So once again my dear four readers (two of which I know don’t really follow this blog that frequently and so if either of you are reading this now, disregard the following apology cuz you wouldn’t have noticed any prolonged absences anyway so I don’t feel a great need to plead forgiveness from either of you since both of you refuse to support my blogging endeavors with more regularity), I must needs make preemptive apologies since I shall be traveling out of town and will not be posting for a little while. Again.
At least this time my absence will be due to holidaying it up out in the winter wonderland and not just because I’m lazy or being forced to do actual work to pay the man. (I believe my New Year resolution will be to find out who the man is and then write him a taunting note.)
And since this will indeed my last post of 2008 I really should be taking advantage and squeezing out one more Bob Balaban tribute for maybe someone like Elsa Lanchester who is one of my all time fave actresses. In what movie has she not been spectacular?
As Charles Laughton’s nurse in Witness for the Prosecution, she manages to exude exasperation without being annoying; and in doing so, wound up taking what could have been an annoying character and transforming it into Dr. Watson to Laughton’s Sherlock Holmes.
During Lanchester’s even briefer turn as Katie Nanna in Mary Poppins, she is beyond hilarious as she takes off the “vote for women” sash, totally conveying the internal feeling of bile rising up her esophagus after being accosted by it and Glynis Johns.
But in choosing to emulate swans spitting and hissing for her portrayal as the Bride of Frankenstein, Lanchester is nothing short of genius. I love love love her!
But since I’m not going to write all that, I’m just going to combine my all-purpose happy holiday message with my all-time fave show:
AND HAVE A HAPPY AND SAFE NEW YEAR'S TO YOU AND YOURS!!!!!!!
Other than “Happy Birthday,” I have absolutely no clue what these lyrics mean but I always loved this video, being a fan of early MTV. This of course was back in the days before that channel changed its format to the one it currently has – contrived reality show central, starring every has-been or never-was, displaying barely-dressed people, spouting out mostly bleep-censored stupidities. No, surprisingly enough, early MTV didn’t have any reality shows. Back in the baby MTV days, the channel’s lineup consisted solely of…you know…music videos. That would probably account for the reason MTV is an acronym for “Music Television”.
Also surprisingly, the videos they showed back then weren’t carbon copies of each other. Even more shocking, some of them didn’t even involve youthful sexual exploitation! Yeah a lot of those vids may have been bizarre and pointless (The Look of Love and Rock Me Tonight are good examples off the top of my head - though now I'm just disturbed after seeing Billy Squier crawl across the floor) but still, a lot of them managed to be pretty cool without scantily clad nubile girls gyrating during their lip-syncing. I mean, obviously there was some of that back then too, but those videos that did utilize young bimbos were usually starring older men rockers (i.e. Rod Stewart, ZZ Top, Robert Palmer and every single hair metal band) who, if they weren’t famous, would most likely never have had said bimbettes fawning all over them. Plus, if you were a video director back then, how else were you going to get the always highly coveted 18-to-34-year-old male demographic to watch three scraggily-bearded and generally dusty-looking old fogies? Naturally you’d let the guys make just a few key appearances and then hire the bimbettes to do the rest.
And let’s face it; the bimbettes had to have known why they were hired. They knew they had no other reason to be in the entertainment industry other than to be exploited for their bodies. If not for those videos, those scantily clad chicks would have just had to get jobs at Hooters that much sooner. But at least there was no question of what purpose those girls were meant to serve. They were fooling themselves the way that today’s young women singers do.
Today’s women singers dress far more provocatively and gyrate infinitely more suggestively than the gals in "Simply Irresistible" ever dreamed; yet seem to be under the impression that because their videos are on “their terms,” they are calling the shots. Somehow through the years, an incredibly skewed concept emerged that has completely deluded these women into thinking that as long as they aren’t being pushed into sexual exploitation, self-sexual exploitation is a powerful expression of feminism. And what’s really sad is that by continuing this tradition, these young women are doing nothing but perpetuating their objectification. I guarantee that the amount of young girls who actually feel empowered by watching Miley Cyrus is far outweighed by creepy old men in trench coats who feel something entirely different when watching Miley.
Although many came before, Madonna is almost always credited as the woman having started this trend. If that’s true, then in examining the 20 years of MTV since she came on the scene, one can see Madonna really did an incredible disservice to so many women, and her continued impact is truly staggering. There is nothing wrong with being sexy but being sexualized is really not the same thing, and by trying to suggest it is acceptable provided the person being sexualized is “in charge” of it doesn’t change a thing. It’s like those African American comedians who use that word in a joke and then become appalled when a white person, with no other intention other than finding the joke humorous and wanting to pass it on, restates the word. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy did the exact same thing. Gay people spent a generation attempting to eradicate that word and with one show it was brought back to the acceptable forefront. You simply can’t have it both ways. If a given word is generally deemed unacceptable to one, why would it be ok for another? If a behavior is regarded as unacceptable to many, why would one person’s ownership of that behavior be looked on any differently? At least Madonna’s gotten her somewhat just desert of late, looking and behaving nothing more than a decrepit joke. For someone who has spent a lifetime carving out a career of artifice, this has got to be a major tragedy.
But I don't care about Madonna and since I don't watch MTV anymore, I could care less about any of the people appearing on that channel. But I still remember the olden golden MTV days fondly and I still love the above Altered Images video. More importantly, I dedicate it to my lovely sister-in-law, Esmerelda, to whom I wish a very special Happy Birthday and Incredibly Splendiferous Year! Thanks for your constant support and making my brother an even better man than he already was!!!!
I’m going to attempt a quick-ish post today, but considering I made the same attempt when I blogged about the Olympics the other day, I’m not feeling optimistic about the possibility. But I felt the need to post something because I have to go out of town for a few days, so I know I won’t be writing for a bit, and I didn’t do a Bob Balaban’s Unsung Heroes of Movies tribute this past week, and I feel like I should say something about the Golden Globes nominations.
Here goes: I have neither seen nor heard of 98% of the nominees.
Oh well, quick-ish attempt didn’t work. So sad I can’t be that succinct. And since I can’t be, I should take this opportunity to go ahead and showcase one of those Balaban Heroes. I should just throw out a name like Melinda Dillon, who was unbelievably sensational as the beleaguered mother in Close Encounters and utterly haunting as Paul Newman’s troubled and ill-fated friend in Absence of Malice (both movies coincidentally also co-starring Balaban himself).
