Monthly Archives: November 2020

Let’s Make a Deal

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I’ve tapped my inside sources of Washington political doin’s for inside information for inside dope.

I live in Lexington, Kentucky, a bluish dot in a ruby red state. My votes count for little in a chorus of “I ain’t wearing no mask” chanters.

My connection to my red state senators consists of one Chamber of Commerce session listening slack-jawed to Rand Paul’s creepy musings about constraining welfare mothers, one Mitch McConnell political-donation harvesting event in a white mansion full of dark suits and dead animal heads, and an afternoon meeting in a small room in McConnell’s Washington digs with two of the myriad blonde young office ladies with whom I had made no appointment, listening to them earnestly explaining that my issues were Kentucky issues and that Senator McConnell tried to leave Kentucky issues to Kentucky elected officials while he concentrated on world issues.

These senators don’t call me with the inside scoop.

Nor do those myriad blonde young office ladies…but that’s probably for the best. Janie might hurt’em.

Mr. Trump calls me…often.

Well, he used to.

He was calling every night there for a few weeks. He stopped after I told him for the third time that the check was in the mail and perhaps he should reconsider that last brilliant hire he made for Postmaster General. I think he realized I was being a liar about the check. It takes one…

No, my inside info about Mr. Trump’s behaviors and motivations are divined from TV news, reporters’ and politicians’ twitter accounts, and newspapers (on-line)…

…and an afternoon seminar about 30 years ago.

It was a seminar by Herb Cohen, the author of YOU CAN NEGOTIATE ANYTHING. At the time I felt I was poor at negotiating and being left behind by my world because of it. Thus, I was in the group of listeners.

The first question asked of the speaker was predictable; “Can you really negotiate anything?”

The answer was one of the wiser and self-relieving things I’ve heard; “YES……but why would you want to?”

Damn straight.

Push, pull, strive, strain, fret, scheme, connive, cajole…when it matters. Otherwise, breathe an un-negotiated breath, and dance like nobody’s watchin’.

Another part of Mr. Cohen’s presentation stayed with me and resurfaced the week I watched Mr. Trump’s reactions to his electoral loss. Mr. Cohen described a negotiation using a picture of a scale (it was before power point had been foisted upon us). In order to move a scale in the desired direction, something must be added to the high side to raise the lower. Negotiations are like that. You have something I want. I must add something to my side that you want in order to move the scale.

It sounds so simple.

Why are we not seeing it in Mr. Trump’s recalcitrant behavior since the election?

The media says he’s pouting.

The media says he’s positioning himself for another run at the presidency.

The media says he’s establishing his legacy.

I don’t think so.

I think he’s adding to the scale to get something he wants.

What does he want?

  • He wants the Southern District of New York to leave him alone.
  • He doesn’t want to reveal his taxes.
  • He doesn’t want to go to prison.
  • He wants the Mueller Report/Steele Dossier/Russian collusion to be forgotten.
  • He wants his extortion of Ukraine to be forgotten.
  • He wants his frolics with Epstein to be forgotten.
  • He wants his payments to Stormy Daniels to be forgotten.
  • He wants his former aggressions against how many women to be forgotten.
  • He doesn’t want to go to prison.
  • He wants his kids and their spouses left alone.
  • He doesn’t want to go to prison.
  • He doesn’t want to go to prison.

His language to the president of Ukraine might go far to explain his actions since the election; “I’d like you to do something for us.”

Let’s remember this is the guy that wrote THE ART OF THE DEAL.

You want what’s behind door #3?

What’s it worth to ya?

Asta and the Octopus

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Movie night!

It’s a Margaret Lindsay/Donald Woods double feature thanks to TCM.

You know, if I were forced to choose one and only one TV channel to watch forever, it would surely be TCM. Where else could you see a Margaret Lindsay/Donald Woods (whoever they are) double feature? Actually, Ms. Lindsay is lovely and bland, and Mr. Woods is earnest and bland. Nuff said ‘bout dat.

Fog Over Frisco (1934) is one more flick that demonstrates that any film shot in San Francisco ought to open the cast list with “starring San Francisco”. The city invariably steals the show. It prompts an addition to the old warning to actors; “Never do a scene with children, dogs, (or San Francisco.)” Bette Davis, Alan Hale Sr. (the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island’s dad), and Asta (the Thin Man’s precocious and less than brave pup) are also in the film but who cares? It’s San Francisco.

Isle of Fury (1936), besides showcasing Lindsay and Woods (ZZZZZZZZ), also features Humphrey

Bogart being cruelly assaulted by an octopus in the pearl-infested waters around a South Sea island nobody’s ever heard of (but looks suspiciously like Catalina). Every non-native character trots around the island in impeccable and crisp white clothes. The local laundry must be world-class. Also lurking around the isle is Frank Lackteen, a bit actor who amassed over 200 credits with his skulking, murderous ways. I spotted him recently in The Mask of Dimitrios, The Mummy’s Hand, The Sea Hawk, and The Law of the Tong. None of Mr. Lackteen’s efforts were nominated for Oscars. They apparently don’t give Oscars for Best Persistent Felon.

