Study: Publicly-funded tutoring under NCLB pays off
That was the headline as written on CNN.com at the following URL:
http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/06/28/nochild.tutoring.ap/index.html
I sent an e-mail to CNN.com informing them of their HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE MISTAKE. One does not hyphenate a compound modifier if the first word of that same compound modifier is an adverb ending in
"-ly." So there, my bitches!
Or not.
According to legend, Hasselhoff bombed during his first audition for the role of Michael Knight, after which he begged for a second chance. Before returning for his second audition, Hasselhoff yelled repeatedly to himself in the bathroom mirror, "I am the Knight Rider! I am the Knight Rider!"
Figure 1: Hasselhoff acting in outer space.
After reading that little bit of history, I wondered if Hasselhoff did the same thing at the second audition: yelling repeatedly at the producers, "I am the Knight Rider! I am the Knight Rider!" He’s a convincing fellow, for sure.
Figure 2: Hasselhoff: "Ladies, it comes out to here."
For the unacquainted, Knight Rider was a TV show on NBC from 1982 to 1986, starring David Hasselhoff. The show followed the crime-fighting adventures of a man and his talking, homosexual car, KITT (an acronym for "Knight Industries Two Thousand"), played by a 1982 Pontiac Trans-Am and William Daniels.
Figure 3: KITT’s dashboard made the control panel of
a commercial airliner seem idiot-proof.
Recently, I found a website dedicated to the show. One of the website’s features is a list of each episode paired with a brief synopsis. Believe it or not, I read every synopsis, and in doing so, made a discovery that you may find shocking: some of Knight Rider’s plots are implausible, and even more shocking, some plots were recycled, multiple times, with little variation. Provided below, as evidence for my theory, is a list of episode synopses grouped by theme. These are actual plots from the show. The only changes made to the synopses were for grammatical and stylistic purposes, and Hasselhoff’s own name is used in place of the character he portrays, Michael Knight. Why? It just seemed funny. Enjoy.
Theme 1: Sinister Business Deals
(1) Hasselhoff and KITT go undercover at an auto-daredevil show whose owners unwittingly took out a second mortgage from a crooked broker who arranges accidents to force the owners into bankruptcy.
(2) Hasselhoff and KITT go undercover as a daredevil act to investigate a circus whose owners are being forced into bankruptcy by the angry local townsfolk.
(3) Hasselhoff and KITT go undercover at a ranch for troubled teens that’s being forced into bankruptcy by the angry local townsfolk.
Theme 2: Archaeology
Figure 4: Hasselhoff and KITT on their way to another adventure.
Figure 5: Hasselhoff and KITT arrive at another adventure.
(1) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate the mysterious deaths among members of an exclusive club for geniuses involved in an archeological excavation.
(2) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate the mysterious disappearance of an archaeologist excavating an ancient Native American burial ground.
(3) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate a voodoo priestess who is inducing the members of an archaeological expedition to commit crimes and then kill themselves.
Someone on staff had an obsession with archeology. I’ll bet you $100 that it wasn’t Hasselhoff.
Theme 3: Witnesses
(1) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate a businessman exploiting illegal aliens. A blind woman is the only witness.
A blind woman is the only witness? Does she "only see voices?"
For your pleasure, please refer to the 3:51 mark.
(2) Hasselhoff and KITT must prevent the assassination of a Latin American president by a terrorist group, and the only person who knows their plan is a woman who has amnesia.
Amnesia? What is this? All My Children? Is the woman portrayed by Susan Lucci?
(3) Hasselhoff and KITT attend a Christmas banquet when they encounter a gypsy boy who has witnessed a bank robbery and is sought by the robbers from whom he stole a gold watch.
Did I forget to mention that the gypsy boy is also a blind amnesiac?
Figure 6: Hasselhoff: "KITT! I can’t see!"
Personal Favorites
(1) Hasselhoff poses as a "space-weapon scientist" to gain access to a club operated by a women dealing in blackmail and top-secret weapons systems.
The fact that Hasselhoff is pretending to be a “space-weapon scientist” makes this one of the greatest episodes of television ever. I actually saw this episode, and Hasselhoff’s disguise consisted of a pair of fake eyeglasses and a power-blue tuxedo.