But like all the best of the Bunch O' Bob Balaban Breed O' Brilliant Background Beguilers gang, she is one of those brilliant supporting actors who, although her name is not immediately recognizable, you totally know who she is. And to prove my point, if you turned on your TV in the past few weeks, you would have no doubt seen her as the weary yet somehow ever-resilient mother in the annual, seemingly constant rebroadcast of A Christmas Story. Yep, that’s her in the gray sweater, knocking over the “frah-gee-leh” leg lamp statue thing. And yeah, you’re right; she’s outstanding.
But no, I’m not going to talk about her. While I should be Balaban blogging, this posting is related to the Golden Globes I just mentioned, despite my lack of familiarity of today’s nominees. Well not so much all of the nominees, just specifically about the big deal everyone’s making about Heath Ledger’s posthumous nomination in not only the Globes but for all the upcoming noms he's going to be collecting in this forthcoming awards season.
Supposedly it’s a foregone conclusion that Heath is going to win everything. Fine, whatever. Maybe he was indeed fantastic in Batman; I don’t know, I didn’t see the film. It’s not that I have a Batman problem (although after the first Nolan-helmed one came out, I had a coincidental, bizarre and terrifyingly traumatic series of events involving real bats – but that’s a blog for another time). And it’s not that I think Heath was a bad actor. I actually think he had a lot of potential, but seriously, I think his sad and untimely death has given him an aura of having tragic untapped brilliance that is simply not warranted. I just don’t think he was as phenomenal as everyone makes him out to have been.
No doubt Ledger was a hard-worker and in the latter portion of his career he started making smarter and riskier choices. But really, even in his (maybe a total of 4) better choices, I honestly don’t feel his performances would have stood the test of time. Now, however, those performances will undoubtedly be elevated due to his premature death. When people go back and look at something like his completely overrated performance in Brokeback Mountain (an equally overrated and incredibly boring film that clearly got the accolades it did solely for being one of the first films to tackle the subject matter – again for another blog), they’re going to look at Heath with a more revered attitude and think solemnly of what might have been.
In a lot of ways, Heath reminds me of James Dean. Seriously, go back to Dean’s three films. He wasn’t nearly as good as his other method-era comrades Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Montgomery Clift or my fave Sal Mineo – who incidentally, is the only real reason Rebel Without a Cause is still watchable.
Of Dean's other two films, Giant, despite its undue critical acclaim, is excruciatingly long and downright laughable in many parts. Dean’s only really good movie is East of Eden; but again, it is not his performance that is compelling but the staggering performances from Jo Van Fleet and Julie Harris that make this movie worthwhile. Yet Dean’s early shuffling (or in his case, driving super-fast) off this mortal coil has given him an iconic status that not only completely overshadows their fine jobs, but also undeservedly lifts him into the pantheon of all-time movie greats.
Unfortunately should he win an Oscar for his last completed performance, I suspect Heath Ledger will likewise be given directions to said pantheon. Yeah, this may sound mean of me, but ask yourself if you sincerely believe Heath was better than any of the above actors – especially like Balaban and Dillon, whose stellar careers are filled with an abundance of memorable portrayals deserving far more praise than that reserved for a joker.
*Just for your edification, they gave Zadora one for Butterfly, Stone for Casino and Madonna for Evita. Yep, they really did.
I was going to initially write, “Whatever happened to Paul Williams” but when I had a quick glance over at the IMDb I noticed that the man has never really been out of work; he’s just not as ubiquitous as he once was.
Back in the 70s you couldn’t turn on the radio, go to a movie, catch an awards telecast or see a TV show that didn’t have some direct or indirect involvement from ole Paulie – the diminutive, bespectacled cutie who looked an awful lot like he might be Frodo’s distant hippie cousin. Or a baby pug. Regardless of his appearance, Paul Williams either co-starred in or co-wrote the music for everything in the 70s and wound up winning an Oscar, a couple Golden Globes and couple Grammys in the process.
As an actor he was in Smokey & the Bandit, Battle for the Planet of the Apes and my personal favorite, Phantom of the Paradise.
Ok, I said he co-starred in everything; I didn’t say they were necessarily good things. I admit to liking a lot of not-good things. Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park for example. (Surprisingly not a sequel to the Williams flick but infinitely more embarrassing for Messrs Simmons, Stanley, Criss & Frehley.)
On TV, again despite the quality of material, Paul Williams was even more prolific. He appeared on Love Boat, Fantasy Island, even The Hardy Boys - the last on which he was saddled with an incredibly unfortunate name, “Allison Troy.” (Jealous of his fame were you, Hardy Writer Punks?)
But no doubt Paul Williams’ greatest contribution was music. He was the songwriter and/or co-songwriter behind:
“An Old Fashioned Love Song” – that very cool Three Dog Night tune, notable for its haunting opening and extremely awesome use of kazoo at the end, which is still frequently played on classic rock radio. (Personally I prefer Williams’ own recording of this one. I can’t quite figure out what it is that makes his voice so incredibly distinctive but it’s probably something to do with the ever-present quiver or high-ish pitch. It’s like he’s a real-life Muppet but in the most fabulous way. Maybe that’s what made him such a good guest on their show.)
“We’ve Only Just Begun” – that definitively schmaltzy and yet beguiling tune by The Carpenters, which has also managed to stay on the air waves lo these many years.
“Evergreen” – that Barbra Streisand theme song to A Star is Born (he shared his Oscar win on this with Babs).
The theme song to The Love Boat – Come on, don’t roll your eyes. It’s exciting and new!
The entire score from the aforementioned Phantom of the Paradise.
The entire score from the beyond brilliant Bugsy Malone (I admit it, I own the soundtrack!)
The entire score from The Muppet Movie.
“Rainbow Connection,” people!! Why are there so many songs about rainbows; but more importantly why did this song not win the Oscar over a song from Norma Rae which no one remembers???? And if for some reason someone is reading this and thinking hey, I know that Norma Rae song, then either you’re lying or you and the Oscar recipient of that song are the only ones who do in fact remember.
In any event, Paul Williams totally rocked and I am just sending out some well-deserved props to him. Dang, I just totally got down with my bad self!!
*Yeah, this refers to Hee Haw and yeah, Paul made an appearance on the show. But since I couldn't find a clip of Paulie singing this song, I decided to leave you with a clip of a ton of other people, including most notably, inexplicably and terrifyingly, Ernest Borgnine at 2:08.
So I was perusing the IMDb (Internet Movie Database) earlier today, as I am oft to do, because I am nearly always trying to remember some actor's name, who appeared in some obscure movie, that I vaguely remember seeing on cable 97 years ago; because that's just the kind of superficial info I am mostly interested in seeking out, because that's just the kind of gal I am. The IMDb is a my knight in shining armor in times like these.