God bless TCM.

What’s Better than a Zombie Film?

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TWO!!

Movie Night!

Geezer that I am, I HEAR about trends more often than I experience them.

So sue me.

I understand that “walking dead” films have been hot for several years now.

I’m puzzled by the term itself. “Walking dead film” could encompass a lot of things; zombies, vampires, mummies, diseased shopping mall attackers, or any of the old Dragnet TV episodes.

But for tonight, “walking dead” means zombies (of varying kinds).

Horror of the Zombies (1974) is a Spanish cutie directed by Armando d’Ossorio. It features a 16th-century Spanish galleon carrying 18th-century Templar ex-communicates, drifting in a mist that doesn’t exist (say that out loud – it’s practically a poem), and Maria Perschy, Barbara Rey, and several other female models on an inexplicable photo shoot who consistently fail to button their tops.

Hey, if you don’t think about it, what’s not to like? If you do think about it…what’s not to like?!

Thank you, sir. May I please have another?

Oasis of the Zombies (1983) is another Spanish maybe-not-so-cutie directed by the prolific and baffling Jess Franco. This flick is right down there with Franco’s Zombie Lake, but that’s for another time…or…hopefully not. It features Nazi zombies (one actually played by Franco himself) from thirty years before (skin wrecked, but hair and clothes vigorous and intact), an incoherent plot, and heedless young ladies in heedless short shorts who die heedlessly young. Makes about as much sense as a Rudy Giuliani press conference (…seriously, folks).

I loved ‘em.

I Could Not Be Happier

Junesboy, Lexington-Today

Today I was driving through a beautiful neighborhood on a sunny, 70-degree day in Lexington. The trees were autumnally spectacular. I was on my way to a spacious outdoor courtyard to meet a half dozen geezer theatre friends for a socially distanced brunch. I have worked and played and laughed with this group for over 250 years combined. We used to meet with some regularity until covid drove us into our burrows. This was to be our first assemblage in eight months.

I could not be happier…I thought.

Then the phone rang.

It was the wife of one of the geezers, herself a friend of more decades than it would be polite to specify.

“Rodge! Tell my husband to turn on his phone!”

“Julieanne, is something wrong?”

“Just tell him to turn on his damn phone! Biden won! He won! They just called Pennsylvania!!”

I hung up and drove on. The phone dinged with a text. It was from my wife, Janie; an emoji of a champagne bottle launching its cork.

I arrived at the brunch, ridiculed my occasionally Luddite friend for walking around with a useless phone in his pocket, and announced the electoral headline in spontaneous duet with our hostess as she emerged from the house having just learned the same news. Champagne flowed and flowery toasts were deployed. Old friends were reunited. Old stories were told again. Our laughter rocked the world.

I could not be happier…………I thought.

But there was something missing.

At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Then I thought back to election night, 2016.

I went to bed that election night stunned and morose. The momentum and the arithmetic was undeniable: Donald Trump was gonna win.

Janie had already gone to bed. I didn’t wake her with the news.

The next morning, as she learned the result, I watched the subsequent waves of incredulity, indignation, sadness, fear, and finally anger.

“What do we do to fix this?”

We were together for the bad news.

We should be together for the good news.

I excused myself from my jolly brunch brotherhood and headed home.

Janie met me at the door. There was a hug and a kiss. Champagne flowed and the toast, though not flowery, was precise and jubilant; “Now we can begin.”

I could not be happier…………………………this time I know.

MMGA – Make Movies Great Again

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Movie night!

Goliath and the Dragon (1960).

They just don’t make films like this anymore and I don’t for the life of me know why.

We’re talkin’ giant puppet monsters and Mark Forest’s giant pec’s (the inspiration perhaps, for current Old Spice commercials).

We’re talkin’ Cerberus as a three-headed, fire-breathing bobble-head.

We’re talkin’ one – count ‘em – ONE flying monkey, and ONE giant egg. I don’t for the life of me know why.

We’re talkin’ ‘bout a truly cheesy centaur and a snake pit infested with at least five or six serpents. Hey, any number of snakes over one is overkill for me.

And finally, there’s our titular dragon. Did they even have auditions? This terror looks like a cross between the Geico gecko and a Chinese New Year’s street puppet. Was I petrified? …well, not so much. Was I amused? …well, maybe a little.

All the ladies in the flick are damn cute in their perfectly tailored and indestructible peplum in solid pastels and their perfectly coiffed and indestructible hair sculptures.

There was even a giant bear, lovingly portrayed by someone (uncredited) in a bear suit…of sorts.

The only thing missing in this film was Godzilla.

I loved it.

Did I mention there was a bear?