(2) Devon [Hasselhoff’s boss] sends Hasselhoff to stop a range war over water rights.
A range war over water rights? Did Devon send Hasselhoff back in time to 1840s Utah? What the fuck?
(3) Hasselhoff and KITT investigate the theft of heavy-duty construction equipment but are pushed into a quarry and buried under tons of gravel.
How come the local police department wasn’t called to investigate the theft of construction equipment? Seems like a situation well within their capabilities...TURBO BOOST!
(4) Hasselhoff and KITT go to Mexico to investigate a talent agent who is using beautiful models to smuggle diamonds in their vaginas into the United States.
OK, I made up the part about going to Mexico.
(5) After an explosion, Hasselhoff and KITT are separated, and KITT’s memory is erased. KITT befriends a boy (played by Jason Bateman) being chased by thieves who think he is a witness to their crime.
Although this plot could have been filed under the "Witnesses" category, the fact that KITT, a 1982 Pontiac Trans-Am, has amnesia is what makes this story SHINE!
I'm going to date myself—no, not like that you mental perverts.
Like most people my age (mid 30s), my family owned an Atari 2600 video game system. The Atari 2600 was the thing to have in the early '80s because there wasn't much else, besides Intellivision. Recently, I had a conversation with my friend (using mental telepathy) about the Atari 2600 and its lackluster games, particularly a game vaguely based on one of the most successful and beloved films of all time.
No, not Spice World.
No, not Troll.
Figure 1: The screen captures featured in this blog entry are from the hack version of E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial because they are much funnier.
I’m referring to E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. This game is perennially cited as one of worst videogames of all time. Or the last 30 years. E.T., the videogame, was quickly released for the 1982 Christmas season to cash in on the success of the movie. Hoping to boost sales, Atari produced millions of copies of E.T., which is unfortunate, as it sucked major (dad) ass. Unfortunately, 1982 was a bad year overall for videogames, as the market was flooded with dozens of inferior titles. In fact, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial and Pac-Man are often cited as the dual impetuous behind the histrionically titled "Video Game Crash of ’83."
How to Play E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial
You are E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.
But wait! There’s more! But not much.
As E.T., you must collect the various components of your space-phone in order to phone home. Sounds easy—too easy—correct? Yes, in theory. Along the way, you must avoid all sorts of antagonists, like doctors and FBI agents, who are out to steal your space-phone, but your good friend Eliot, of course, is there to assist you, sometimes.
Figure 2: In this picture, E.T. builds a modest, split-level
ranch home in ancient Athens. Notice his rather limp dick.
Now comes the insane bit: Where does E.T. find the components for his space-phone? In the hundreds of deep, giant pits scattered around town! Just like the movie! You, as E.T., must fall into the pit, collect the component, and then levitate out of the pit in a very particular manner, otherwise you will fall back into the pit, and if you keep falling back into the pit, you could DIE. Trying to get out of a pit takes MINUTES, thanks to Atari’s inadequate control system. Anyway, to levitate, you must fully extend your E.T. neck, float away, and then retract it as soon as you get to the top of the pit, or, for some reason, you will fall back down, again. Oh no!
Figure 3: E.T. inside one of the infamous pits.
Notice his rather prominent erection.
E.T. was almost pointless, and somehow managed to be simultaneously too difficult and too simplistic. What explains almost all of this is that the game was developed, programmed, and tested within six weeks by one person. And here he is!
Figure 4: The Atari programmer responsible
for the E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial videogame.
Yes, I bought a copy. I bought it because it was cheap, as I couldn’t afford the better games, which were sometimes 30 to 50 dollars! But most of America, unlike me, knew better, and Atari had fourteen truckloads of copies buried in a landfill in Alamogordo, New Mexico. Urban legend has it that meddling kids located the dumpsite and stole copies, but officially, what I’ve determined, is that Atari had the copies crushed by a steamroller before burial. Why not recycle, you bitches?