The IMDb is also kind enough to keep me abreast of the most vital entertainment news of the day which I have to assume is accurate info seeing as how they get their breaking entertainment content from WENN (World Entertainment News Network) - a fairly respectable news wire service that also services the likes of Sony, Blockbuster and Bloomberg. Anyway, today (after I found out Miles Chapin was the actor who played Joel in French Postcards) I noticed a funny-looking headline in the trusty IMDb news section:
I couldn't help but be amused by the use of alliteration there. As I have mentioned many times before, I am a fan of anything alliterative. (Ho ho see what I did there?!) Usually, however, when I opt to employ this tactic, it is in context with something more or less fluffy in content. And while certainly infinitely greater writers than me have used this device in countless great literary works, I don't think I would be entirely wrong in suggesting that nowadays alliteration utilization is limited to children's books, songs and ad campaigns. Generally if it's used in any other literary medium, it's almost always to preface a silly or nonsensical story. (Dang, once I get started it's hard to stop.)
In any case, while I admit the accompanying Elisha Cuthbert story is absurd, it hardly warrants a headline that essentially says the author thinks this story is idiotic. I mean, yeah, I think it IS idiotic but I'm also thinking the people actually involved in the story don't think so; and perhaps they wouldn't appreciate a well-known and respected news agency mocking their situation by minimizing it with a snappy headline.
It seems that Ms. Cuthbert (I have no clue who this person is) previously had a relationship with some hockey player (also someone I've never heard of). Although Cuthbert is no longer with that particular hockey player, she obviously digs the sport because she is currently in a relationship with another hockey player. With me so far? Apparently Hockey Player 1 said of Hockey Player 2 that Hockey Player 2 was dating his (Hockey Player 1) "sloppy seconds."
As a result of this unseemly verbal b*tchslap, Hockey Player 1 has now been suspended. Apparently his comments offended Mr. Hockey Commissioner's delicate sensibilities; so Mr. Hockey Commissioner decided to take advantage of his commissioningness by taking decisive action. The Commish, evidently an Emily Post fan, stated, "Playing in the National Hockey League is a privilege, requiring a high standard of personal behaviour. Mr. Avery forfeits that privilege for six games."
I don't get it. Isn't hockey like THE sport for crass behavior - verbal and otherwise? I mean, apart from the "Do You Believe in Miracles" team I briefly mentioned in my last bloggy thing, I thought the main idea of hockey was to bash guys into walls and bad mouth each other's sisters. I know what I'm talking about. I've seen Slap Shot more than once. (Small moment of silence for the great Paul Newman.) And I'm willing to bet Elisha, seeing as how she seems to be a hockey groupie of sorts, has seen Slap Shot a few times as well. So yeah, she doesn't deserve to be referred to in that manner, but she can hardly be that surprised. In fact, if you think about it, she dated Hockey Player 1 for a while. She had to know he was a jerk.
As far as Hockey Player 2 is concerned, he's also got to be used to this sort of thing since hockey is the career path he chose, and obnoxious behavior is the cornerstone of the hockey industry. Again, I know this because Slap Shot told me so and I trust Michael Ontkean. (He was the naked one.)
Having said all that, it still doesn't make Hockey Player 1 a nice guy and obviously, considering all the hoopla his comments caused, a lot of people were hurt by this situation. And so, my point here is although this story is goofy in a lot of ways, all the players involved deserve more than:
And that's not even addressing the issue that at first glance, one could easily assume it was Cuthbert herself who made some sort of crazy comment. One could even think Cuthbert herself is crazy. And maybe in her craziness she made a comment that could have been construed as crazy which somehow culminated in Avery's suspension. Maybe Cuthbert was dreadfully disparaging and degrading. Maybe not, but this is how rumors get started, you know.
Alliteration has to be used more responsibly, WENN people! In some extreme cases it can lead to libel on some little-seen blog.
I wasn’t planning on writing at all this week due to the lingering food hangover I have from my participation in the annual glutton-fest of last week – otherwise known as Thanksgiving. But then I read that Michael Phelps was going to be the Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year and a flood of this past summer’s Olympic memories came…well…flooding back to me. Unfortunately most of them not good. Naturally I thought I should relay them here. (Racing pun oh so cleverly intended.)
Now please do not mistake me. Be it known I am a huge Olympics fan and I have a plethora of positive Wide World of Sports-type memories. In fact, that show (now sadly defunct) had a huge impact on me when Nadia Comaneci won gold in ‘76. Not that I am old enough to remember that particular Olympiad...at least distinctly…SHUT UP ANYONE WHO KNOWS ME!
Anyway, the folks over at Wide World of Sports were actually the ones who commandeered The Young and the Restless theme song changing it to “Nadia’s Theme,” thereby creating a simultaneous two-pronged effect – cementing Nadia as a one-named icon, and influencing thousands of would-be pianists to learn those first eight melancholy notes. In addition to my own failed musical aspirations, and naturally like a million other little girls at the time, I likewise flirted with the idea of being a gymnast. Well, for one day really. My sister Goo* was always better at that kind of stuff. You know, the being active kind of stuff.
Earlier that year when Dorothy Hamill won her gold medal, my big sister Dre accompanied me when I went out and got the requisite Hamill haircut, much to my mother’s chagrin. If I’m not mistaken, my mom still has that long, chopped-off ponytail of hair stashed away somewhere. Alas, this piece of history is a source of continuing conflict between Goo and myself because she is utterly convinced it was she who had the Hamill wedge; but I put it to you, gentle four readers, she must have banged her head doing one too many backbends into a handstand. The Hamill hairdo – twas mine.
Despite occasional familial strife it caused, the Olympics always had a magical way of pulling everyone together. Growing up, the games were always a source of camaraderie and amazing national pride. During the Olympics we were all able to believe in miracles. And don’t get me started with the ‘84 games in L.A. Those were some seriously golden times. I remember one evening Joan Rivers talking about them when she was hosting The Tonight Show. (This of course was back in the days when she still had a modicum of sense of humor, her original flesh and was still a welcome guest of Johnny Carson’s.) At one point during her monologue, Rivers stopped attempting anything funny, became sincere and said something along the lines that being an American during the those weeks of Olympics was one of the most gratifying and patriotic times of her life, wherein everyone around her pulled together for a common goal. The games epitomized "brotherly love."
Indeed, we were all proud of our Olympic representatives. There was nothing else on TV at the time that could compete with the ‘84 Olympics. It was like Seinfeld only without the anticlimactic finale. Because unlike Seinfeld (where they really should have ended it with that beyond brilliant backwards episode – did I mention I am a fan of alliteration?), the ‘84 Olympics were anything but anticlimactic – from beginning to the end.
