate aspect is that it recalls the general spirit of this writer’s own Cleveland, Ohio upbringing, in the most bigoted of household surroundings. The best means we can find for summing up such situation is to relate it to Shakespeare’s classic drama Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene III.
Being fully cognizant of the plot to assassinate Caesar on that fateful morning, the minor character Artimedorus had prepared a written message to hand to the imminent victim as he passed by, which amounted to a dire warning about the conspiratorial band.
We’ve thus chosen below to alter the Bard’s words slightly, in conformity with the lessons given regularly and frequently to this growing lad.
Robert, beware of Jews,
Take heed of Catholics,
Come not near Negroes,
Have an eye to American Indians,
Trust not Italians,
Mark well Eastern Europeans;
Latinos love you not;
Thou hast wronged Orientals.
Although a fearless Caesar arbitrarily brushed Artimedorus aside, it took this fellow a few years to outgrow the hatreds ingrained in him as a boy. For that and other reasons, it’s been nice to have escaped from Cleveland.
We can’t resist adding that, despite such atrocious childhood indoctrination, this writer’s closest friends during his (ugh! ptui!) U.S. Army days were Tom Donegan, Milton Feldman, and Phil Daniele.
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