During the summer of 1992, after a successful first year at college, my friend Brett and I drove to our friend Erik’s house to see if he wanted to join us on our adventures, which usually consisted of driving Brett’s old Ford Ranger on power line trails to see where we would end up. Yes, indeed. Erik’s family (a horde of Vikings) lived on a rural road, deep in the woods, like mountain men. Or Vikings. Side Note: Erik's mother was from Norway. Their large and rustic-looking house was at the top of a steep hill, and as we were coming up the driveway, we noticed that the front door was open, wide open. We parked the truck and walked to the door to see if anyone was home, and...no response. We went inside, and determined that yes there was no one home, and yes, Erik’s family had not been murdered—at least not on the property. We could not find any sign of…foul play...
For some reason, which I can’t quite remember, Brett came up with the idea that we should go to the supermarket and purchase a cake to leave on the kitchen counter. I added that we should also buy a tube of decorative frosting and write a message on the cake. I suggested the following in pretty, teal-colored frosting and a florid script: "Lock the door, assholes!"
We laughed and laughed.
http://planethiltron.com/index.php
This person has really amusing pictures of celebrities altered by means of this Photoshop thing all the kids are talking about these days. My personal favorite is the little person Dina Lohan (see below).
Yesterday, on my way home from work, sitting in traffic on 128, an accident involving two motorcycles occurred next to my car. "How could this have happened?" Calm down bitches, and let me explain.
The first rider, named...Chuck (?), was speeding in the breakdown lane, which is always a good idea, and he came to a sudden, screeching stop. Why? I was not aware at that moment, but just up the highway, also in the breakdown lane, were a state trooper and the remains of a three-car pile-up. And just as Chuckie came to a complete stop, a second rider named...Gary (?) who, in addition, was carrying a wild filly of a passenger, probably his old lady, smashed into Chuck-O and sent him FLYING forward, like William Katt on TV’s The Greatest American Hero. Or Puma Man, but that’s a bit of an obscure reference. The Chuckster somersaulted, sans gym mat, but he got right back up, just like Lee Majors on TV’s The Fall Guy, and as soon as he did, Gary took off (I’m assuming Chuck and Gary knew each other, but who knows?). Afterward, Chuckberg sat his ass on the guardrail. I almost called 911 (which is certainly not a joke in my town), but then I saw the trooper up ahead and started to inch my car toward him. I could tell by the expression on trooper’s face that he had seen the accident, and he started to make his way toward Chuck, but I still performed my civic duty and informed a police officer that I had just shat my pants.
Yesterday on All My Children, the women of Fusion presented their new marketing campaign for Fusion Green to a representative from a very important chain of imaginary department stores.
To those who don't know, Fusion is the local cosmetics giant founded by Kendall Hart-Slater, Greenlee Smythe du Pres Lavery, and the deceased Simone Torres, who last year was a victim of the Satin Slayer! What? Yes! The Satin Slayer was a serial killer who targeted the women of Fusion, as brilliantly surmised by local 34-year-old fetus, Dr. Joshua Madden, despite the fact that fellow Slayer victim (the Satin Slayer, not the band) Dixie Cooney Martin had never stepped foot or feet inside the Fusion offices.
Dixie, of course, was killed by a helping of poisoned peanut butter and banana pancakes. (Never had I seen such a disgusting sight on my television before—the pancakes, not Dixie.) In fact, the visually revolting pancakes had more screen time than long-time character Brooke Allison English Cudahy Chandler Martin, especially since Dixie took almost a week to eat the damn things; I thought they were going to receive an on-screen credit and a SAG card.
For some not-so-obvious reason, the Satin Slayer and his serial killings negatively affected Fusions sales, and in response, Fusion Green was created to win back those sales. What is Fusion Green? Fusion Green is a series of new, environmentally conscious cosmetic products. Still clueless? So was the representative from a very important chain of imaginary department stores. How's this: The marketing materials mostly consisted a series of 8½-by-11 prints featuring images of various fruits and vegetables that happen to be green, with the Fusion corporate logo printed in the corner. Brilliant. Doesn't ABC Daytime have a marketing department they could ask to make some mock advertisements? I know ABC Television is only a small division of the cash-strapped Disney Corporation, but someone in-house must have a copy of QuarkXPress.