This past summer I saw a lot of various internet chat, blogs, articles, etc. suggesting the Beijing Olympics had the best opening ceremony in history. I’m sorry; while it was indeed impressive seeing thousands of performers break into synchronized marching and drumming, it wasn’t anything particularly new or imaginative. I mean, didn’t we already see a bunch of Filipino prisoners manage to do the same sort of thing last year?
That 4 1/2 minute video was about 4 hours shorter than the opening ceremony with the added bonus that we didn’t have to contend with the moronic ramblings of Bob Costas. And quite frankly I thought the guys in orange were more impressive because they had to do all of their boogying whilst not breaking into hysterics at the sight of that balding guy skipping around doing his Ola Ray impersonation. (Ola was the gal in the original Thriller video who pretended to have the hots for Michael Jackson, which obviously confused her so much that she ended up doing a sort of lackluster version of John Cleese’s silly walk.)
Needless to say, when I read all that online best ceremony stuff, I immediately remembered the ‘84 games. Sure some of the things may now seem dated but at the time they were incredibly inventive - especially compared to Beijing. Yeah, this year it was kinda cool when Li Ning ran around the top of Beijing National stadium but he was attached to a harness. Back in ‘84, Bill Suitor didn’t have no stinkin’ harness. Suitor flew into the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum on a jet pack!
And yeah, Ning’s actual lighting of the cauldron was pretty spectacular but was it more so than when Cathy Freeman, a symbol of Australian Aboriginal unity, did so in Sydney 2000, standing under a blaze of fire, surrounded by water? Was it more astounding than Atlanta ‘96, when Muhammad Ali, in defiance of the Parkinson's that robbed him of his physical grace, stood gracefully and triumphantly in front of an overawed and emotional crowd who cheered him on as he ignited the self-propelling flame which exploded into the cauldron?
Those unforgettable moments notwithstanding, again the precedent was set in ‘84. Rafer Johnson, 1960 decathlon winner and first African American to carry the flag in any opening ceremony at those games, ran up ninety-nine steps to reach up and light a wick that sent flames shooting through the Olympic rings toward its final destination. Before this version, all the previous lightings were dealt with in more or less the same fashion, with the final torchbearer standing alone atop a stage and then just tapping the torch down into to the cauldron like the Blue Fairy zapping Pinocchio on the noggin.
Hell, even the Olympic fanfare that we all know and love (or at least forced to love since it comes on in advertisements about five months before the games even begin) made its first appearance during the ‘84 games. You may think it’s been around forever because it sounds so definitively Olympian but, in fact, it was written by none other than John Williams. Yes, that John Williams. The same guy who composed the music for Star Wars, Jaws, Close Encounters (pretty much any Spielberg or Lucas production), created that Olympic theme specifically for the ‘84 games. Conversely, Beijing’s musical contribution seems to have had less of a lasting effect than William’s, perhaps because any effect it might have had was overshadowed by the fact that they forced a cute little girl to lip-sync to a lesser cute girl’s voice.
Comparing the closing ceremonies, I must say 1984 still comes out on top. Beijing started very promisingly but then swiftly became annoying in length and even slightly nauseating in structure. For example, why were there a bunch of men (inexplicably dressed as those football-playing, Oompa Loompa-wannabes from Dino De Laurentiis' Flash Gordon) continuously moving up and down that weird beehive thing?
But truly nothing was worse than the English contribution to the show.
I apologize to anyone in or around the UK who may happen to be reading this, but come on. That was just a pathetic effort any way you look at it. Maybe Boris Johnson’s attitude pervaded the rest of the English portion’s psyche. He was that portly albino that was handed the Olympic flag since London is hosting the next summer games.
Perhaps it’s just me but, as Mayor of London and as a representative of the United Kingdom and considering he was appearing in front of a global audience for the first time, you would think ole Boris might have treated the event with an ounce more protocol. Nah. Boris clearly eschewed decorum in favor of dishevelment. He must have been in a hurry since he had evidently just rolled out of bed and simply couldn’t be bothered to tuck in his shirt or brush his hair. You just totally expected Boris to break into a very thick cockney accent, turn to Mayor Guo Jinlong and ask, “Oi, you wanna get a pint after?”
I guess you can’t blame the English creative team’s collective attitude after that. But wow, there was just so much there that was just so not good. Fine, I get the double-decker bus is symbolic of England. (I guess the Union flag, Big Ben, Tower of London, London Eye, Stonehenge and even Beefeaters were all too unfamiliar symbols.) But why turn your double-decker into some sort of weird and creepy hairy thing that looked as if it required immediate mulching?
And fine, maybe Leona Lewis is a big star over there but I gotta say, having some girl, unfamiliar to a vast majority of people, gyrating...er...singing next to a rapidly-aging Jimmy Page (about whom, sad to say, a lot of youngsters these days are equally unfamiliar) was perhaps not a memorable artistic move. I’m also not sure why one would think an alleged former Satan-worshiper would be at the top of the list of people to best represent England. Furthermore, I think it was an ill-advised move for Page to represent in the manner he chose. I mean, if you didn’t know who he was and you just saw this old geezer reciprocating a young girl’s gyrations on public transit, you’d run over to him and either instinctively spray him down with mace or kick him in his led zeppelins.
Even David Beckham looked embarrassed to be involved. I think he thought people might not notice he was there if he didn’t bother to exert too much energy into kicking the soccer ball out to the audience, which is why I think he may have managed to send it out a whopping two feet. Perhaps he just couldn't see over the bus' hedges.
Now compare the chia bus of ‘08 to the space ship of ‘84.
Yeah, the 1984 Olympics ended with a SPACE SHIP!
It was so real to so many people that to this day there are sites where you can find people arguing its legitimacy. Funny, I would have thought the appearance of the Captain Eo-lookin' alien at the end bit would have pretty much ended that debate. Yes, that part was admittedly goofy, but the music and majesty of the event was, nonetheless, nothing short of amazing. No question, the closing ceremonies of the ‘84 Summer Olympics soundly trounced those of 2008. More than that, I say the entire 1984 Summer Olympics experience was better that that of ‘08. Perhaps in my next excessively long tirade, I might even manage to compare the actual athletic events!
To those who would say the 2008 games were the best, I say they started off ok but went downhill faster than a giant slalom skier. Forgive me for mixing my Summer and Winter Olympiads. Must be the residual Thanksgiving tryptophan making me more than unusually goofy. Oh and also please forgive my goofy metaphor. I’ve been watching a lot of City Confidential reruns and if you’ve ever seen that show you know goofy metaphor-making is their favorite pastime.
*I'll speak to Goo about coming up with a better blogging alias.
I just opened Yahoo! and was greeted with the usual sort of headlines. Some political, some economical, some sentimental. But something below caught my eye. The following were the actual headlines in Yahoo’s news section this evening. Can anyone tell me which is the example of overt media bias?
As of 10:50 p.m. CST • Obama asks Gates, a Republican, to stay on at Defense Dept. • Fed rolls out massive new programs aimed at loosening credit • Protesters shut Thailand's main airport, demand regime change • Citigroup CEO blames bank's woes on deep dive into real estate • Russian warships arrive in Venezuela for military exercises • A dying boy's last wish inspires generosity across U.S. • Accused drunk driver ends up running over himself with truck • NFL · NCAA Football · NBA · NCAA Hoops · NHL · Soccer
If you said Accused drunk driver ends up running over himself with truck you’d be right!
The article goes on to describe a police chase that ended only after the 21-year old man being chased managed to run himself over with his own vehicle.
“Police said the suspect drove through a ditch and a barbed-wire fence before stopping. He tried to put the truck into park, but it ended up in reverse…the man fell from his open door and both of his legs were run over by the front driver's side tire.”
I simply cannot be more appalled by the sensationalistic desperation and blatant disregard for objective reporting that some of these "news organizations" continually put on display. Will they stop at nothing to boost their readership? Why would they immediately allege this 21 yr-old was inebriated when clearly anyone with an iota of common sense would realize this enterprising youth was merely inspired by Monty Python’s Flying Circus’ “Upper Class Twit of the Year”?
Go to the 2:52 mark if you don’t believe me.
When will someone take a stand and start holding the press accountable for their egregious and irresponsible news-mongering tactics?
Wow, I just realized I lied to you, my dedicated four readers. About a week and a half ago I made a vow to include a “Bunch O' Bob Balaban Breed O' Brilliant Background Beguilers” blog a week. Whew, I always loved alliteration, but I can’t take credit for that title. When my brother-in-law Pablo convinced me to write the original Bowl-a-Rama a few years back, I always knew I wanted a section to celebrate unbelievably talented actors that should be household names but aren’t – starting of course with Bob Balaban himself. That title was another of Pablo’s suggestions.
Sadly since that blog about a week and a half ago, I totally forgot about that promise. It’s not that surprising though. Not that I am someone who frequently breaks promises mind you, but my memory is unreliable to say the very least. It’s like that Torchwood (the Doctor Who adult spin-off for those of you not in the know) episode where they think Owen’s fiancé has early-onset Alzheimer’s but really she’s just been infected by sinister aliens living in her skull, which later explode through her head during a surgery planned to eradicate what was thought to be a tumor but really was just aliens...But I digress...And I creeped myself out in the process...Maybe I should go wash my hair...
Anywhoo, I was just watching one of the two most embarrassingly guilty pleasures anyone could watch when I suddenly remembered that promise. Now when I say guilty pleasures, I don’t mean anything naughty because hey, this is a family site. Nor do I mean to say I was watching a guilty pleasure that most people seem to enjoy - like Grease 2 or any MTV reality show displaying the zany antics of slutty gals trying to lure has-been rock stars to wedlock. No, my guilty pleasures are not just guilty. They are nearly mortifyingly stupid to admit. And yet, admit to them I must, because in indulging this evening, I was reminded of the aforementioned vow due to sublime character actor Tom Skerritt’s participation in...drum roll please...Ice Castles.
Again, for those not in the know (and in this case it’s probably a good thing), Ice Castles is a film about a blinded Olympic ice skater whose climactic moment occurs as she triumphantly skates to Melissa Manchester’s mega-sappy “Through the Eyes of Love” but then stumbles over roses thrown to the ice. She can’t see them cuz, you know, she’s now blind. Robby Benson, playing her boyfriend, walks over to help her up, uttering in the best over-dosing-on-syrupy-sweetness voice he can muster, “We forgot about the flowers.” As he clears the way for her, the scene naturally culminates in thunderous applause when the audience realizes what they have witnessed. The cheese value of this film is astronomical but tragically, I admit that not only will I watch this doofusy film whenever it’s on (and yes, Dre, they still play it periodically) but once in a blue moon, like this evening, I feel compelled to seek it out. Luckily, someone else felt compelled to condense the film into the duration of the Manchester tune. Youtube may be one of the greatest inventions ever or I may be a glutton for punishment. I’m not certain.
I realize anyone reading this blog born post 1979 will most likely never have heard of this film, but at the time of its release, Robby Benson was everyone’s favorite earnest, droopy-eyed, silly-voiced, safe-for-the-kiddies, teen heart-throb. (This is pre-Beauty and the Beast when he suddenly became cool.) Ice Castles co-starred nubile Ice Capade skater-turned-wannabe-starlet Lynn-Holly Johnson, who later became a Bond girl. Apart from Denise Richards (Charlie Sheen’s ex) as nuclear scientist Christmas Jones in The World is Not Enough, Johnson may be the most outright stupid of all the Bond gals with her stunningly whiney performance as an ice skater in For Your Eyes Only. I know! What a crazy co-incidence she’d play a skater again. At least For Your Eyes Only is still a pretty good film. Ice Castles, not so much. But at the very least, it’s got a sturdy performance from the ever-dependable Tom Skerritt, who played Johnson’s ever-supportive father.
Skerritt’s resume is humongous and although he is nearly always compelling, he rarely gets a leading role. He’s one of those guys though, like I mentioned before, as soon as you see his face you’ll remember a billion things he’s done.
As Hawkeye’s other roommate in the movie version of MASH, he more than held his own against Donald Sutherland, Elliot Gould and Robert Duvall.
As Shirley Maclaine’s husband in The Turning Point, he managed to convey both tenderness and tenuousness.
A dozen years after that film he co-starred with Maclaine again, this time playing her gassy nemesis in Steel Magnolias. He stole every scene. In fact, he’s the only thing about that particular schmaltz fest I can watch.
Playing his wife in Magnolias, Sally Field rips up the scenery with her version of “give my daughter the shot” when their daughter, Julia Roberts, kicks the bucket; but as Julia’s father, Skerritt’s far more subtle. He doesn’t have the number of scenes Field has and his character is supposed to be more of a comic relief; yet Skerritt still manages to express worry and grief and anxiety with the smallest of gestures. Just before the doctors hand over the paperwork to “pull the plug” on Julia, the camera briefly focuses on Skerritt. The shell-shocked expression on his face and the listlessness of his body communicate more about loss and helplessness in those few seconds than any other actor or any piece of dialogue in the movie. Why is this man not more famous?