Anyway, Di Henry, local Dixie Cooney Martin impersonator and now non-descript Fusion employee, proudly presented these marketing materials as Greenlee gave her speech about Fusion Green being "fresh, new, and exciting." Sold!
(Greenlee's oratory reminded me of Henry V's monologue before the Battle of Agincourt. No, not really. Goddamn it Greenlee, buy a frigging thesaurus.)
As usual, the writers of All My Children prove they have no concept of the real world. For example, the Fusion Green video presentation featured the rep himself. Let me explain that again: The new video presentation of Fusion Green's marketing campaign features the rep himself watching the video presentation among scenes of the Fusion woman frolicking in the office, with various shots of trees, bodies of water, and of course, fresh green produce. Apparently, Fusion has a corporate TARDIS, in order to defy the laws of space and time.
That’s a quote from a training video I watched during my first day of work at Marshalls in August of 1991. I shall always remember that video. I might write more about that in the future. That’s a tease.
We had a meeting at work this afternoon about insider trading. Why? I can’t tell you! What I learned from the presentation given by a doughy financial guy and his accompanying video, which must have been produced in the late eighties judging by the eyewear of certain actors, are the following facts:
The presentation was a bit dull (NO!) but the video was kind of funny in a retro/overdramatic kind of way. Although it wasn’t quite as dramatic as the testicular cancer video I had watch in my senior year gym class in high school:
"Hey, son. You look kind of down. What’s wrong?"
"Dad, I got a lump."
"A lump? Where?"
"It’s on my...it’s on my...it’s on my nut."
And scene!
Who are these actors in these instructional videos? Most of these guys and gals take their roles far too seriously. Or not at all. In the video I watched today, I thought the man arrested (in public, a la Law & Order, with snappy one-liners) for insider trading was going to cry when confronted later on by a corporate middle-wig (played by Eric Roberts wearing a dojo): "I JUST WANTED A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR MYSELF!" Calm down, bitch. You should take a cue from the guy playing the FBI agent who arrested you; he was about as animated as HAL 9000.
OK, last night on this HBO show called The Sopranos, the character Phil Leotardo, played by the actor Frank Vincent, is "wiggity wiggity whacked," as the kids like to say, at a gas station, standing just outside the SUV driven by his wife. In the back seat sit two of his grandchildren, who happen to be infants, speaking some strange baby language.
After Phil is shot, his body drops to the ground, and his wife screams and runs out of the SUV while the transmission is in still in Drive. The SUV starts to roll forward, and the rear passenger-side tire rolls right over Phil's freshly dead head. POP! The scene is so graphic that a young man baring witness to Phil's demise vomits profusely. That, or the kid ate one of those microwave burritos sold at gas stations. The grandchildren continue to giggle with glee and roll all the way to that night’s Tony Awards.
So, what I learned from last night's episode is that the scenario of a man’s head being run over by a truck "driven" by babies is really funny to me.
Yes, it's true! I have won Jossip’s prestigious "Comment of the Day" award for the very comment I posted this morning! Wow! I’m truly honored. What was an offhand remark has brought me utter glory. Go here to see the proof:
http://www.jossip.com/clay-aikein/comment-of-the-day-8-20070605/#comments
I must thank the editors of Jossip, my wife, my parents, and my friends. Thank you, all of you.
http://www.celebitchy.com/4098/clay_aiken_stinks_up_first_class_flight_with_his_feet/
Hello! Recently, I posted a comment on celebitchy.com, a gossip website I read at work when I’m bored. I’m going to assume that from the URL you can figure out the subject of the posting on which I commented, although I highly suggest reading the story on super-duper star Clay Aiken. By the way, my screen name (Zhudokhchichtskov) is a Russian surname made of gibberish. I combined a bunch of common Russian syllables with the appropriate male suffix (i.e., "ov" or "son of"). Enjoy!
I don't see the big deal. When I fly first class, I usually take a shit on the seat next to mine.
Zhudokhchichtskov | 06.05.07 - 3:01 pm | #
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ok, that was funny.
I DON't know | 06.05.07 - 6:44 pm | #
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On May 26, I helped Jess with her yard sale. She's moving into a new-to-her apartment in the nearest of futures, all the way across the street, and she wanted sell some possessions she had accumulated over the years (e.g., obscene finger puppets), and to make some serious scratch, since the feds had shutdown her startup organ bank. Damn you, craigslist!
Jess was nice enough, for once, to let me bring some items of my own to sell. Until then, I had not been aware of the number of colorful, i.e., bat-shit crazy, people who might attend a yard sale, and they made their presence known in full force that day.
First, there were the two women, whom Jess and I referred to as "the women." I'm not sure where the women were from, but I would have to guess somewhere in the Caribbean, given their accents. What made these two women stand out was their complete case of sticker shock after they learned the outrageous prices Jess was charging. Some of the sale items were priced at SEVERAL DOLLARS! One of the women asked how much the toaster I had brought was, and Jess said five dollars. (I hadn't considered how much to charge for the toaster, since it had only been used a few times, but I never removed the crumbs. Or the blood.) The woman rolled her eyes in disgust and began to barter. Easily aggravated, Jess whipped out her switchblade and said, "Listen, bitches: I think it's time for you to leave."
Later, a very nice homeless woman stopped by and bought, among other items, two VHS tapes of HBO’s Sex and the City. I'm still wondering whether or not she has a VCR. She did have a very nice pair of fuzzy leopard-print slippers.
But much to my surprise, even more than the crazies, was the fact that Jess was selling one of her most prized possessions: a Buck Rogers space helmet, based on the hit NBC 1979 to 1981 series Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. It's an extra-large space helmet, able to contain the most massive of heads, and equipped with several exciting features, including a "Buck Rogers" label across the brim of the helmet that Jess modified herself to say, "Fuck Rogers." Now you too can pretend to be...Fuck...Rodgers...on his latest adventure to thwart the sinister plans of Princess Ardala or whomever…Jess likes to wear the helmet in public and announce, "Hello everyone. It's me, Fuck Rodgers."
Job interviews suck. I was interviewed once for a position at a public library, and the interviewer asked me several questions about censorship. She asked me about my time as a bookseller for a national bookseller chain (the one that begins with the letter "B"), and how that company would handle the sale of an "offensive" book. I informed her that the company only "regulated" the sale of one and only one book, The Anarchist's Cookbook, which was sold only by special order, and customers needed to prove they were at least 18 years old at time of order and again at time of purchase. All other titles were stocked openly on the shelves.
She then asked me about a specific title, Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. I said that Tropic of Cancer was not The Anarchist's Cookbook, and therefore was stocked openly on the shelves. Oddly enough, she asked me what would happen if someone who couldn't prove his age wanted to by a copy of Tropic of Cancer, and I said that, yet again, the sale of Tropic of Cancer was not regulated, and that anyone could buy the book.
Next, she created a scenario in which someone purchased a copy of Tropic of Cancer, was offended by its content, and returned to the store to complain. I said that in my three years of working in a bookstore, not once did a customer complain to me about the content of a book, and that most people who buy an "offensive book" never actually read it. She asked me why, and I said, "I don't know for sure, but most 'offensive books' are challenging literature, and therefore, not easy to read." Seriously, if you were looking for a book to masturbate to, you'd buy of a volume of Letters to the Penthouse Forum, not Tropic of Cancer. Besides using the requisite terms "fuck" and "cunt," Mr. Miller uses big words and complex concepts, which are kryptonite to the casual reader. For example, where else could you read about a man discussing Dostoevsky with a woman as he inserts live toads into her anus (metaphorically speaking)?
Like most job interviews, the topic of conversation next turned to pornography. The interviewer asked me if we sold "porno," and the conversation went on like this:
"The store I worked in sold what corporate preferred to call 'men's sophisticate' magazines, like Playboy, Penthouse, and Hustler."
"Would you sell a copy to a minor?"
"No, selling a men's sophisticate magazine to a minor is against corporate policy and the law."
"To whom would you sell a copy?"
"Anyone at least 18 years old at time of purchase."
"How would you know if they were 18 years old?"
"I would request to see proper identification."
"What constitutes proper identification?"
"Any government-issued ID, like a driver's license."
"What if they didn't have any ID?"
"I wouldn't allow them to purchase the magazine."
"Why not?"