I know right now he periodically turns up on TV’s Brothers and Sisters playing, once again, Sally Field’s husband (albeit dead this time round.) I don’t watch that show, however, despite everyone around me slowly getting hooked on it. One by one. First my mom. Then one of my sisters. Then a friend of mine. Then another one of my sisters. They all try to tell me how great it is but I don’t know. There’s something very weird and pod-peopleish about the way they all seem to be indoctrinated by the show. Can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just hypersensitive to pod-people type behavior because I DO have an alien thing in my skull infecting my memory??? Or perhaps infecting my judgment since I actually made that comment in a public venue...
Ahem...so anyway...yes, Tom Skerritt. Brilliant, consistent, engaging. Visit your local Blockbuster and rent a movie of his today!
Oh but before I sign off today, if you were wondering, my other guilty pleasure is 1981’s Victory starring a paunchy Michael Caine and post-Rocky, pre-Rambo Sylvester Stallone as World War II POWs trying to escape the Nazis during a soccer match.
I can’t help it. The music, which sounds as if it was an amalgam of ripped off musical bits from The Great Escape, The Dirty Dozen and The Magnificent Seven, makes me incredibly giddy nevertheless. And what can I say. The bicycle kick. When Max von Sydow stands up to applaud Pelé after a few slo-mo repeats, I’m standing too.
Go Pelé. You beat those Nazi jerks with your mad fútbol skills. Ole ole ole!!!
I should be celebrating. I now officially have four followers. See, look over at my followers thing there to the right. FOUR! If any of you read my "About This Blog" section, you’ll see that’s what I set out to do. I think that doubles the amount of readers I had for my original Bowl-A-Rama.
However, there will be no celebrations for me on this day, my friends. Mr. T emailed me some rancid information that put a damper on my blogging festivities. But before I go further I should probably clarify that I am not talking about the Mr. T. I mean I’m sure that Mr. T is quite a lovely fellow but it’s not like we hang out or anything.
No, I am talking about a pal of mine who neglected to come up with a cool alias for himself for my blogging purposes and so I had no recourse but to give him one myself.
At any rate, I was sitting there feeling all celebratory about my four readers when I open Mr. T's email suggesting I look at the new Star Trek trailer. Up until this point, while I was excited about the forthcoming Trek, I had successfully managed to avoid reading anything about it, so I wouldn’t have any unfair expectations. Sadly, my curiosity got the better of me. I’m sorry; I am not feeling at all enthusiastic. If you haven’t looked at the trailer and are not planning on it, I guess you should...um...turn your head away? Ooh, look I am totally creating a spoiler alert. I am crazy 21st century!
So if you’re still reading, at first glance at the trailer, I was immediately reminded of Patton Oswalt’s shtick about killing George Lucas with a shovel. (It's just the first few minutes of the video, but don’t click on the link if you are offended by vulgar language...or the concept of once-brilliant directors being beaten to death by gardening implements.)
I thought Patton could have easily been referring to the new Trek because the 2nd trailer seems rife with the stench of Lucas’ now questionable influence. In the first seconds we get to see James T. Kirk as a little kid. And he looks like he’s running away in a car he must have borrowed from Mark Hamill’s Corvette Summer set. And he looks very sad. And then we cut to the teen heartthrob version of Anakin...er...Kirk riding a motorcycle. And he looks very sad. And then later we see a prepubescent Spock, who looks very sad – but mainly bewildered to have to be sporting an old Beatles wig. Next we are treated to an image of an older Spock, in a setting that looks like it was swiped directly from the Revenge of the Sith, comforting someone I am assuming is his human mom, Padmé...no...I’m sure that couldn’t have been her name…
But neither Patton nor Mr. T could have prepared me for the trauma I was about to endure. I decided to rewind the trailer after that last bit because I wanted to double check if I had actually seen Leonard Nimoy as older Spock. It was him! Those fleeting moments of elation were immediately eclipsed by the sudden and horrific realization of the actress playing the wife. IT’S WINONA RYDER!!!!!!
Why is J.J. Abrams doing this to me? To us, people! In the brief seconds she was on the screen, I could see she was doing one of her two emotions – "exhausted". Typical. Argh, I can just hear her saying, in her most annoying Little Women whine, “I could never love anyone more than I love my Spock”. Then I checked the IMDb and she’s got like 72 other movies about to come out. Was she in hiding, just biding her time til the moment was right to creep up on us again? Weren’t we doing ok without her upsetting brand of milquetoastiness?
Ok, I need to stop being pessimistic. At least she doesn’t appear to be doing "jaded" – the one other emotion in which she specializes. Oh goodness, this does not bode well for the future of the franchise. The future is now so uncertain. Thanks a lot, Mr. T. Thanks a lot, pal.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
So this morning I was awoken in a rather brutish manner by my mother who insisted I go listen to some little girl that was singing on Good Morning America. (Yes, I live with my mom – you got a problem with that??!! Don’t make me bust you up, cuz I will…ahem…I may be a little insecure about this issue)…Hmmm…so…where was I?
Oh yes, GMA this morning. Charice Pempengco. Now, was she worth being woken up in this heinous manner? I’m not sure. There’s no question she’s got a lovely voice but she is clearly preoccupied with sounding like everyone else. I’m linking to a vid in her site of her singing Smile, in what may be her bathroom. I’m choosing this one instead of others because while there is nothing particularly compelling about her version it’s still good and at least it’s not mixed up with the trappings of lofty orchestrations that always seem to accompany child singers.
I normally have nothing but disdain for the seemingly plethora of kids with the so-called amazing voices. I’d say a good 99% of the time the only reason people take notice of these wannabes is solely for their age; but I’m sorry, that’s just not a good enough reason for these kids to be getting the notoriety or record deals they are getting. This is just another example of society’s dumbing down their artistic standards. I mean really, the bottom line is if you didn’t know who was singing and these tykes were warbling on the radio, how soon would you change the station?
Test it. Watch this vid from recent, British kid phenom, Connie Talbot. Actually, no, just listen so you don't see that cute face. Yeah, I mean she can vaguely carry a tune but really, let's see how long it takes before you want to pull out your hair and stuff it into your ears while simultaneously looking for whoever is scratching their nails down a chalkboard.
Ok, I know you’re sitting there saying, “yo Hanja, you’re not the first to be making this sad state of cultural affairs argument; furthermore, this argument has been going on for an eternity.” True, however I think with the advent of youtube (which make no mistake; I am utterly addicted) and that despicable American Idol, there appears to be an infestation of unimaginative and generally inept singers being given their 15 minutes like never before. I mean, at least in the 70s during the initial Annie craze when every little girl and her dog (literally in this case) were belting out “the sun will come out tomorrow” most of the parents had sense enough to realize that one parent's young Ethel Merman is another person's screaming banshee, and would therefore wisely keep the concert confined to their own living room. Very few would venture outside; when they did, a camera crew wasn’t waiting. Was it because those crews had more legitimate talent to cover?