"If there were any question as to whether or not the customer was of age and if that same customer couldn't produce valid, government-issued ID, I wouldn't allow them to purchase the magazine because it would be against the law. The company and I would be in big trouble."
She was convinced that it was my personal beliefs that would not allow this imaginary minor to purchase Playboy, rather than the frigging law. I later learned from someone on the inside, if you know what I mean, that this woman was obsessed with pornography, and didn't want anyone on staff cramping her style, or something. Whatever, dork. Personally, I don't give a damn who "reads" Playboy (for literary reviews, political commentary, and tits), but it was against corporate policy and, more importantly, the law (you fucktard), to sell anything of that ilk to children. Apparently, I had entered the Bizarro World, because to get a job I had to prove that I really enjoyed top-notch porn. Though I did want to smack her across the face with a big iron dildo.
Last year, at about this time on ABC's All My Children, Dr. Gregory Madden, the world-renowned fertility expert, was still alive, and was discovered to have been operating a tropical-island resort inhabited by his specially selected patients. Yes, it was an island with a population consisting entirely of pregnant women. Unbeknownst to them, these women were producing children for Dr. Madden's waiting list of ideal parents—ideal according to his own twisted standards. This story arc was reminiscent of Aldous Huxley's 1932 novel, Brave New World, only stupid and not well written.
Dixie Martin, former wife of Tad Martin, had been a patient of Dr. Madden's after she had had a car accident somewhere in the Alps. Yes, those Alps. Dr. Madden told Dixie that she would not survive her injuries and that she should put her child up for adoption. Reluctantly, Dixie agreed.
But Dixie survived, and returned to Pine Valley, in search of Dr. Madden, who had, for some reason (plot convenience?), established a practice in Pine Valley. Dr. Madden really gets around. Apparently, he had some sort of international medical license, yet seems to prefer establishing medical practices in Swiss mountain villages and mundane Pennsylvanian suburbs. His preference for Pine Valley was due to his decades-long obsession with its homegrown international superstar (who also prefers living in mundane Pennsylvanian suburbs) Erica Kane.
Through the magic of flashbacks, Erica remembered that Dr. Madden is the same doctor who had performed her landmark abortion in 1973. Of course, last year, it was revealed that Dr. Madden had in fact removed the fetus and implanted it into his own wife, which explained the origins of Josh Madden, son of Erica and Dr. Jeff Martin (Tad's brother and Erica's first husband, who had returned last year to reclaim his extremely annoying 34-year-old baby).
After Dixie had finally located the not-so-clandestine Dr. Madden, she demanded from him the location of her missing daughter. Madden refused to answer due to client confidentiality. Not one to back down, Dixie recruited the assistance of local tough guy and casino kingpin, Zack "Attack" Slater. Eventually, through their combined efforts, Dixie and Zack found their way to Dr. Madden's tropical island resort, off the coast of...New Jersey? Yes, apparently so. And it was inhabited entirely by pregnant women (the tropical island resort, not New Jersey), who, when questioned by Dixie, have nothing but praise for the good doctor.
Before they left the island, Dixie and Zack found a video recording of Erica's abortion, and learned the secret connecting Dr. Madden, Josh, and Erica. Eventually, Tad Martin, who had fathered Dixie's baby, decided he had enough circumstantial evidence to kidnap and torture Dr. Madden. What? Yes, Tad drugged Madden and then buried him alive inside a coffin, in the park where two-thirds of the show's "outdoor" scenes are filmed. But Madden would not give into Tad's demands and, thanks to a rare Pennsylvanian earthquake, Madden died. Oops.
Anyway, my question is this: what the hell happened to the Island of Pregnant Women?
Recently, the Boston Globe's website, boston.com, posted a topic on its message boards entitled, "Favorite Friendly's memory?" I of course chose the hepatitis outbreak in Arlington, Massachusetts.
Back in the late spring of 2004, I moved to Somerville—Union Square, to be specific. A friend of mine—who shall remain nameless (other than the moniker "friend")—helped me move in the final few items. Afterward, we decided to get something for supper, and down the street from her apartment was a Friendly’s. Why Friendly's? We were tired, and Friendly's was fast and cheap, just like your momma—SNAP! A few days later, during my commute to work, I heard a report on the radio stating that an employee at the Friendly's in Arlington had been diagnosed with hepatitis! And anyone who had eaten at that particular Friendly's was in danger of contracting the disease! Not much of a Happy Ending™, aye? Great.
After I arrived at work, I called my doctor in a mild panic and asked him if had the vaccine, to which he replied, "Where do you think we live? In Congo? I don't have that stuff. Go to the hospital. Bitch." He then kindly informed me that on the very next day a hospital in Arlington would be giving away free vaccines, among other fabulous prizes, to anyone who had eaten at the Arlington Friendly's. Hooray. I called "friend," and we made plans to go to the hospital. The next day, as we arrived at the hospital, we saw something that caught us off guard: a line of more than 4,000 people. I couldn't believe that all these people had eaten at that one Friendly's within the past week; I soon considered that these were all the people who had ever eaten at any Friendly's.
After creatively parking my car on a grassy incline in a manner that defied the known laws of physics, "friend" and I got in line behind the world's most horrible human being (I think it was his official title). This young man couldn't have been more than 21 years old. He had a wife, somehow, and three—yes, three—not-so-adorable "children." He was the last person I would have chosen to disseminate DNA to future generations. He had a tiny, rodent-like head and a Paul Snider (of Star ’80 fame) moustache. I deemed him Rat Boy.
Four hours later, literally, after our section of the line had finally entered the hospital, a nurse was dividing the line in two: one for people with children on hand, and one for people without. The nurse came up to "friend" and me, and told us to get into the childless line, which immediately set off Rat Boy: I had only taken one step forward when he stuck his puny arm in front of me and said, "You're not going in front of me!" Rat Boy was under the impression that "friend" and I were receiving some sort of special treatment. Why is that? Why do the ignorant always think everyone is getting "special treatment" but them? For fuck's sake, I had eaten supper at a goddamn Friendly's! Hadn’t I been standing in the same goddamn line behind you? Prick.
Anyway, Rat Boy was about five foot seven and weighed almost 100 pounds, if you included his belt buckle, so I considered taking his tiny head and ramming it into the concrete wall. But the nurse saw this lame confrontation and repeated her instructions again, directly into Ray Boy’s stupid pointy face. After that, "friend" and I were inoculated and on our way out within five minutes.
So, die Friendly's die, for making me stand in that Bataan Death March-like line with Rat Boy, his mate, and their litter. I hope Rat Boy caught hepatitis.
According to someone, Destroy All Monsters (Japan, 1968) is the last “great” Godzilla film produced by Toho Studios. The next film in the series, Godzilla's Revenge, began the much-lamented children-oriented Godzilla films of the 1970s. Boo. Hoo.
Recently, I purchased the DVD of Destroy All Monsters. Originally, I had watched it on WLVI-TV 56’s Creature Double Feature sometime in the early 1980s, and was curious to know what I thought of the film now.
First, the film’s title: it’s deceiving. Destroy All Monsters boasts a cast of eleven monsters, but only five or so have anything more than a cameo appearance. I call bullshit.
Second, the story takes place in the year 1999, where voyages to the moon occur on the hour, but enormous rotary phones are still in use. Huh?
But wait, it gets better: Members of the United Nations Science Committee have established a research facility on the moon. The narrator doesn’t tell us what the UNSC is studying on the moon, but he does say that the UNSC has collected all the earth’s monsters and put them on an island known as Monsterland. What a coincidence. (In the Godzilla films of 1970s, the island is known as Monster Island.) Using a series of sprays, mirrors, and invisible fencing, the UNSC keeps the monsters contained and docile on Monsterland. Thank goodness. As the narrator introduces us to the film’s true stars, i.e., grown men in cheap rubber suits, Rodan swoops into the ocean and captures a dolphin. Great. Also on Monsterland, the UNSC has established an underground research facility, from which they control and study the monsters. Your tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen.
Yes, indeed. I must thank Dr. Joshua "The Fetus" Madden, the sometimes doctor / television executive producer / advertising executive / non-descript business honcho, for that immortal line. Apparently, a serial killer has come to Pine Valley, Pennsylvania and is, as the unibrowed fetus said, killing the women of Fusion, the cosmetics corporate giant. The first two victims were Simone Torres, the local comic foil, and Erin Lavery, the most likeable of the Laverys. Then again, even if Erin Lavery "kicked a puppy through a fan," she’d still be the most likeable of the Laverys. Yes, the Brothers Lavery, Ryan and Jonathan, are that annoying.
Where the Hell is Pine Valley?
I’ve been watching ABC’s All My Children for more than two years, and the one question I keep asking is "Where the hell in Pennsylvania is Pine Valley supposed to be?" The show often features scenes at a local, rather Hawaiian-looking beach, complete with palm trees. Yes, indeed, palm trees. Pennsylvania’s largest bodies of water are Lake Erie in the northwest, and the Delaware River in the southeast, which is hardly fodder for exotic beachfront property. If Pine Valley is in the southeast, as I believe it is, how come, while on this beach, characters never seem to realize that they’re looking at New Jersey?
Back in the halcyon days of November 1998, my friend Pete found out that America's Sweetheart, Emmanuel "Webster" Lewis, would be performing at the Andover Bar & Grill, a local comedy club of sorts located in, of all places, Andover, Massachusetts.
Soon afterward, Pete and I drove to the club to purchase tickets. We rode in the same car in an attempt to save gas. It worked. My car remained in the driveway, and, as a result, used no gas during the trip. I was not a member of the "Pentucket Regional High School Earth People" for nothing. (That was a real after-school club of which I was a real member.)
As Pete was driving us to the club, I began to wonder what the hell Emmanuel "Webster" Lewis would do on stage. Was stand-up comedy a new venture for him? Would he work blue? Would he even be able to climb onto the stage?
As we entered the lobby, which we did after parking the car--I don't want you to assume that we drove Pete's car into the lobby--we learned from a poster that TV's Skippy from Family Ties would also be performing that same night. What are the chances of one club booking such star power on the same night? This would be a 1980s-TV wet dream.
We bought the tickets without incident, for once, and then we waited, and waited, and waited for that Saturday to come.
That Saturday
We arrived at the club early, along with our friend Christos. Christos even brought along his camera to document our evening.
One thing I noticed, as we took our seats, was the club itself: it was bizarre. The event room looked like the basement of your average urban bingo hall. I was surprised the club owners had sprung for wallpaper (featuring shiny, metallic pineapples). I was expecting wood paneling and maybe a Pong entertainment system.
Showtime
The opening act was an actual stand-up comedian whose name to this day I forget--probably because he blew, but not because he needed the money. It wasn't like that. He blew because he was a terrible comedian. Really. Ugh.
Skippy took the stage without much fanfare, and he was actually sort of okay as a comedian. He was on stage for about an hour and a half, so he earned his money that night. Midway through his act, he had the Skippy Tonight Show: take a guess who his first and only guest was? No. Try again. No. Again. No, goddamn it! It was Emmanuel Lewis!
Emmanuel came on stage, as short as ever, and performed ten minutes of "witty banter" with the Skipster, which included what he'd been up to since the cancellation of Webster.
Answer: Not much. He mentioned being a big recording star in, surprise, Japan. (Christos claimed that the Japanese used Mr. Lewis as a good luck charm.) He also mentioned recently earning a black belt in karate. Yes, indeed. Emmanuel also told some really odd and disturbing jokes about women's breasts. The jokes were disturbing because the jokes weren't funny, and because he still looked and sounded six years old, even though he was pushing thirty. After about ten minutes, he said goodbye and bolted from the stage. That was it. Ten frigging minutes. He didn't even break dance.
Epilogue
After the show, Christos (the Greek) broke into Skippy's dressing room, and got a picture of him shirtless and one of him chasing Christos out of the dressing room. I must scan those for you, if Christos hasn't sold them for ransom.
Years later (two?), we also saw Dustin "Screech" Diamond, performing stand-up at the same club. I know what you're thinking, "WHERE IS THIS FABULOUS CLUB?" Please! You have no need to shout! Well, it was in Andover, Massachusetts, but the club has since closed and is now a comedy-less restaurant. Oh yes, before I forget--Screech was terrible, but this was before he made homemade porno.