And think about some of the few young stars that did manage to make it big based on their “big” voices. Does anyone remember Charlotte Church – “Voice of an Angel”? Unless you live in England where she has her own talk show, of course you don’t because as soon as she became old enough, her “big” voice in a small child was no longer a novelty – which is exactly what she always was. No more.
Nowadays everyone has to be the next Miley Cyrus. (No, I’m not going to launch into a tirade about the mullet-offspring. I don’t really know much about her other than that doofusy, I-am-beside-myself-at-the-scandal magazine cover.) But isn’t she just the version of the next Lindsey? And wasn’t Lindsey the version of the next Britney? What are these gals known for really – their talent or their extracurricular activities? Is the talent that these gals allegedly possess really going to stand the test of time? And what is it with the “ey”s in their names? If you’re an Agnes you don’t qualify for fame and fortune?
The point is, there are very few legitimate child stars. They are an anomaly and this anomaly can’t be manufactured. That’s what makes the real young talents special. Kids that are unbelievable to behold because their talent is organic. They are not busy trying to imitate anyone else. That’s probably the biggest problem I have with all today’s crop o’ child stars. They have zero originality. That David kid from Idol – don’t tell me he doesn’t sound like every other singer who embarrassingly attempted to sound like Michael Bolton. They don’t even steal from good sources!
Name any of the current young singers. Do you honestly see a Little Stevie Wonder? A Judy Garland??
This goes out to the next person who sends their kid to a TV audition instead of school where they belong:
In a move that redeemed him in my eyes, (I refer of course to that whole nonsense of David Tennant looking like Neil Finn – sorry Esme & Chad, I appreciate your reading and contribution but that’s just crazy talk), my brother-in-law Pablo reminded me of the fact that Eddie Deezen, popular go-to geek of the 70s and early 80s, can no doubt be the love child of Steven Spielberg and whomever Steve was sleeping with when he was 12 years old.
I mean look at the way Steve is looking so fondly at Eddie’s pic. The words “a face only a father could love” come to mind.
My guess is that Steve had to give Eddie up because in those days it would have been difficult to look after a child while trying to figure out how to direct Joan Crawford in Night Gallery. But Steven probably always looked in on Eddie from afar – taking an interest in Eddie’s career. I can just imagine the fatherly pride Steve must have felt when he saw his boy’s first film, Laserblast. (For more Laserblast info, you really must look over Mystery Science Theater’s treatment of this film. It has to be one of their top ten.)
And when Eddie was ready, Steve said, “Come, young Edward. It’s time to work with your old man.” This can be the only explanation as to Steve’s casting Eddie in 1941. I’m getting emotional just thinking about it. It’s like the antithesis of “Luke, I’m your father.”
Wow, now that I think about it, I bet that’s where George Lucas got the idea!
Apropos to this train of thought – the long lost relatives thing, not the Star Wars thing – my sister Goo volunteered the tidbit that one of the Deezen’s co-stars in Grease, Jeff Conaway (also of Taxi and now tragically Celebrity Rehab fame), is beginning to look like rock legend Keith Richards.
Ehhh. Kinda. Ummm. I’m not that sure.
Maybe if I gave Jeff a headband, black eyeliner and a kicky scarf?
I’m still not sure. More importantly, whatever happened to Judd Hirsch??
So I was chatting with my Scottish blog bully/mentor the other day, whom I shall now refer to as Super K – not that I have a particular affection for the K Food Store chain or because my lil Scot pal has any extraordinary powers that I know of but because let’s face it, I can’t call him a bully every time I write about him else he’ll stop being one of the three people who read this.
Anyway, Super K had suggested I pace myself and not worry about whether or not I blogged daily. Presumably this was so I wouldn’t get stressed about trying to come up with something new or I guess incessantly bore people. The problem is that I am undisciplined in the best of times so if I let more than a few days go by I’ll just blow it off entirely.
It’s like that thing where you’re dieting and you eat one cookie and then you go “oh man, I just ruined my diet forever, I might as well eat the rest of this bag of Milanos."
So in trying to break that unhealthy pattern I am going to look at things like French novelist, George Sand. I remember reading somewhere that she wrote twenty pages a day, religiously. Now the thing is, I think people remember Sand more for her personal life than her writing, but I can’t help but admire that sheer power of will. And my guess is she greatened the odds she’d come up with a golden nugget* by being so prolific. It’s like Michael Caine or my brother’s fave actor, Gérard Depardieu. They each made well over a hundred films – a ridiculous amount of them caca. Still they are each highly respected because for every five Jaws: The Revenge or My Father the Hero respectively, they came up with something truly special to last a lifetime. Caine couldn’t have deserved his Hannah and Her Sister’s Oscar more and Depardieu’s Cyrano de Bergerac is one of the most achingly gorgeous performances captured on celluloid.
And while I am no Caine, Depardieu or Sand, I’m going to do my best to just keep throwing things out there when I can, in the hopes that something sticks. In that spirit, I am actually going to go back and rehash some observations I made in the original Winona Bowl-a-Rama because I was just reminded of some of them when I read that actor James Cromwell had recently been injured in a bicycle crash. (From what I read he was supposed to be out of the hospital this past Monday.)
James Cromwell is one of those actors everyone knows, not remembering from what. I don’t think I would be wrong in suggesting most people can’t place the name when they see his face. But looking at his resume, the man is a beast. Like the two aforementioned actors, he’s racked up a ridiculous amount of credits, yet because he’s never the lead, doesn’t get significant attention. But unlike the aforementioned actors, Cromwell has rarely done anything that could be looked on as a source of great humiliation, even despite early appearances in things like Diff’rent Strokes, Three’s Company, and Eight is Enough.
I first wrote about Cromwell in the original Bowl-a-Rama’s Bob Balaban section. Bob Balaban is another one of those phenomenal, consistent and productive actors whose name isn’t readily recognizable but who I thought actually epitomized one of these types of outstanding actors that don’t get nearly enough the celebration they deserve. At the time I had written, “There is an amazing and extraordinary group of actors that do their jobs exceedingly well; so well, in fact, that even though I guarantee you’ve seen them all in at least one film or another, you may not even know their names. These people are not about stardom—they are about getting the job done right. They lend astounding support to each star with whom they’ve shared the bill, and with each picture they manage to distinguish themselves.” I think that still holds true and the actors I mentioned at that time perfectly exemplified that old adage that there are no small parts. James Cromwell – shocking in L.A. Confidential, unsympathetic in The Queen, quietly dignified in Babe – most definitely fit that description then and he continues to do so.
In celebration of these actors about whom when people realize who they are, invariably spout out, “ohhhh yeaaah that guy,” I will attempt to devote at least one blog a week. At the very least it’ll keep me vaguely regimented and perhaps offset the irritation I have from those actors I listed in the original Bowl-a-Rama as “Overrated Winonas,” e.g. Keira Knightley.
And so, to finish out the first blog regarding this second version of my Bob Balaban section, specifically about James Cromwell I say: That’ll do, Hanja. That’ll do. La la la…
*I know Goo & Pablo are sitting there snickering because they immediately thought of poo when they read the word "nugget". Sigh...
This is essentially Separated at Birth Part 2 because I was going back and trying to toss out some of the excess bad cut and pasting jobs I did from yesterday when I realized I didn’t showcase this piece of evidence:
Maybe Elisabeth Sladen was trying to find a way to do both science fiction and more traditional, critically acclaimed roles so she created this American doppelgänger in Mary McDonnell to handle the Wolves, Grand Canyon and Passion Fish type parts. Of course Mare kind of screwed up that theory by starring in Battlestar Galactica but I still think it’s a valid argument.
And since I was still thinking in this vein and just cuz I had the Traveling Wilburys on in the background (despite the fact that my pal King Juan Carlos of Spain* has suggested on numerous occasions that I stopped listening to any pop music that came out after the last major Supertramp record – see Juan, the Wilburys released their first album in 88’ so ha! I am on the cutting edge of modern music) and as I thought of the Wilbury supergroup lineup, I started thinking about how the last time I saw Bob Dylan he looked like Vincent Price:
And then my mind wandered spasmodically to a few other have-to-be long-lost relatives like Dita Von Teese and Rumer Willis:
Which reminded me of this time I was going through a Tyrone Power obsession (like one does) and rented a film noir/melodrama of his called Nightmare Alley costarring Helen Walker, who if she isn’t related to Will & Grace’s Debra Messing then it can only be because Debra Messing is Walker’s reincarnation:
And listen…Walker died in 68’. Any guesses on when Deb came into the world? Whooooooo…cue in the creepy ethereal music please, o ye blog gods**
Then I thought of recent look-alikes that have been troubling me of late, Brian F. O’ Byrne, Clark Gregg and John Benjamin Hickey:
They confuse me because every time I see one of them I always think it’s the same guy from The New Adventures of Old Christine. But Gregg wasn’t in the recent film Then She Found Me; that was Hickey. And for those who have indeed been wondering whatever happened to Helen Hunt, this was a film she co-wrote, produced, directed and starred in and managed to do all of it sublimely, without it looking remotely like a diva production. Truly it’s one of her best and most organic performances and she never resorts to her usual look-at-how-natural-I-am-when-I-do-that-shrug-smirk style acting – which I always found forced and which obviously wound up limiting her choice of roles. In this performance, however, she is unwaveringly honest; and as director she likewise garnered performances from Colin Firth and Bette Midler that are unexpected but spot-on. The result is a really beautiful little film and it’s a shame more people didn’t see it. Go rent it now! Because if you stay here, I’ll have no recourse but to point out again that Neil Finn has morphed into an insane version of Patrick Duffy.
* I don’t really speak with any royals; this is yet another cleverly placed pseudonym. **Not joking…my computer totally flickered and my Internet connection shut off just after I typed that last sentence. Debra Messing is out to get me!!!!!
Now before you think I am going to launch into a hateful tirade designed to malign various in-laws, I need to state empathically that I am crazy about all my extended family members. But make no mistake Pablo* is, in fact, deluded. The reason being - he thinks Doctor Who’s David Tennant looks like singer/songwriter Neil Finn of Split Enz and Crowded House fame. It seems that Pablo was looking over my first blog, apparently came to this conclusion and then was kind enough to send me a pic to illustrate this “fact.”
I ask you readers (all 3 of you...including Pablo), what is he thinking?? Apart from the extraordinarily generalized ensemble and über-vague hairstyle similarity, what else is there? I mean if we’re going to talk about startling similarities, surely there would be no better display than to point out the fact David Tennant looks uncannily like Charlie Korsmo circa his starring roles in Men Don’t Leave & Dick Tracy.
Man I miss those old Separated At Birth books. Anyone remember them? Well in the spirit of nostalgia and to go on with this Doctor Who theme, I give to you the following images, which should provide you with incontrovertible evidence that these individuals were indeed separated at birth. But before I do that, I need to preface while it is true I have perhaps an unnatural obsession, at the moment, with all Doc phenomena, I want to assure you that this blog will not be isolated to that topic. I have a variety of questionable obsessions from which to ramble. It is because of this actuality my sister Goo*, like my Scottish pal, had encouraged my blog-writing in the guise of sibling support; but I am quite certain it’s so instead of boring her to tears with details about things like the long-defunct, but among the funniest shows in history, Mystery Science Theater 3000, for example, I can spread that heapin’ helpin’ of useless information in this locality.
Without further ado, I give you the one of the Doctor’s most popular past companions, Sarah Jane Smith, played winningly by Elisabeth Sladen and two-time Oscar nominee and current Battlestar Galactica star, Mary McDonnell:
Next we have the Doctor’s current companion (and no I didn’t see the last episode because I was trying to catch up on my Torchwood, so if she’s dead or something, DON’T TELL ME, ANYBODY!). Ahem…here we have the Doctor’s latest companion, Donna Noble, played by famous, award-winning English comedienne Catherine Tate and Edina Monsoon of Absolutely Fabulous played by famous, award-winning English comedienne Jennifer Saunders:
Well that’s pretty much it when it comes to the Doctor Who would-be cast members. I’m sure there’s more but these were the first that popped into my head. And they are certainly more valid than the absurd notion that Neil Finn looks like David Tennant. If anything, Neil Finn is starting look like a crazed, disheveled Patrick Duffy:
*Goofy nicknames have been created and borrowed to protect the innocent who will be super-pissed if anyone outside our immediate circle find out who they are.
Check out the About This Blog section at the bottom of this page if you feel compelled to know more about...well...this blog. That's why I titled that section the way I did.
she is beyond hilarious as she takes off the “vote for women” sash, totally conveying the internal feeling of bile rising up her esophagus after being accosted by it and Glynis Johns. 
But since I’m not going to write all that, I’m just going to combine my all-purpose happy holiday message with my all-time fave show:
