VOGER'S BLOG

MUST-SEE CHRISTMAS

2007-11-21T19:28:00.000-05:00

Everybody has his or her must-see list of Christmas specials and movies. Following are the ones I try to see every year, and my favorite moments in each.

"Scrooge" is the 1951 black-and-white British classic starring the great Alastair Sim as a seemingly unredeemable Ebenezer Scrooge. Favorite moment: When Scrooge, freshly redeemed, hesitates before entering his nephew's Christmas party. He looks to the young maid for encouragement, which she gives with a wordless nod. He then nods and smiles. Pass the tissues.

"How the Grinch Stole Christmas!" is the 1966 Dr. Seuss adaptation by Chuck Jones, narrated by "Frankenstein" star Boris Karloff. Favorite moment: When the Grinch steals the long, thin candy canes from the sleeping Who children. It's a brain-twistingly evil moment.

"A Charlie Brown Christmas" is the 1965 special based on Charles M. Schulz's comic-strip phenomenon "Peanuts." Favorite moment: Of course, how can it be anything other than when the "Peanuts" gang suddenly launches into a peculiar, albeit heartwarming, "Loo loo loo" version of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing"?

"Santa Claus" is the 1959 Mexican Christmas flick made by the same people behind the Mexican vampire and wrestling flicks. Favorite moment: The amazing moral tug-of-war between little Lupita and the evil doll who tempts her to steal. Our Lupita holds her ground: "Stealing is evil! I don't want to be evil!"

"Santa Claus Conquers the Martians" is the 1966 low-budget color flick in which green-skinned Martians kidnap Santa in a bid to cheer up their morose (and likewise green-skinned) children, a group that includes young Pia Zadora. Favorite moment: The rockin' theme song: "S-A-N-T-A, C-L-A-U-S, hooray for Santy Claus!" It sounds like a song from a Frankie-and-Annette "beach party" flick.

"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" is Rankin-Bass' 1964 puppet-animation adaptation of the Gene Autry song. Favorite moment: It's a subtle moment, one you'd have to keep a sharp lookout for. It's when Hermey the Elf (and would-be dentist) says, "It's all settled," and abruptly turns out the bedroom light. Why is that my favorite? Watch it and see if you don't agree that Hermey has not been listening to Rudolph. He's off in his own, little, bicuspid-yanking world.

And now, as "Lois Lane" and "Captain Marvel" artist Kurt Schaffenberger used to say every year around this time, "I see the holidays have us by the throat again."

LAST POST UNTIL 11/19

2007-11-11T14:02:00.000-05:00

(Program note: This will be my last post until Nov. 19.)

My final thoughts about the Mad Jack/Scream gig last weekend:

Going in, I had a feeling it was not going to be a perfect night, but for different reasons.

Mad Jack had been practicing for two months, but the added songs still weren't sounding like "water off a duck's back." Some band members couldn't be counted on to remember song parts, transitions and/or changes. (I always tell the young people: "Stay in school, don't do drugs, and always use protection.")

Mind you, we only added a lousy seven songs to our show. (We retained what we called "the original 18" -- the 18 songs we played onstage during our previous two gigs.) And of those seven, six were "dust-offs" (songs we played previously in our 31 years as a band.) So only one song -- albeit, a complicated epic -- was new to us: The Outlaws' "Green Grass and High Tides."

At the VERY LAST REHEARSAL before the gig, we had two song-stopping moments -- we screwed up so badly, the songs actually came to a crashing halt. This is NOT a good omen one week before a gig. But I'd long since gotten the feeling that no matter how many more rehearsals Mad Jack had, these problems would not go away. Sadly, I fear we've "maxed out" this band's memory.

This close to the gig, though, you can't let that bother you. So your attitude becomes: Yes, we're gonna screw up here and there, but we're gonna have the time of our lives.

I was cool with that.

But then the gig came, and with it the Technical Difficulty Hell I described in recent posts. So the problem became something else. We had to rock the house with an hour-late start time and non-existent monitors. It became a "fasten your seatbelts" night.

We pulled together.

We made the blunders, sure. (Yours Truly made the first of the evening -- one my brother later called a "doozy.") But those 31 years together counted for something. We faced the dragon, and slayed it.

And after that, we went out for spinach-and-feta omlettes.

GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS

2007-11-04T19:40:00.000-05:00

More gig memories:

I had more of those moments when girls would dance and/or rub up against me during the show. I'm 49, graying and thick around the middle, so I'm guessing a few Long Island Iced Teas must come into play here. Or is it my eyeliner and black fingernail polish?

This occurred three times on Friday. Don't ask me why, but it always seems to happen right in front of my work buddies. I can't pretend I'm not grateful for the eyewitnesses.

I was taking a walk in the crowd with my wireless microphone while singing "Bonie Maroney," when a smokin' late-20's/early '30s brunette in a push-up began dancing with me. I was in "entertainer" mode, so I fell to the floor, calypso-style. She took my cue, bless her smokin' heart, and briefly straddled me for a mock lap-dance. A work buddy was right behind her, trying his best to capture the moment on his digital camera. The shot came out too dark, or else I'd have a new screen-saver at the office. (For a year now, my screen-saver has been a shot of me playing my guitar between "Tube Top's" legs, back when Mad Jack played Lindenwold.)

Later in Friday's show, Mad Jack did a planned bit where we invited female audience members to come onstage to sing backing vocals on "Twist and Shout." We were hoping for a little pandemonium, and we got it. When the song ended and the girls -- some real lookers -- departed the stage, a couple of guys in the audience yelled: "Encore!" I said into the mike: "Believe me, fellas, we'd ALL like an encore."

Two work buddies disappeared for a while, and I didn't wonder where. They went next-door to check out the go-go bar. When they got back, I asked them: "How are the girls?" One buddy shook his head, and the other said: "Something's wrong over there." I said: "You mean Gloucester City's finest aren't fine?" He said: "The girls are hotter HERE."

P.S.: My apologies for not sanitizing the above anecdotes a bit more. But aren't blogs supposed to tell it like it is?

BILLY THE SWEDE

2007-11-04T18:04:00.000-05:00

A gig memory:

Nephew came for the gig from New York City with two college friends: talented cinematographer-in-the-making "Hattie," and a fine-artist-in-the-making from Sweden we call "Billy the Swede." (Brinie, ever the thoughtful guy, gave Billy a box of Swedish Fish to make him feel at home.)

Billy's actual given name IS "Billy" -- not William. He said his father was infatuated with John Wayne and Hollywood Westerns, so Billy was named after Billy the Kid. He added that his brother was named Jesse and his sister was named Dolly. I said: "Dolly? I can't think of a cowgirl named Dolly." He said: "Dolly Parton."

At the gig, Hattie worked a video camera while Billy worked a couple of girls. Billy is very personable, with long blond hair and a charming accent. Nephew says whenever Billy is talking to a girl he just met, his accent mysteriously gets thicker.

There's a go-go bar next to the nightclub. A couple of the girls who work there noticed all the cars at the nightclub, and they bopped over to see what the fuss was about. One of them took a liking to Billy. She was of American-Indian descent; her stage name was "Dakota."

Mad Jack closed Set Two with the Outlaws' barn-stormer "Green Grass and High Tides," a song Brinie and I have wanted to play onstage all our lives. For the occasion, I put on a black cowboy hat. I wanted to FEEL it.

Billy later said: "I can't wait to tell my dad that I spoke with an Indian and saw a band with a guy wearing a cowboy hat."

"I INHERITED THE SNAKE," PART 3 (OF 3)

2007-11-04T17:27:00.000-05:00

The gig went great. We really had 'em at times. But before I get to the fun stuff, I still have to rag about our stretch in Technical Difficulty Hell.

The monitors were taking up precious floor space -- this nightclub has a wide, but not deep, stage -- though I was hearing precious little coming OUT of them. Actually, I couldn't hear a damned thing.

Therefore, Karch and The Kid couldn't hear Brinie and Me, and vice-versa. I couldn't hear my vocals except for the wispy bit I caught coming back at me from the room. And the only way I could hear THAT was by what we call "eating the mike" -- that is, singing with your mouth practically ON the microphone. It's a bad situation for a singer. You're actually kind of shouting, just to hear yourself. You're not crooning. You're not massaging the vowels. You're in danger of going off-key more often than you normally would. The audience doesn't know this, because the room swallows up a lot of imperfections. But God help you if you're listening to a board mix the next day.

Halfway into Set One came my "Wa-a-ay down inside" vocal solo in "Whole Lotta Love." I was looking forward to that "delay" sound effect I told you about earlier. No such luck. My vocal was as dry as Im-Ho-Tep.

Two thirds into Set One, we had a guest singer on the Ozzy Osbourne song "Crazy Train" -- "Tom Terrific" from the band Snafu -- so I had the opportunity to go into the crowd and listen to the mix. The Kid was all over his guitar neck, playing all of this great Randy Rhoads stuff, but you'd never know it. I hoped he would at least be turned up for the solo. No such luck. His solo was quieter than two high-school kids necking in the family room.

OK, I'm done raggin'. Now for the fun stuff . . .

TO BE CONTINUED

"I INHERITED THE SNAKE," PART 2 (OF 3)

2007-11-04T16:27:00.000-05:00

It's Gig Night.

I put on my eyeliner and black fingernail polish. We all head to the nightclub. The parking lot is bursting. A good omen. Walking in, Me 'n' Titanic spot an impressive deposit of vomit splattered between two cars -- a good bucket's worth, resembling canned Cheddar Cheese Soup With Hamburger Bits. A bad omen?

We push our way in, start to unpack and tune our instruments, when I hear my brother, bassist Brinie, utter the three words I hate to hear him say minutes before a gig: "We've got problems."

The "snake" is faulty, and the sound man, "Wilbur," has to drive to a (hopefully open) music store to buy a new one. No, I'm not quite sure what a snake is, but if someone held a gun to my head and asked me to guess, I'd say it has something to do with electricity and musical equipment. "I inherited the snake," Wilbur said repeatedly by way of an excuse.

My brother reckoned replacing the snake would delay our start time by at least an hour. This is a disaster. We planned a 9 p.m. start time. The house is already packed and people have been waiting for the band.

Brian said that without the snake, we wouldn't have any monitors. I said: "(Expletive) the monitors. Let's play without 'em." That's when Brinie told me we hadn't even been "miked" yet. (That is, the sound guys hadn't positioned microphones in front of our amplifiers yet, in order to mix us.) And in fact, I see the sound man's assistant, "Chumley," rolling out what looked like miles of black linguini.

As time passed agonizingly, we tried to keep our spirits up. My brother visited the men's room, where an older gentleman said, "Are you guys gonna play or keep fartin' around?"

FINALLY, we got a soundcheck. When drummer Fro starting pounding on his kick drum to get a sound level, people began to applaud -- a tension-breaking moment, though it would still be a long while before showtime. Unfortunately, the sound man never got a level on at least two "floor toms" (the larger drums that are positioned on the floor rather than mounted to the bass drum). Therefore, some of Fro's and Jazzy's performances would surely be compromised.

Amp levels were checked. That's when the sound guys realized they never miked MY amp. Another delay.

Adding to this comedy of errors was that during every delay -- just when you thought the band might start playing soon -- "house" music would suddenly be turned on at a comically loud volume. The house music couldn't be less appropriate. I can't name the artists heard, but if someone held a gun to my head and asked me to guess, I'd say it was Haddaway or the Spice Girls or Rick Astley. Me 'n' Fro vamped to the music, pretending we were playing and having the time of our lives. I FELT LIKE AN IDIOT.

The "light show" was quickly installed. It was two towers of spotlights (one red, one blue) at either end of the stage. We call these "French fry" lights. They make the stage feel like a sauna; they burn our retinas; and they do nothing but illuminate us -- no flashing or highlighting of show moments. (We have our own light show, which has sound-triggered flashing, but we were instructed not to bring it.)

Showtime was finally imminent. My brother told me I should apologize for the delay and thank the folks for their patience. I said I'd come up with something. (I always do a little joke before hitting the first chord of our first song, Foghat's "I Just Want to Make Love to You.") Then we got the OK from Wilbur.

"Welcome to Gloucester City," I said into the mike. "We hope you enjoyed our soundcheck. Please come back tomorrow for the REAL show."

Then we let it rip . . .

TO BE CONTINUED

"I INHERITED THE SNAKE," PART 1 (OF 3)

2007-11-04T14:45:00.000-05:00

My bands Mad Jack and Scream pulled off another one on Friday night -- we packed the house and rocked the house.

BUT -- this was a night in Technical Difficulty Hell.

It all started the week of the gig, when my brother, bassist Brinie, suddenly and unexpectedly learned that the nightclub had hired a new "house" sound man. We're wary of strangers this late in the game; we prefer to have a solid relationship with our sound man, or, at the least, a solid reference.

But Brinie talked to "Wilbur" on the phone and liked what he heard. The guy sounded experienced and accommodating. He didn't balk at our planned 9 p.m. start time, as other sound men tend to do. (Most bands go on at 10.) Plus, his equipment was apparently superior to that of the previous gentleman.

OK -- so far, so good.

As is our preferred custom the night before the gig, we piled our equipment into our vehicles, slogged to the venue and set up. It was me; Brinie; guitarist Titanic (who flew to New Jersey from California just for the gig); guitarist Karch; guitarist The Kid; and drummer Jazzy. We set up our equipment on the stage (leaving room along the front edge, where the monitors would go) and did our own pre-soundcheck soundcheck.

What that means is: Rather painstakingly, we fine-tuned our stage volume so that every guitar was of equal volume, but only loud enough for Jazzy to hear while playing the drums. This makes it easier for a good sound man to mix us; no one's amp is cranked to a ridiculous level, so that all the sound man has to do is turn up Guitarist A or Guitarist B during their respective solos.

To that end, I typed up and printed out a "head's up" sheet for the sound man, which alerts him as to who is taking a solo during which songs (our set-list order is pretty much etched in stone), and any special requests we may have. For instance, I asked for a "delay" (a repeating sound effect) on my voice during the "Wa-a-a-ay down inside" vocal solo in Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love."

Rather than type up and print out those instructions, I might as well have spent that hour scratching my privates.

TO BE CONTINUED

A REAL TRACK, PART 3 (OF 4)

2007-10-31T10:09:00.000-04:00

Luck was with us that afternoon.

After getting good drum and bass tracks, it was time for me to put on four guitars. I started with acoustic, which I played on the first verse and all of the choruses. Then I played electric rhythm, which we recorded twice to make it feel "bigger." Finally, I added an electric "riffs" track -- pieces that weren't solos per se, but made little statements at certain points such as bridges or to punctuate a vocal line that I already had in my head. Shades suggested I play one of the riffs slightly differently, but I told him I knew exactly how it would fit with the rest of the parts. (I'm a bit of an if-you-want-it-done-right dude, which is why I always write, edit, photo-edit and design my Friday and Sunday pages in the Press.) Surprisingly for me, I layed all these tracks down in one take each.

Next, Brinie and I cut the backing vocals. I wanted to cut the backing "vocs" first, so that I'd have them to play off of when I cut the master. My brother and I stood at one microphone. Brinie stood back a little further because he was singing louder than me. (We could tell this via our headphones.) I only wanted the two voices, but Shades talked me into doubling it up (again, for "bigness"), so we sang it again.

Next came the pivotal moment for me: the master vocal. I didn't plan on cutting it that first afternoon. After singing for three hours the night before and a couple of hours that morning, I didn't think I'd have the vocal elasticity -- especially since I was supposed to give the greatest vocal performance of my life thus far (this being a Real Track and all). But I was feeling strong, and a little lucky, that afternoon.

Shades set me up in front of the mike. He positioned two round, black screens in front of it (to prevent unwanted noise from, say, hard consonants). I told him the vocals are a bit hushed at the beginning, leading to some barnstorming stuff. He instructed me as to the distances I should keep from the mike at the appropriate times. I put my headphones on; he closed the soundproofed doors; he took his place in front of the mixer; and played the song.

I recognized immediately that I had entered The Zone. I'd never before heard my own vocals sound like they did in the headphones, and I played to it. I lived dangerously and sang the song without a "cheat sheet." But there were no lyrical flubs. It was a usable performance throughout. I got it in one take.

Shades came back in. He asked me: "Good?" I said: "I didn't like the way I pronounced one word, but I think I'll live with it."

TO BE CONTINUED

A REAL TRACK, PART 2 (OF 4)

2007-10-30T18:17:00.000-04:00

We arrived at the studio, striving to hold onto the arrangement in our heads.

The studio, founded around 1980, was charmingly old-school. Shades, the owner/operator, is staunchly an analog guy, though he’s just now in the process of updating to ProTools. The digital equipment was all there waiting to be installed; Shades was finishing up a spot of remodeling to accommodate it. He plans to offer both analog and digital, simultaneously, to his clients. His theory of recording is that he wants the finished song to sound like “an enhanced live track,” not something that's been manipulated and overdubbed into computerized perfection. No one will deny that analog has a warmer sound -- nor will analog purists deny being tempted by the unlimited tracks and seductive editing capabilities of digital recording.

But for this project, I was thrilled to go analog. Well, you know what a traditionalist I am.

The studio had a palpable aura of tranquility. It was darkly lit, but in a way that you could see everything you needed to see. Indian rugs decorated the walls. Clutter was at a minimum. You just felt comfortable here. Shades sat in front of a mixer behind glass; we were led to a main room; the network of doors were soundproofed; little rooms outside the main room housed amplifiers that were permanently "miked."

Shades gathered bassist Brinie, drummer Jazzy and myself into the main room, where he had a drum kit set up. Jazzy made some adjustments on the kit to suit his own comfort while Shades tuned up the drum heads. He gave us all headphones. On Shades' OK, Brinie and I then played the track with Jazzy, but only Jazzy could be heard in this room. My guitar and Brinie's bass were being recorded in the separate rooms, while the three of us received the feed through our headphones. This way, Shades had each instrument on different tracks for total separation; no instrument was "bleeding through" another instrument's track. Do you follow?

Step 1 was to get a (more or less) perfect take of the song for drums and bass. It was important to Shades that the rhythm section actually play live together, in order to get that "live" feel. My guitar was to be a "scratch" guitar -- I played it just to get us through the take -- but it would not be used on the finished song.

The question now was: How many times would we have to play the song before we got a usable take? The palms began to dampen a might, in anticipation of a potentially long and frustrating afternoon.

Amazingly, we nailed it on the second take! We got a sweet bassline from Brinie and a terrific performance from Jazzy.

So now, all we had to do was add four electric guitars, one acoustic guitar, a clap track, a tambourine, Hammond organ, piano, a master vocal and backing vocals.

Piece of cake.

TO BE CONTINUED

A REAL TRACK, PART 1 (OF 4)

2007-10-29T22:05:00.000-04:00

For the first time in my 49 years, I cut a real track in a real studio.

Call it an opportunity or an impossible dream, but due to circumstances I won't bore you with, me 'n' the guys accepted a challenge: to record a track during two Saturday sessions one week apart -- one long, one short -- with precious little time for preparation.

The song was a cover. I cooked up the arrangement over a two-week period. But the window of time between when I could show it to the guys and when we would record it was a matter of HOURS. It was a take-it-or-leave-it situation. We took it. (Mind you, this was in the midst of rehearsals for our Nov. 2 Mad Jack/Scream double-bill.)

The lineup to play on the track was me (vocals, guitars); brother Brinie (bass, backing vocals); The Kid (guitar solo); Jazzy (drums); plus, the producer (I'll call him "Shades") offered to add Hammond organ and piano.

The big weekend finally came. The schedule was brutal.

On Friday night, we had a Mad Jack practice (three and a half hours); then me 'n' Brinie cut a demo of my arrangement in his basement studio; then he and I worked on his bassline until 3 a.m. (I fell asleep while playing guitar ... I actually kept playing in my sleep); then at 10 a.m. on Saturday morning, we had a Scream practice (two hours); then me, Brinie, Jazzy and The Kid learned the arrangement.

Jazzy was the key. This guy has played hundreds of shows over the past 30 years, so he's quick on the uptake. He's very innovative. He will matter-of-factly insert a snare roll that purrs like a cat. Jazzy and I first played together when we were sophomores in high school, but only in the past couple of years have we been reunited musically. When I ask Jazzy for something, he knows what I want.

For the sake of expediency, we actually named the parts of the arrangement. There was the "Van Morrison," the "James Brown," the "Mott riffs," the climb, the accelerated climb, the descend, the "Redbone riff," the "Roxy riff," the acoustic verse, the "Come Together" verse, the "Dobie Gray."

Once we felt the slightest bit confident, we jumped into our vehicles and high-tailed it to the studio in South Jersey. But our collective grasp on the arrangement was tenuous. Our hope was to get to the studio before the arrangement leaked out of our ears and into the wind.

TO BE CONTINUED

VINCENT PRICE

2007-10-25T21:41:00.000-04:00

For tomorrow's PAGE X, I put together an easy-on-the-eyes, reads-like-silk (if I say so myself) package about the DVD boxed set "Vincent Price: MGM Scream Legends Collection."

Watching those Price movies back-to-back made me reflect on this guy who took over the horror-film mantle from Boris Karloff, Peter Lorre, Basil Rathbone, Lon Chaney Jr., et el. I mean, Price LITERALLY took it over. He made movie after movie with the aforementioned horror stars, so the passing-of-the-torch was a mutually agreeable process. The old-timers got one more day in the sun (in such films as "The Raven," "The Haunted Palace," "The Comedy of Terrors" and "Tales of Terror"), and Price headlined a most distinguished ensemble for much of the 1960s.

Nobody really took Price's place when he died. (Robert Englund? Please.)

Nephew recently asked me to name my favorite Vincent Price flick. I was at a loss. For Karloff, I could name 10 off the top of my head. But I realized that Price's contribution to film is cumulative. Not many of his movies are what you'd call "great." The best of the Roger Corman/Edgar Allan Poe movies is probably "Masque of the Red Death." But unlike the '30s and '40s Universal classics, I could not quote chapter and verse from that movie. (Although, since Nephew asked me that, I did finally pick a favorite: "Witchfinder General," which is on the boxed set.)

With Price, you think of moments. Drowning in wine in "Tower of London." The magic duel with Karloff in "The Raven." The wine-tasting duel with Lorre in "Tales of Terror." His sweet, touching farewell in "Edward Scissorhands."

I miss Vincent Price. He was erudite, witty and he never, ever denigrated the maligned genre we dearly love.

NAUGHTY NURSE, ET AL

2007-10-18T23:14:00.000-04:00

This time of year, borderline softcore comes right to your mailbox, unsolicited, tucked between the pizza-chain coupons and drug-store-chain flyers.

I'm talking about flyers for "party" and costume stores advertising Halloween costumes.

You can depend on a page or two of what are called "fantasy" or "hot" or even "adult" costumes. These feature many photos of women who look like enhanced exotic dancers in provocative poses, wearing tight and/or flesh-baring costumes.

A girl pirate in a push-up ... a circa-'90s Britney Spears type ... a girl officer in hot pants and fishnets dangling handcuffs ... a naughty nurse ... a naughty Little Red Riding Hood ... a naughty referee ... a naughty cabbie (?) ... and so on.

I'm not trying to sound sanctimonious about this. I know many guys and gals -- myself included -- who get a kick out of these flyers. They make good "water cooler" fodder. Me 'n' some friends were picking our favorites. One pal called this "the most wonderful time of the year." I concur. All this, plus candy corn and scary movies?

BIG-SCREEN "EXORCIST"

2007-10-17T17:52:00.000-04:00

The same gang caught "The Exorcist" (1973) at the same theater over the weekend.

I'm so glad we did. The print was sweet and the movie came alive. Max Von Sydow trembling in the Iraq winds ... Ellen Burstyn chain-smoking and cursing a blue streak ... Jason Miller wrestling with his fading faith and dying mother ... Lee J. Cobb working his old-school magic ... Linda Blair projectile-vomiting ...

Nearly all of the special effects still hold their own in the post-CGI age. (Only the head-spinning now looks cheezy.) The nasty profanity still shocks, even though much of it has indelibly entered our vernacular. ("Your mother darns socks in hell," anyone?)

But I had to ask an "Exorcist"-obsessed colleague to explain a few things.

Q: Did Von Sydow's Father Merrin bring the Devil back with him from Iraq?

A: First of all, it wasn't "the" Devil -- it was Pazuza (not to be confused with Luciana Paluzzi, the smokin' Italian actress). Secondly, Merrin wasn't re-awakening Paluzzi, er, Pazuza in Iraq; he was reading the signs that Pazuza was returning to again do battle with him. (Hence, the reference to Merrin's earlier exorcism in Africa.)

Q: Why did Miller's Father Karras turn into a monster briefly? Did he kill Pazuza by jumping out the window?

A: Pazuza jumped from the body of Linda Blair's Regan into that of Karras, hence his monsterization. As Karras jumped out the window, Pazuza jumped ship. My colleague said the "last rites" scene at the end was very important, because it showed that Elvis had left the building.

Q: Why didn't someone trim Lee J. Cobb's ear hair? Don't they have makeup people on set?

A: The ear hair, however distracting, was part of Cobb's characterization of a curmudgeonly old detective.

I thought it was funny how Cobb's Detective Kinderman was a movie buff, throwing around movie stars' names. (Kinderman mentions John Garfield, Sal Mineo, Jackie Gleason, Lucille Ball and Groucho Marx.) I was half expecting him to mention his real-life self. You can almost hear Kinderman say, "You remind me of Lee J. Cobb from 'On the Waterfront.'"

BIG SCREEN "PSYCHO"

2007-10-11T22:30:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I caught "Psycho" on the big screen with some friends. Every weekend at Clearview Cinema in Ocean Township, they show classics for a lousy five bucks PLUS they raffle off movie swag. So far, I caught "Citizen Kane," "Goldfinger" and "Psycho."

I was crowing about this to Nephew, who's in his sophomore year at the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan. I mean, here's a kid who's a subway ride away from Film Forum, the Ziegfeld and any number of revival houses and campus screenings. So I put it like this: "Y'all are used to this in the big city, but to us in the 'burbs, it's a big deal."

"Psycho" really stood the test of time. Saul Bass' opening titles STILL looked modern. The soundtrack was nice and loud, though it sounded flat, since it was monophonic (and we modern movie audiences are so spoiled by booming stereo sound).

Janet Leigh's Marion Crane still looked fantastic in and out of lingerie. The steamy post-coital scene at the beginning held up; none of it seemed faked or softened due to studio pressure. Anthony Perkins didn't play Norman Bates as a psycho, but as a seriously repressed -- but somehow charming and disarming -- young man.

Alfred Hitchcock's storytelling was at its apex. The kills, as often as we've seen them, still punch you in the face. How many times have you seen the shower scene? It still rocked. When Martin Balsam's private eye walks up the stairs, you KNOW what's going to happen, but it still makes your heart race.

"Psycho" only got two unintentional laughs.

At the end, when Marion's sister Lila (Vera Miles) asks the psychiatrist (Simon Oakland) if Norman killed Marion, he says, hammily, "Yes -- AND no." Big laugh. Also, the audience cracked up when Marion's boyfriend (John Gavin) asked, "Why does he dress that way?" and a cop blurts out, "He's a transvestite." Other than that, this movie still kicked.

A co-worker suggested that "Psycho" should be included in the list of films with the best closing shots of all time. I have to say it would be a brilliant addition to that list. The final shot is of Marion's car being pulled out of the swamp. Think about it. She's in there, wrapped in a shower curtain, decomposing. And the $40,000 -- which was a MacGuffin throughout the movie -- is right next to her.

Sick.

"DEATH PROOF" REVIEWED

2007-10-07T20:05:00.000-04:00

I'm boycotting the "Death Proof" and "Planet Terror" DVDs. I will plunk down my hard-earned if and when they put out a DVD titled "Grindhouse" that duplicates the experience I had in the movie theater -- the fake trailers, the two movies cut as they were theatrically, etc.

To me, this splitting-up of "Grindhouse" into two DVD sets is like saying: "All you people who got up off your (posteriors) to see 'Grindhouse,' (expletive) you. We're catering to the people who DIDN'T support 'Grindhouse' at the box office. Since they stayed away from the theaters in droves, we're putting it out on DVD the way THEY apparently would have wanted it. AND we'll make more bucks while we're at it!"

Just 'coz I'm boycotting the "Death Proof" DVD at the cash register, doesn't mean I won't watch it if a work friend lends it to me.

It was great to see "Death Proof" again -- but it just made me miss the whole "Grindhouse" experience. As for the longer, re-cut "Death Proof" -- since I went to see "Grindhouse" three out of the three weekends that it played theatrically, it was very easy for me to spot the additional scenes. Besides the lap dance and a sequence that shows Stuntman Mike initially scoping out the Zoe Bell posse, there's not too much here that's different -- except that there's even MORE foot fetish stuff in this cut.

Honesty, the cool-lookin' metal DVD box is the whole reason to buy this thing.

Amazingly, there's no commentary with the movie. The second disc is, to me, just padding. You feel like you need a shower after all those self-congratulatory "documentaries." Which is all DVD extras have devolved into: quick-cut "docs" of talking heads, scenes from the movies and an overall creepy atmosphere of self-congratulation -- like a party that you get to watch through a window, but you're not REALLY invited to.

Oh, AND that you're paying for.

It's just non-stop QUENTIN TARANTINO IS A GENIUS ... KURT RUSSELL IS A LEGEND ... I WROTE THE PART FOR ZOE BELL ... ALL THE STUNT DRIVERS REALLY DELIVERED ...

We peons are tired of it, you self-absorbed Hollywood back-slappers.

"3:10 TO YUMA" REVIEWED

2007-10-04T23:31:00.000-04:00

BLOGGER'S NOTE: You are again warned that spoily spoilers follow.

I had the same problem with "3:10 to Yuma" that I had with "The Brave One" -- I was asked to swallow implausibilities dry, only to become alienated by a head-scratching "twist" ending.

But I liked the Russell Crowe/Christian Bale Western much more than the Jodie Foster revenge drama. (Neither film suffers from a deficiency of gunfire.)

I've been in a Western phase. I'll watch anything from low-budget '30s "oaters" to '40s singing-cowboy flicks with Roy Rogers and Gene Autry to sweeping John Ford classics to weird spaghetti westerns. A little more than two years ago, I inexplicably fell in love with the genre. (I remember I was forcing Kathy to watch John Wayne oaters; she would laugh at them.)

But I didn't feel compelled to see "3:10 to Yuma" -- that is, until I spotted a still with Peter Fonda. That's all I needed to buy me a ticket.

Fonda was glorious. He looked like hell -- in a good way. I was liking this movie. But then came those pesky implausibilities.

Early in the film, Fonda gets gut-shot. It looks like he's gonna die. A veterinarian yanks out the bullet. The next thing you know, Fonda is right as rain, and riding with the posse. Wha?

And why was Russell Crowe allowed a fork to eat dinner with? Given his character's reputation, they should have Hannibal Lecter-ized this dude!

Still, I was down with this movie.

Then came the near-climactic scene in which Crowe has his hands around Bale's throat, strangling him. Bale croaks out a little biographical anecdote, and Crowe turns sympathetic, suddenly deciding that he and Bale should run a gauntlet of bullets, Newman-and-Redford style. Crowe then whips out his gun and wipes out his own gang -- the one that spent the entire movie trying to liberate him.

I think I'll watch go home and watch "Jessse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter" (1966) to erase the bad taste of that ending.

"THE BRAVE ONE" REVIEWED

2007-10-02T22:20:00.001-04:00

BLOGGER'S NOTE: To avoid spoilers, don't read this column. To avoid a lousy movie, DO read this column.

I will always love Jodie Foster for her amazing, flawless Clarice Starling in "Silence of the Lambs," but I don't know if I'd outright call myself a Jodie fan. I wouldn't necessarily seek out a Foster flick. "The Brave One" just happened to be a mutually agreeable film for Marge-in-Law and myself one recent afternoon.

It's a bleak, cynical film. There's not a laugh to be found. Throughout, you're being asked to swallow implausibilities dry.

After the setup (and believe me, it FEELS like a setup) -- in which Foster is beaten within an inch of her life by thugs in Central Park, and her fiance is killed -- it's Revenge Time for Jodie.

In about one minute, with zero underworld connections or savvy, Jodie scores an unlicensed firearm. Without looking for trouble, she stumbles onto a subway terrorizing and a fatal shooting at a bodega. Before long, our girl is regularly blasting away at the bad guys.

The implausibilities soon become even harder to swallow. In her role as a radio host, Jodie begins interviewing the very detective who is investigating HER shootings, played by Terrence Howard. AND -- are you seated? -- Terrence is starting to have feelings for her.

The most ludicrous is saved for the last. Terrence, throwing his ethics out the window, looks the other way as Jodie pumps lead into the final baddie. He then orders Jodie to shoot him in the shoulder, as part of a cover-up he cooks up on the spot.

My idea for a sequel has Jodie and Terrence continue their killing spree, bringing ultimate justice to baddies who probably would have languished in the system. But every time they bag a baddie, Jodie must shoot off another of the detective's body parts -- an ear, a toe, a testicle. The title would be "The Brave Two: This Time it's Personal."

BACK FROM HELL

2007-09-30T19:29:00.000-04:00

I just made it through seven days and seven nights of fever.

I got up to 102.8 degrees at one point. I'm a 49-year-old guy who is thick around the middle. I was wondering if I was gonna die. Well, I wondered all KINDS of things, because I was delirious most of the time.

Also, I'm a BIG BABY whenever I have a fever. I usually keep my problems to myself, but last week, if someone said, "How are you?" I'd say, "I'm delirious with fever." If I knew my current temperature, I would tell them. No one wanted to hear it, but I was a BIG, DELIRIOUS BABY.

I worked at the office anyway. PAGE X and CELEBS must go on! Luckily, I didn't have any big extra projects last week. (I'm making up for that THIS week.) I got it down to a routine where I would come in at 1 and catch about five more-or-less lucid hours. I was loopy, and dripping with sweat, but I could work. People would say, "What are you doing here? You should go to a doctor." I'd say, "If Kathy were alive, she'd never permit this. But what can I do? I'm frickin' delirious!"

After those five lucid hours, I would start to feel chilly, and then I'd start to shiver. Once I got the shakes, it was time to get home pronto. There, I would have hallicinatory daymares. I would stress about what I had to do the next day in order to make my deadlines. I could only sleep after popping a couple of "PM" pain relievers. It was not a restful sleep, but it WAS a sleep.

I told my brother I might not make the Mad Jack and Scream practices Friday and Saturday. The deal I made was if I still had a fever on Friday morning, I'd stay home. I went to sleep on Thursday with a 101.05 temperature. In the middle of the night, my pillow-case felt like it was soaked with a garden hose. A few hours later, I felt almost normal for the first time. "It's over," I thought. But that morning, I had 100.2.

Well, heck, 100.2 was a Jelly Krimpet compared to what I'd just been through. So I fudged a little on my "deal," drove to South Jersey and made both rehearsals -- sitting in a chair, singing at half-volume, with a beach towel around my neck.

Sorry I've been such a baby. But, as with all my Web columns, this is just between you and me, and I know you care about me.

I'M BURNING UP!

2007-09-25T16:23:00.000-04:00

I apologize to my blog readers that I didn't post on Sept. 23 as predicted.

Even as I type this in, I'm burning up with fever.

But I have so much to talk to you about. While I was away from the office, I saw two theatrical releases, "The Brave One" and "3:10 to Yuma." (You know I'm in a two-year-plus Western phase, and you know I worship Peter Fonda.) I have rehearsals coming up this weekend. (God willing, If this thing ever breaks.) I had lunch with two old college buddies, one of whom I hadn't seen in 16 years. And I played my songs for Kathy on my acoustic/electric Takamine.

So anyway, please hang in there. Maybe by tomorrow, I'll have enough energy and brain power leftover to post a coherent blog. (When you see my PAGE X feature this Friday -- an interview with one of my favorite guitarists of all time, Earl Slick -- feel free to marvel at the fact that it was produced, writing AND design, in under five hours with a hot forehead.

And not the first time, baby. Don't cry for me. THE DEADLINE WAITS FOR NO MAN.

LAST POST UNTIL 9/23

2007-09-14T01:16:00.000-04:00

(Program note: This will be my last post until Sept. 23.)

Yesterday, I said goodbye to my grief counselor.

It was my decision.

My previous session had been something like seven or eight or nine months ago. I honestly can't remember exactly how many months it had been; I'd scheduled yesterday's appointment that far in the future.

I'd known it was time to cut myself loose, but I made that far-off appointment as a kind of "lifeline." Not coincidentally, I scheduled it for around the time of the second anniversary of losing Kathy. Funny thing is, I didn't even call to verify if his office still had me on the schedule. I just nonchalantly materialized, as if I had been in the week before. "Your 1 o'clock is here, doctor," I heard the receptionist say.

To be sure, I'd had some rough times in that wide gulf between appointments. But as I told close friends with whom I might discuss my counseling, "He gave me the tools." I knew I could make it.

I naively thought that in this final session, he and I wouldn't have any "work" to do -- that I'd simply thank him for everything he's done for me (I will always be so, so grateful), catch him up a little on my situation and fade into the sunset.

But it was a fairly active session. I bawled, almost from the moment I walked in. He opened a huge book to fine-tune a definition. To the end, I was prescribed some exercises. So we were really going at it.

And then fade into the sunset, I did.

This week, I will visit Kathy. I'll bring my (rarely used) cell phone and try calling my mother-in-law and sisters-in-law from there. I'll bring a guitar -- my acoustic/electric Takamine, the same one I serenaded Kathy with at the Manasquan Inlet on our wedding day in 1986. (I sang Led Zeppelin's "Thank You.")

And then I'll try my best to get on with the rest of my life.

L.A. IN '87 (#2 OF 2)

2007-09-06T23:17:00.000-04:00

More recollections of L.A. in 1987:

I had two touristy goals while visiting Los Angeles in 1987 -- one realized, one not.

I had been reading Errol Flynn's autobiography "My Wicked, Wicked Ways." Flynn wrote that he and John Barrymore used to panhandle at Sunset and Vine as a lark. I SO WANTED TO DO THAT! I just wanted to mutter "Spare change?" and get someone to cough up a quarter, on the EXACT SAME SPOT that Flynn and Barrymore once did. But Kathy overruled me. "You idiot, you'll get arrested," she said. (Kathy was never one to spare your feelings.) I then pictured spending a night in an L.A. jail cell.

But I DID get to do "a spot of whittling" (that is, shaving a piece of wood with a knife) in front of the "Beverly Hillbillies" mansion, just like Uncle Jed used to when I was a kid.

Once when we were shopping at a mall, we spotted Robert Hegyes, who played Juan Epstein on "Welcome Back Kotter" and was then in the cast of "Cagney and Lacy." (I'd met Hegyes before at, of all places, my old alma mater Glassboro State College. Hegyes was a GSC alum, and one day in 1977, he visited the campus and taught an acting class I was enrolled in.)

At the mall in L.A., Hegyes and his lady were behind us on the escalator. I turned and started to say, "Hey, didn't you ..." Hegyes smiled and nodded. (He expected the rest of the sentence to go something like, "... used to be in 'Welcome Back Kotter?'") Instead, I said, "... go to Glassboro?"

Hegyes' eyes got wide and he busted out laughing. He probably NEVER heard that one before. I then said, "Just kidding, Robert. I went to Glassboro and met you there once."

One more memory: Kathy photographed me doing something rude with Marilyn Monroe's handprints at Grauman's Chinese Theater. I'll leave it go at that.

L.A. IN '87 (#1 OF 2)

2007-09-06T22:03:00.000-04:00

When I learned that MTV is amping up the 2007 edition of its Video Music Awards, I thought, "Where did the time go?" It was a reminder that it's been 20 years since Kathy and I spent a week in Los Angeles (during which time I covered the VMAs for the Asbury Park Press). Thinking about the trip brought back a flood of memories.

I remember we had an audience with Dennis Hopper while he was in post-production on "Colors," a gang-themed drama he directed starring Sean Penn and Robert Duvall. (One of Kathy's best friends, who hosted our trip, worked on the film.) I presented Hopper with the original artwork for a comic strip I had published about his drug-induced descent into madness and his then-recent comeback in the films "Hoosiers" (for which he received an Oscar nod), "Blue Velvet" and "River's Edge." Hopper laughed that crazy laugh of his at my (not altogether flattering) comic strip, and then autographed a reproduction of it for me, reading his inscription aloud: "To Mark: Life's a bitch, thank God. Love, Dennis Hopper."

When I spotted Ellie, the inflatable love doll from "River's Edge," decorating Hopper's office, I recounted the tense liquor-store scene in which Daniel Robuck pulls a gun on the cashier while Hopper -- with Ellie tucked under his arm -- casually inquires if a certain beer is in stock. As I quoted the line of dialogue, imitating Hopper, I guessed at the beer: "Heyyy, mannn, do you carry Miller?" Hopper corrected me without missing a beat: "Bud in bottles."

Then Kathy, her friend and myself had lunch in the Lion's Gate commissary with Hopper's daughter, Marin, who went on to become the fashion director of Elle magazine.

One night, four of us went to what was described as the hottest nightspot in L.A. at the time. (I can't remember the name of it, and I doubt if it's there any more.) It was a huge converted warehouse. Outside, it had the velvet rope and the security guards before those things became a movie cliche, so this elitist ritual was news to us.

You could only gain admittance three ways: (1) if you were a celebrity, (2) if you were extremely hot, or (3) if either a celebrity or someone extremely hot vouched for you. We got in via option #3. You'll never guess who vouched for us: Gerardo Mejia, who would later score a hit song/video with "Rico Suave." Gerardo wasn't nationally famous at the time, but he was known around L.A. as a hunky struggling actor and choreographer. He played a gang member in "Colors" and knew Kathy's friend. It's so weird to be able to say, "Gerardo got me into a club."

FIRST REHEARSALS

2007-09-02T22:53:00.000-04:00

I just returned from South Jersey, where we had the first rehearsals for our planned Nov. 2 double-bill of Mad Jack and Scream.

To review: Mad Jack is my guitar quartet founded in 1976 that plays Foghat, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and originals written in the '80s. Scream is my band of high school outcasts founded in 1973 that played David Bowie, Roxy Music, '50s oldies and weird, primitive originals with titles like "The Crimson Cult" and "I Walked With a Humanoid." (One Scream member is flying in from California just for the gig. THAT'S friendship.)

The Mad Jack rehearsal was our first with newest member The Kid, who, come to think of it, is turning us into a guitar QUINtet. The Kid is quick on the uptake, and seems to be having a good time with us old men. (I've got 30 years on this punk.)

Mad Jack will again be playing "Wicked Ways," a Purple-esque original that the Burners took over and transformed via the Maestro's Purple-esque keyboards. I think the last time "Wicked Ways" was played live without the Maestro was in 1990, at a gig we call "Bepstock." I remember the year because I wore a "Dick Tracy" (the movie) T-shirt. Mad Jack is now reclaiming "Wicked Ways" as a guitar song. We're "fierce-ing" it up a bit. I was a little nervous about how it would sound (spoiled as we were by the Maestro's lush Hammond stylings). But once I heard the boys kick in, I was amazed and happy.

Mad Jack is working hard on the Outlaws' stoner epic "Green Grass and High Tides." All the ingredients are there; we just have to tighten up some transitions and sift in some dynamics. Sadly, though, I don't know if I'm "butch" enough to pull off the cowboy hat.

The Scream practice the next morning was strange but fun. It's just me (vocals and guitar), Brinie (bass) and Jazzy (drums). Vo (the dude in California) will get a "dirty" CD of our next rehearsal, and practice along with that. But in the meantime, we're laboring under the theory that if Brinie, Jazzy and I had a gun to our heads, we could do the show as a mere trio. When Vo comes in and adds his magic, it'll be (much needed) icing on the cake.

Much of the practice was devoted to the 11-minute "Scream Medley," which strings together 12 Scream originals. It sounds like a grand waste of time -- who in the world will care? -- but I know it's going to be my favorite moment of the night.

The funny thing about the Scream reunion is that we're exclusively doing songs we used to do from sophomore year on. Like, we decided not to challenge ourselves and suddenly start playing "Belexis" by Kansas. Of course, we're all better musicians than we were back when we tramped through the hallowed halls of Cherry Hill High School East. Hopefully.

MORE JOHN FORD

2007-08-30T19:24:00.000-04:00

After laying off for a while, I delved back into that VHS John Ford collection I inherited from a friend -- a John Ford freak who upgraded to DVD.

"The Informer" (1935) is a tour-de-force by brawny, pug-faced actor Victor McLaglen. McLaglen's Gypo turns in his friend Frankie McPhillip (Wallace Ford), an Irish rebel with a price on his head. McPhillip is killed in a subsequent shootout. But Gypo squanders the 20-pound reward (largely on booze) in one "Twilight Zone"-esque night.

"The Informer" reminds me of a '30s horror film, for a few practical reasons.

In his famous period epics, Ford exploited vast landscapes. Here, he is trying to convey a gloomy Ireland at night, using Hollywood backlots. So the sets are dark and stylized, a la "Dracula," "The Invisible Man" or even "Svengali."

Also, there are a couple of faces that we horror geeks know well. Off the top of my head, I can name several horror films Ford was in: "The Mummy's Hand," "Freaks," "The Ape Man," "The Mysterious Mr. Wong." Then there's Una O'Connor as Frankie's brokenhearted mother, who was in "Bride of Frankenstein" and "The Invisible Man." O'Connor's climactic scene with McLaglen is probably her finest hour (among many).

I also caught "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" (1962). This later Ford film almost seems like Ford had proven all he had to prove, and now was settling down for a few breezy laughs (not that the story is a comedy). And what a cast: Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, my hero John Carradine, Lee Marvin (as the title cad), Lee Van Cleef (as a sinister henchman), Andy Divine (never more hilarious), Woody Strode (as ever-reliable ranchhand Pompey) and on and on.

One aside came to mind that kind of cracked me up.

The film is set in the old West and largely told in one long flashback. But the bookends at the beginning and end show a West that has been more or less civilized thanks to the railroad, the telegraph, etc.

At the beginning of "Valance," Senator Ransom Stoddard (Stewart) unexpectedly comes to town. A young newspaper reporter dashes to an old-fashioned public telephone hanging at the train station, cranks it up and phones the scoop into the office.

I had to laugh, because up until about 15 years ago, technology hadn't advanced much since the period depicted in "Valance." In my time, I've phoned "scoops" into the office via pay telephones. Today, that whipper-snapper would simply whip out his iPhone and update his myspace to tell the world that Senator Stoddard has arrived. But nobody would care, because Senator Stoddard isn't an "American Idol" contestant, a reality-show star or a celebutante charged with a DUI.

GET THEE TO MONTCLAIR

2007-08-27T01:00:00.000-04:00

Since we last met, I buzzed up to Montclair Art Museum with some friends to take in the comic book-themed exhibit spearheaded by "Batman" executive producer Michael Uslan. I can only say that for any comics-history buff, this exhibit is a 100 percent, absolute must-visit.

With my own eyes, I got to see what is, for me, the Holy Grail: "Action Comics" No. 1 (1938), the first appearance of Superman -- or, for that matter, of ANY superhero.

I'd never seen a copy of "Action" 1 in person before, only reprints. It was under glass, of course, with a security guard hovering nearby. It looked so frail and fragile sitting there -- like it was just another comic book. It had a little bit of what we anal-retentive collectors call "spine roll," revealing the edge of yellowed pages. It's hard to believe that the whole thing sprang forth from this modest piece of printed material!

Next to it was "Detective Comics" No. 27 (1939), the first appearance of Batman. But under the glass, this copy of "'Tec" 27 was also sealed in plastic for grading purposes (a comic-book-geek thing I won't bore you with at this moment). As such, I just didn't feel the same vibe from it that I felt from the copy of "Action" 1. Henceforth, I feel as if I a have a relationship with "Action" 1; but I felt twice-removed from "'Tec" 27. It's a comic-book-geek thing.

But there are so many history-making books to see in this exhibit: "Captain America" No. 1, "Sensation Comics" No. 1, "Wonder Woman" No. 1, "Showcase" No. 4, Dr. Fredric Wertham's anti-comics diatribe "Seduction of the Innocent," and on and on. There are many pages of original artwork, and a screening room continuously running a History Channel documentary about comics. A highlight is a room devoted to artists Joe, Andy and Adam Kubert, with three '40s splash pages by papa Joe, including an unpublished Hawkman page. (Comic-book geeks are now drooling.)

Not to mention the museum's many wonderful permanent installments, such as its American Indian section and a painting of George Washington for which the father of our country actually sat! I love this museum.

Of course -- and I'm starting to sound like a broken record, or should I say a corrupted iPod -- revisiting Montclair Art Museum provided many "habituation" moments. Kathy and I twice visited MAM to take in its 2003 exhibit on the paintings of Man Ray, "Conversion to Modernism," which Kathy dearly loved. She purchased MAM's book about the Ray exhibit, which I brought with me last week to have autographed by an in-house essayist. What a sentimental fool I am.

LAST POST UNTIL 8/26

2007-08-17T00:20:00.001-04:00

(Program note: This will be my last Web column -- OK, blog -- until Aug. 26.)

Our next gig -- the Mad Jack/Scream double-bill -- is continuing to shape up. It's looking like Friday, Nov. 2, in Gloucester City, but it's not booked quite yet.

Mad Jack, staunchly a four-piece, has broken tradition and added a fifth member. I'll just call him The Kid. He's 19 years old. I'm the old man in Mad Jack at 49, which makes me 30 years older than The Kid. What are we going to talk about? I'm gonna have to buy an iPhone and start watching "Heroes." All joshing aside, The Kid is really terrific, and he's done a lot of work on behalf of we four sagging, slowing, dimming midlife-crisis victims.

Since the guys are all in South Jersey and I'm here, they sometimes have weeknight "satellite" practices without me. My brother played me some of last night's practice. They were working on "Green Grass and High Tides" by the Outlaws. They sounded sweet. It's been a dream of Brinie's and mine to do that song all our playing lives!

When we were high school kids, you were in one of either two camps: "Freebird" or "Green Grass and High Tides." Both were long Southern-rock jams with lots of screeching guitar, but the similarities ended there. Me 'n' Brinie were firmly in the "Green Grass and High Tides" camp. When I'd be listening to, say, WMMR, and those spooky opening notes would come on, I would immediately put life on hold.

It's not an easy song to do. You need three guitarists, and they've gotta be sharp. The Kid is going to make it happen for us. Hell, I might even wear a cowboy hat.

WISH OR MONEY-STEALER?

2007-08-15T22:42:00.000-04:00

This time of year, you might see milkweed pods -- those little, white, wispy things that float by in the summertime.

When we were kids, we called them "wishes." Catch one, and you can make a wish. It didn't matter whether or not the wish ever came true. When you're a little kid, the very act of wishing is an end unto itself.

Later in life, I heard someone call them "money-stealers." If you let one touch you, your piggy bank or your wallet might get a little lighter.

That's quite a difference in definitions. If you're in the "wish" camp, you run after these things. If you're in the "money-stealer" camp, you run FROM them.

Today, I was nearby to a woman I know and her little angel of a granddaughter, who is just under 3 but is very articulate for her age. A milkweed pod was floating by. I heard the little girl say, "What's that?" Nana didn't see the milkweed pod, so I thought I would step in and answer. I had a split-second debate: "Do I say 'wish' or 'money-stealer'?"

(As I've shared before, we Irish are superstitious. My answer could be the chaos theory in action. My gentle influence could decide whether this little girl will consider milkweed pods to be friends or foes for the rest of her life! It's a responsibility not to be taken lightly.)

"That's a wish," I said.

The little angel smiled. I think she "got" it right away. I made the right choice. Those things don't steal your money. They grant wishes.

SMOKE 'EM IF YA GOT 'EM!

2007-08-09T21:57:00.000-04:00

It was New Year's Eve 2004, and a bottle of bubbly awaited in the refrigerator, but Kathy and I decided not to pop the cork.

How could we celebrate when so many people had been killed, or their lives ruined, by the Dec. 26 tsumani?

I think it was my suggestion to abstain in observation of the stricken.

Stupid idea.

It turned out to be our last New Year's Eve together. We will never drink to the new year again.

So I say unto you, brethren and sistren, that if thou hast them, thou shouldst smoke them.

My father was a great believer that you should celebrate while the celebratin's good. And you know something? He was right. For the last few months of his life, he'd lost the power to swallow, so he wasn't drinking any champagne, either.

Show-biz folk say, "The show must go on." I'm a great believer in that. To we journalistic types, deadlines are king.

Heck, when Kathy died, my brother and sister-in-law had to talk me out of coming to the office! It's not that we're cold. It's just our training.

I read a story -- one I like to assume isn't entirely apocryphal -- that Lou Costello once told his little son to listen to his daddy on the radio that night. Tragically, the boy drowned in the Costellos' swimming pool. But Lou didn't cancel his radio performance. The story goes -- and this is the possibly apocryphal part, but I dearly hope not -- that Lou said that he'd told his little boy to listen, and somewhere -- heaven? -- the boy would be listening. Lou didn't want to let him down.

SMOKE 'EM IF YA GOT 'EM!

MEETING BERNIE

2007-08-06T16:22:00.000-04:00

"Not everybody got what Bernie did," said harmonica player "Big Nancy" Swarbrick of Bernie Brausewetter, the South Plainfield blues guitarist who died April 15 at the tragically young age of 52.

I know exactly what she means. I call what Bernie played "super blues" or "cosmic blues." It wasn't traditional blues like B.B. King or Buddy Guy. It was weird, trippy, spaced-out blues like Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Winter or Robin Trower. Even among the last three guitarists mentioned, there are wide gulfs -- wide, beautiful gulfs.

Bernie reminded me most of Trower, who is not as widely known as Henrix or Winter. To me, Hendrix is a '60s cat; Winter is a '60s/'70s cat; and Trower is FIRMLY a '70s cat. And I am, at heart, a '70s cat.

The first time I met Bernie was when he opened for Johnny Winter at the former Club Bene in Sayreville. I think the year was 1998. Kathy and I were covering Johnny's show. We didn't know from Bernie's band, B.B. and the Stingers. (By the way, don't you agree that it's pretty ballsy to use the acronym "B.B." for the name of a blues band? "B.B." was kind of already taken.)

Over the years, we've seen many local bands opening for past-their-heyday artists. But the Stingers got through to me immediately. Once Bernie started playing, I could hear all that cosmic '70s stuff flying through the ether. I shouted to Kathy over the loud music, "This guy's awesome! Shoot his set!"

Anyway, we met Bernie and the guys, and they were very sweet. I did a few interviews with Bernie over the years. We would see him around; we went to see him play a little bar in Long Branch, ran into him at The Stone Pony. He would call me with career updates, send me his postcards. Now, he and Kathy are both gone.

It just goes to show you: If there's someone in your life who you appreciate, TELL 'em once in a while.

"THE SIMPSONS MOVIE"

2007-08-01T20:25:00.001-04:00

Me 'n' some pals caught the midnight premiere of "The Simpsons Movie" last Thursday at Monmouth Mall. People have been asking me what I think of the film. I kind of hem and haw and say, well, the crowd loved it. It must just be me.

I loved the first half-hour -- all the jokey setups. It was a rush hearing the sound of a live audience laughing at the jokes, after more than 15 years of laughing at home while watching "The Simpsons" in my living room. It was almost like a reward.

But then at mid-point, the movie started getting kind of, I dunno, "heartfelt" (as TV episodes often did). And then it began to barrel toward the Big Movie Ending (as, again, TV episodes often did). This is when "The Simpsons Movie" lost me.

But here's what I SUPER, SUPER DUG about attending that midnight screening.

Preceding the film, there was one insipid "family friendly" trailer after another. We saw trailers for "Bee Movie" (Jerry Seinfeld didn't make enough sitcom money, so he's grabbing that easy animated-franchise-voiceover money); "Daddy Day Camp" (Cuba Gooding Jr. continues to risk having his Oscar revoked); "Alvin and the Chipmunks" (you'll lose all respect for Jason Lee when you see him scream "ALVIIIIN!" and the camera zooms into his mouth); "Horton Hears a Hoo" (for the second time, Jim Carrey causes Dr. Seuss to spin in his grave). And those are just the ones I can remember off the top of my head.

But the response of the midnight crowd after each trailer was priceless. No one shouted. No one cursed. Everyone just grumbled.

After every sappy, sugary, cynical, tell-Mommy-to-bring-you-to-this-movie trailer, the audience just grumbled the kind of grumble that usually follows, say, an announcement that your train is being delayed.

FICTIONAL FOOD

2007-07-28T21:08:00.000-04:00

Over the past couple of weeks, I've eaten four "Movie Donuts" -- a confection tied into "The Simpsons Movie."

That's four steps in the opposite direction of good nutrition. But it was glorious.

Well, the first Movie Donut was glorious, anyway. The second, third and fourth Movie Donuts were, as we Irish like to say, a case of "flying in the eyes of God."

Movie Donuts are sold at 7-Eleven convenience stores for 89 cents. They sell out quickly. They have pink icing and sprinkles. The moment you lay eyes on one, you recognize it from the many donuts you've seen Homer Simpson eat at his workstation at the nuclear power plant. It's positively iconic.

I remember the first time I realized that I have a problem resisting fictional food.

When Tim Burton's "Batman" was released in 1989, McDonalds offered tie-in toys with Happy Meals. I ate a bunch of Happy Meals to collect the toys, and soon began to notice a change in my physiognomy. The same thing happened three years later, when I ate a bunch of fast food to collect "Batman Returns" drinking cups.

In 1994, when "The Flintstones" came out, I vowed not to eat fast food just to collect the tie-in glass mugs, however spiffy. But apparently, the marketing geniuses were prepated for that. They created a new sandwich named after a fictional sandwich from Hanna-Barbera's 1960-66 animated series, "The Flinstones." If memory serves, it was the "Bronto Burger."

Maybe I had a shot at resisting everyday fast food to collect tie-in toys, but there was NO WAY I could resist eating the same sandwich my hero, Fred Flintstone, used to eat when I was a little boy. I saw this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to eat fictional food. (And, actually, I was right. Bronto Burgers didn't stay on the menu after "The Flintstones" movie limped out of the multiplexes.)

Today's Movie Donut is the same situation. But, of course, now I'm 13 years older than I was when "The Flintstones" came out. And those were 13 hard years. I don't burn this stuff off as quickly.

So if you're listening, Jebus, give me the strength to decline Movie Donut No. 5.

BERNIE TRIBUTE

2007-07-26T20:33:00.000-04:00

My crew and I bopped into the Bernie Brausewetter tribute around 9 p.m. Sunday night at The Stone Pony in Asbury Park. I missed Supreme Court's set but I was there for Matt O'Ree, Billy Hector and the all-star jam at the end.

Matt was out of this world as usual -- really rippin' it on a couple of Hendrix tunes and some of Bernie's originals. Matt played with at least two bassists and two drummers, maybe more. His last song was one of Bernie's, an instrumental titled "Tears." I know I wasn't the only one with some tears before the song was over.

Billy showed up without knowing what he was going to play or who he was going to play with. Brother and Sister-in-Law, who are huge Billy freaks, keyed me into Billy's technique. He'll just start by playing a riff for the bassist and drummer. The guys will follow, and off Billy goes. With a vocal cue here and there, or a raised eyebrow or hand signal, Billy tells the boys what he wants them to play. It's pretty amazing to watch. The guy really comes alive during his solos.

The all-star jam was a real event: four guitarists doing "Little Wing." You'd think a subtle song like "Little Wing" would be a mess with four guitars, but everyone onstage had the wisdom and restraint to underplay -- unless, of course, it was their turn to unleash a solo.

The Bernie tribute was such a bittersweet occasion. Being among all of these people who knew and loved Bernie was heartwarming. Not having Bernie be one of them was heartbreaking.

You may have read my JERSEY ALIVE! cover story previewing the event. When I was working on it, I remember asking "Big Nancy" Swarbrick of Supreme Court if she thought it would be too painful for Bernie's mom to speak with me. "She's a tough old broad," Nancy said. Seeing Norma May at the tribute to her son, I must concur. Around 11 p.m., she was on the floor watching Matt O'Ree's set. Someone brought her a chair. She waved it off.

Tough, indeed.

GO SEE "CHAPTER TWO"

2007-07-21T23:07:00.000-04:00

OK, I lied; here's a blog a day earlier than predicted.

I buzzed in early to review last night's New York Dolls show at The Stone Pony in Asbury Park, which was a real love-fest. Tomorrow, I'm going to try to catch some of the Bernie Brausewetter tribute at the same venue. (I also plan to share some Bernie memories with you in my next blog.)

But for now, I wanted to talk about Neil Simon's "Chapter Two," which is being performed at the Pollak Theatre at Monmouth University in West Long Branch through July 29.

GO SEE IT.

I caught opening night on Thursday, and it was like that old cliche: I laughed, I cried. I laughed because Simon is a witty linguist, and the bright four-member cast made his wonderful words come alive. I cried because "Chapter Two" is about a man who loses his wife tragically young, so a lot of it was pretty close to home.

Bryan Cranston -- the Emmy- and Golden Globe-nominated actor who played daddy Hal on "Malcolm in the Middle" and dentist Tim Whatley on "Seinfeld" -- stars with his lovely wife, Robin Dearden. Rounding out the cast is another married acting couple, Monmouth County residents Bill and Georgette Reilly Timoney. The two couples are close friends offstage, which adds resonance in the strangest places, such as the hilarious scene in which Bill's character tries to seduce Georgette's character.

(As I shared in an earlier blog, I've known Bill since the '80s, therefore I could not formally review the play. Thank goodness for this far-less-formal blog format, because I sincerely recommend this production of "Chapter Two.")

These four are having a ball up on the Pollak stage and, I strongly suspect, finding laughs that aren't necessarily in the script. But it's not all fun and games; the Cranstons worked up visible tears during one emotional scene.

After the performance, the cast met the audience in the lobby for cookies and bubbly. That rascal Bill confessed that he nicked a bit of business from a performance of "Chapter Two" he witnessed on Broadway in the '70s. Georgette said she was gratified to hear the audience laughing at points that were, of course, dead-silent during rehearsals. We charmed audience members craned our necks to learn these backstage tidbits.

It was just a sweet evening -- another reminder that the Jersey Shore is a place like no other, where magical things can happen, and often do.

Click here for more information.

LAST POST UNTIL 7/22

2007-07-09T00:24:00.001-04:00

As the kids say, I'm Swayze until July 22. I'm gonna swim for two weeks. I have lotsa cool stories comin' out while I'm gone -- 12, to be exact. It's too much to keep track of, so I'm gonna purge 'em from my noggin the minute I waltz outta here.

On the band front, a couple of things fell together just this week. One is the realization that the Burners have officially flatlined. Our drummer Jazzy (who was on loan from another South Jersey club band, Sordid Past) has left us without so much as saying, "We have to talk." It's funny -- someone said to me, "It should be easy to find a drummer." You'd be flabbergasted. At our age, to find someone who can play this challenging material -- and especially, not be a substance abuser -- is just this side of impossible. I'm not saying we would take out an unreliable bandmate the way Tony Soprano took out Chris Moltisanti, but we'd consider it. Life is too short to be babysitting 40-somethings.

The other thing: It looks like the onstage reunion of my high school band, Scream, is really going to happen! Since one of us has to fly in from Los Angeles for the occasion, this is pretty huge stuff -- to us. In a frenzy of activity, brother Brinie finished mixing the 11-minute "Scream Medley" we recorded in March and e-mailed it to everyone. We've figured out many of the show logistics. Scream would be the "special guests" of Mad Jack (our guitar quartet), but in a twist, Scream would go on last. Jazzy (yep, the same guy who quit the Burners) is Scream's drummer. Mad Jack, who opened for the Burners at the last two gigs, would finally headline for the first time in our lives. We're shooting for late October to mid November in Gloucester City again. Maybe this time we'll slink over to Cheerleaders between sets?

See you in two weeks, brothers and sisters.

A MESSAGE FROM KATHY

2007-07-08T18:37:00.000-04:00

On Friday, I was heading out to a field assignment and I needed a fresh cassette for my hand-held recorder. I reached up into a closet where I keep blanks, and grabbed one with the cellophane already removed. It looked as though it had been played for 15 or 20 seconds, but there was no label on it. I popped it in to make sure it wasn't some unlabeled interview tape. I heard a dial tone, and then I heard the sound of a number being dialed, and then I heard ringing on the other end, and then I heard Kathy's voice.

"Test, test, test. Mark's probably having lunch. Test, test, test."

Then I heard my outgoing office message: "You've reached Mark Voger ..." etc., etc. "... please leave a message."

Then Kathy again: "Hello, darling. I'm testing your machine right now. I might have it going. Still try to get that piece. We should have a backup here. I don't know how long this is going to last, or if it's even working. Please call me. Love."

BEEEEEP.

Her voice was so crystal clear, I could have almost talked back to her. This surprise tapped into a problem I've been having: I'm afraid of forgetting her, of forgetting what she sounded like or what she looked like. After all, time is marching on. In 10 days, it'll be 22 months.

On the assignment later that day, I found myself interviewing an actor while we both sat on a stage on which, a few years earlier, Kathy had posed another actor for a photo shoot. The following evening, I reviewed a show in a venue that, two years ago this month, was Kathy's final professional field assignment. The "habituation" moments are still flying, fast and furious.

Even the content of Kathy's message is such a reminder of how much that girl supported me in my work. (She was testing a telephone tape recorder at home, because I do so many telephone interviews that I burn through recorders every few years.) I believe she became a freelance photographer in order to spend more time with her workaholic husband. I remember her once telling me, when I was obsessing about work, that on my deathbed, I would regret the time I spent working instead of being with her.

I already do.

CHILDHOOD DAYMARE

2007-07-03T18:19:00.000-04:00

In reading "The Little Rascals: The Life and Times of Our Gang" by Leonard Maltin and Richard W. Bann, I flashed back to a bad memory from my childhood. I was once traumatized by an "Our Gang" comedy short. I'm not kidding.

When I was very little, from about ages 4 to 6, I was afraid of photo enlargements of insects and certain creepy sea critters such as crabs, shrimp and lobsters. All those fuzzy, alien-looking, tendril-y things made my skin crawl. I sometimes wonder if it's because I was born in 1958, when the "BEM" (bug-eyed monster) movie craze was still in full swing. I couldn't watch movies like "Them!" or "The Beginning of the End" or "Tarantula" or "Fiend Without a Face."

I remember once, when I was a tiny kid, looking at a children's book at a neighbor's house. On the back cover was an advertisement for other books by the same publisher (a Golden Book imitator), which showed some sort of children's science book with a closeup of an insect or a lobster on the cover. It scared the (expletive) out of me! When "The Outer Limits" aired the episode titled "The Zanti Mistfits" -- about bugs from another planet with human faces -- I hugged my dad the whole time.

Anyway, there was an "Our Gang" episode that REALLY FREAKED ME OUT. It stayed in my psyche for a lifetime. I now know its title, thanks to Messrs. Maltin and Bann. In "Fishy Tales" (1937), Alfalfa (Carl Switzer) fakes a leg injury to avoid a beating by Butch (Tommy Bond). To do so, he sticks his leg in a secret hole in his bed. But underneath the bed is Junior (Gary Jasgar), who puts a crab and a cat on Alfalfa's hidden foot, to Alfalfa's panicked screaming.

I remember being about 5. My family was watching it on a Sunday morning. Everyone was laughing except me. I couldn't fathom what everyone found funny about this terrible situation Alfalfa was in.

But now that I know the title of this childhood daymare of mine, of course, I want to confront my fears and watch it again.

TOR'S TWIN

2007-07-01T22:10:00.000-04:00

A couple of days after losing Kathy, I was wandering in a daze in a supermarket while my dear brother and sister-in-law were loading up a shopping cart on my behalf. I saw a little selection of dollar DVDs. There was a two-for-a-dollar double-feature DVD, "Carnival Story" and "Cassandra Cat." On the back was a small photo from "Carnival Story" of a circus strongman who looked a lot like Tor Johnson (the swedish wrestler who played Lobo opposite Bela Lugosi in Ed Wood's "Bride of the Monster").

In that terrible, terrible time of my life, anything that interrupted my thoughts of the tragedy were few, far between and in their small way, golden. But I didn't buy the DVD; there would be no celebrating for a long while.

Ever since, when I shopped at that supermarket, I would still find copies of that dopey DVD. Every time I looked at it, I flashed back on that desperate moment when life as I knew it had come to an abrupt end. But I still wouldn't buy the DVD. The reason: according to imdb.com, Tor Johnson was not in "Carnival Story."

However, the more I looked at that little photo, the more I was convinced that this must be a rare instance in which imdb was wrong. Finally, about two weeks ago, I bought the damn thing.

Well, it ain't Tor. It's a guy named Ady Berber who, from a distance, looks like Tor's twin. He plays Groppo, a dimwitted strongman with a heart of gold. Tor would have made a meal of this role, but then again, Tor made a meal of just about everything he encountered.

There were two nice surprises in watching "Carnival Story," a 1954 circus soap opera filmed in Germany with a largely American cast: (1) It was directed by Kurt Neumann, who also made "The Fly," "Kronos," "Rocketship X-M" and four Tarzan movies, and (2) Anne Baxter had a smokin' body. I'm sure a lot of you knew that already, but I only had a 1973 "Columbo" episode to judge by.

Just to bring closure to the experience, I also watched "Cassandra Cat," a fantasy made in 1963 in Czechoslovakia (original title: "Az prijde kocour"). I have to say it's the WEIRDEST MOVIE I'VE EVER SEEN.

On the cobblestone streets of a Czech village, a strange circus comes to town playing Dixieland. The ringmaster is the twin brother of the village hobo. The star of the circus is a female acrobot wearing a red leotard so tight, she might as well be naked. She carries a cat that wears sunglasses. During her act, she removes the sunglasses and the cat looks at the audience, seeing what lurks in their black hearts. This causes the audience to panic. The village schoolmaster, who has as much clout as a mad dictator, orders the cat killed and stuffed. (He doesn't want everyone to know he is shagging his secretary.) In protest, all of the children in the village disappear. I forgot to mention that when the cat looks at people, they change colors according to their sins.

I would describe "Cassandra Cat" this way: It's one of those movies that makes you want to swear off LSD, even though you've never done LSD in your life.

BRUTALLY HONEST

2007-06-28T22:43:00.000-04:00

One of my mottos -- and I don't say this self-servingly -- is: "Honesty is the best policy." I learned it from watching "Leave it to Beaver" reruns. Half the problems that poor kid had would evaporate if he only stopped with the coverups.

Richard Nixon could have learned a lot from Theodore Cleaver. But those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it.

When Nephew was only 4 and he said, "Batman is cool!" I said, "Yeah, Batman is cool!" Then when he said, "Turtles are cool!" (meaning the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles), I said, "Turtles are beat!" ("Beat" was our slang for uncool.) Nephew had an initial look of confusion -- like, "Hey, this adult is not patronizing me" -- and then I saw the light go off. "Ah, Uncle Vogie disagrees with me. So that's how it works."

When Neice was 4 or 5, everyone would tell her how beautiful her blond curls were. But I told her, "You have the second-most beautiful hair in the family." (The first-most beautiful hair was my own. Ted Nugent WISHES he had my mop.)

I was also brutally honest with my Kathy. I always told her, "You are the second-most beautiful woman in the world." She knew who No. 1 was: French supermodel Laetitia Casta. Why should I have lied to her?

LUCY'S "MAME"

2007-06-26T19:58:00.000-04:00

The 1974 musical "Mame," Lucille Ball's final theatrical film, has been released on DVD as part of a Lucy box set. That brings me back to the time my whole family went to see the film when it first came out. I remember two things vividly: (1) the lens looked like it was smeared with Vaseline during every closeup of Lucy, and (2) my father hated it so much, he walked out of the theater, leaving his family at the mercy of this awful movie.

On the way to the theater, my parents were having a discussion in the front seat. Dad: "I'm NOT going to this movie." Mom: "This is a family outing."

Us three kids in the back were getting a bit stressed. I whispered to my little brother, "I know what Dad's doing. He's setting us up. He's pretending he's going to hate it, but then he'll love it, and then we'll ALL love it."

Dad relented. We arrived at the theater, paid for our tickets and took our seats. The movie began.

A few minutes into the movie, you see Lucy for the first time. She's dancing on a table in a '20s "flapper" costume. (In my memory, she's got a black feather boa around her neck and she's clutching a glass of champagne.) At that moment, my dad says very audibly, "That's IT!" and tells my mom, "I'll be back to pick you up." He then marched out of the theater.

People sometimes have a hard time understanding that story. You just had to know my dad.

NOW SUPERMAN TORTURES?

2007-06-21T22:08:00.000-04:00

When the deplorable Abu Ghraib torture photos surfaced in 2004, a lot of people bought the line that this was the work of isolated M.P.s and not an officially sanctioned approach to the interrogation of detainees. After all, we're the good guys. The good guys don't torture -- officially. That's something the Nazis did in concentration camps and the North Vietnamese did at the "Hanoi Hilton."

Then, in 2006, Vice President Dick Cheney publicly endorsed the interrogation technique known as "water boarding."

We've all noticed a shift in the culture. I've read that the TV show "24" is full of torture -- I won't watch it because I can't stand Keifer Sutherland -- though my brother, an avid "24" fan, told me he's never noticed any torture on the program. I've certainly seen good guys torturing bad guys on "Lost," and more than once.

But when I opened DC Comics' "Superman/Batman" #35 recently, I couldn't believe what I saw on the fifth page of the story.

At "Blackgate Penitentiary, 20 miles outside of Gotham City," Superman is saying to bad guy Metallo, "I'm not going to ask you again." (Superman wants to know what Metallo was trying to steal from Waynetech.) Metallo is hanging by his arms, which are bound in sci-fi-looking restraints. Metallo taunts Superman, "Your threats'd have a bit more bite to 'em if you could get close enough to lay a finger on me. That is, without dyin' of Kryptonite poisoning." (Metallo has Kryptonite innards.) "I don't need to lay a finger on you, Metallo," Superman says as his eyes begin to glow red. He aims his heat-vision at Metallo's shoulder (it makes the noise, "ZZZZZZZZ") and burns off some of Metallo's flesh.

OK, it's synthetic flesh. And Metallo is a cyborg. And this is a comic book. I get that.

But Superman is an icon -- the first and greatest of the costumed superheroes. The character has been around since 1938. I'd wager that's before writers Mark Verheiden and Marc Guggenheim; artists Pat Lee and Craig Yeung; and editor Eddie Berganza were born. Take a look at that page and tell me if you don't see something sickening.

MORE "SOPRANOS" CLUES

2007-06-18T22:03:00.000-04:00

I've been watching the finale of "The Sopranos" nonstop for three days. I've blacked out my windows with cardboard and duct tape so I don't know if it's day or night. I get pizza or Chinese delivered every fifth viewing. As Lon Chaney Jr. once said of being made up as the Wolf Man, "We won't discuss the bathroom." That's a verbatim quote.

It was time well spent. I've unearthed more amazing clues from the "Sopranos" finale:

Nancy Marchand again appears posthumously as Livia Soprano. Through the magic of digital technology, she's the cook who lowers the onion rings into the fry-o-lator at Holsten's.

Steven Van Zandt's wig is too low on his forehead in the hospital scene.

Journey's lyric "Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit" from "Don't Stop Believin'" is an anagram for (are you sitting?): "Tony will die after the seventh onion ring." Get out your Scrabble pieces and try it!

In a flashback, Bobby Baccala says, "At the end, you probably don't hear anything. Everything just goes black, and then you get nothing but gangster roles for the rest of your career."

SOPRANOS FINALE

2007-06-14T20:07:00.000-04:00

To me, the final sequence in "The Sopranos" finale was brillante. And not just because I'm an onion ring fan.

It's all in your noggin what happened after the abrupt blackout -- sort of like Rocky Sullivan at the end of "Angels With Dirty Faces." (Did he REALLY turn yella, or was he doin' Father Jerry a huge solid?)

If instead, we had seen Tony Soprano waltz into the sunset with a veal-parm sub under one arm and a stripper under the other, it would have seemed like a reward for all of the lying, stealing, cheating, bullying and murdering we've seen Tony do since '99.

But since, in a weird way, we WERE rooting for Tony all along (don't deny it), it would have been a horrible thing indeed to see him get what he really deserved.

This way, we were spared both unpleasant conclusions. I think.

Some random thoughts: Loved that Phil whacking. The man always looked so resplendent in his tailored suits and perfectly pomaded hair. But on the lam, in his fuzzy purple sweatsuit, he looked as powerless as a Miami retiree.

Going back an episode, I thought time was too condensed. Too much happened. Events that would have taken up whole episodes flew by in moments.

Cheers: The Baccala whacking was so inventive, right down to the miniature plastic "onlookers" in the toy train sets. Jeers: But Dr. Melfi "firing" Tony seemed rushed and gratuitous.

Of all the episodes of the series, the last two are probably the most dense. There's a lot to absorb. It hasn't all sunk in yet. And with no more "Sopranos" episodes on the horizon, we've got the time to let it.

FIRST DAY LILY BLOOMS

2007-06-10T22:44:00.000-04:00

Two visuals combined in an instant to trigger sadness and a smile today.

I'm sure you get solitications for donations from charities through the mail -- who doesn't? A trend in recent years has some charities sending you sheets of custom mailing labels with your name and return address. The hope is that you'll send a donation for this unsolicited "gift." (My policy is to discard the labels unless it's a charity I donate to.)

I was sorting my mail at my patio window. Such an envelope was addressed to Kathy, with her name printed over and over on 50 colorful mailing labels. A knife in the heart.

At that exact moment, I looked out the window and saw the first two day lily blooms of the season. I love day lilies; Kathy did too. I love driving along back roads in the summer and seeing that crazy orange glow in my peripheral vision.

But Kathy was the gardener, not me. For the second time since losing Kathy, the blooms have begun -- an unsolicited gift from my late wife.

But in her fashion, these day lilies are the rare red- and yellow-colored ones, not the common orange ones. I like orange best; Kathy liked yellow and red. (We disagreed on so many fundamentals.) Today's blooms were both yellow. So just in case I forget who it was who picked, planted and nurtured these particular day lilies, their color provides a loud hint.

PARIS HILTON SPRUNG

2007-06-07T22:14:00.000-04:00

Stop thinking bad things about Paris Hilton for getting sprung from jail after serving only five days of her 23-day sentence.

The poor thing was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, for goodness sake.

She'll learn her lesson being under house arrest in her mansion.

Although, her mansion is probably a real nice place with a lot of luxurious amenities.

Don't you wish YOU were sentenced to 23 days of house arrest in Paris Hilton's mansion?

And stop thinking that justice is for sale in America.

Although -- can ANY prisoner now get sprung if they claim to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown? Is this a can-of-worms moment?

Oh, right -- just the ones who can afford psychiatrists who make cell calls.

Hey, that was unintentionally funny: "Cell calls." Not as in cell PHONE calls -- as in JAIL cell calls.

JOHN FORD FREAK

2007-06-06T20:32:00.000-04:00

I inherit some neat VHS tapes from people who upgrade to DVD. Someone I know recently handed me a box of store-bought "Abbott and Costello" TV shows! I'd never seen any of these treasures. (I grew up in the Philadelphia viewing area.) Joe Besser as Stinky is so bizarre and hilarious, words can't do it justice.

A friend I'll call John Ford Freak recently upgraded to DVD, and decided that I must inherit his Ford VHS's. "You'll love these," he insisted, although I've never really felt a connection with the Ford westerns. I always thought they were too old-fashioned. I think my Dad may have liked them. I did appreciate "The Lost Patrol" thanks to its manic Boris Karloff performance; I adore "The Informer" because it's a compelling drama; and I've always loved John Wayne, if not necessarily his westerns.

Anyway, John Ford Freak not only gave me this huge stack of Fords, he even told me the order in which to watch them. I've got three down so far, and of course, I'm in love. I've watched "The Searchers," "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" and "Rio Grande." Wayne is great, but he's no match for Victor McLaglen, who effortlessly steals every scene he's in. And Maureen O'Hara is, as the Duke astutely observes in "Rio Grande," a "fine figure of a woman." But this we knew from the Charles Laughton "Hunchback of Notre Dame" and especially "Miracle on 34th Street."

TILLIE FLIES AGAIN

2007-05-31T21:59:00.000-04:00

I thought I'd share a link with you. A comic strip I wrote and drew was recently published in the Asbury Park Press' 2007 Summer Guide. See and hear an audio slideshow version of it by clicking here.

I hadn't drawn for the Press in years. (Longtime readers may remember that from 1987 until 1993, I did a weekly Sunday strip called "Rocktoons." And I was good for several illustrations a week when I first joined the Press in 1983. That was another lifetime.)

Since I was 5, it was my dream to become a professional cartoonist. Alas, I've done a lot of cartooning professionally, but I never became a professional cartoonist. I reserve that exhalted title for people like my old buddy Steve Breen. That guy's got Pelican Ink in his veins.

When I began illustrating this latest strip -- titled "Beach Blanket Bistros" and starring arcade icon Tillie -- I was pretty darned rusty. I began with the Popeye-themed panel (the easiest one to draw) and built my way up to the opening panel of Tillie flying over a panoramic vista (by far the most challenging). It was fun getting my "drawing chops" back. It was like falling off a bike!

TWO "SOPRANOS" TO GO

2007-05-29T15:06:00.000-04:00

Hard to believe there's only two more "Sopranos" to go.

A friend theorized that the ony way "The Sopranos" could end with a "full-circle" or "series finale" feel would be for tragedy to visit the house of Tony. In other words: Death for either Tony, Carm, Meadow or A.J. (Now, of course, we're wondering if A.J.'s suicide attempt satisfies this condition. The answer is no.) As Book pointed out, the bloodied Monopoly game piece after the Tony/Bacala brawl at the lake house could be a premonition of "blood on Tony's house."

I think Tony's little visit to Coco's restaurant was some of the most jarring violence in the series. Nephew explained that what Tony did to Coco was called a "curb stomp." YIKES. Tony finding that tooth in his trouser cuff during the sit-down with A.J.'s therapist was a classic "Sopranos" moment; you recoil one moment, laugh the next.

I thought Butchie was gonna get it in that same scene. I kind of wished he had. When he later answered Philly's door -- acting like the queen of the clique, deciding who gets to enter the cool kids' party -- I thought, "That's it. Please take this guy out some time in the last 120 minutes, Mr. Chase."

Anyway, Philly and A.J. are the only "pending" storylines. Even those alleged terrorists have fled the country. It's looking more and more like the show is merely going to end, which is too bad. I won't necessarily bemoan a no-frills finale. I'll simply bemoan the end, itself, of a show that looked like it would never jump the shark.

MR. MAGOO

2007-05-21T15:25:00.000-04:00

"Give this man satin undies, a dress, a sweater and a skirt, or even the lounging outfit he has on, and he's the happiest individual in the world. He can work better, think better. He can play better. And he can be more of a credit to his community and his government, because he is happy." -- From "Glen or Glenda" (1953) by Edward D. Wood Jr.

I recently had another "habituation" moment. There's this fella, a cross-dresser that you see around the area I live in. He's not what you would consider a particularly glamorous cross-dresser. I would call him an Ed Wood-style cross-dresser; he totally looks like a guy in a dress and a bad wig. He has 5 o'clock shadow and everything.

Kathy used to say that wherever she went, she would run into this guy, who she nicknamed "Mr. Magoo." (Don't ask me how she arrived at that name.) We'd run into him at the diner, the post office, the boardwalk. I think Kathy even saw him coming out of the ladies' fitting room at a mall department store once.

Kathy's been gone 20 months now. I hadn't thought about Mr. Magoo until I ran into him a couple of weeks ago. Seeing him made me very sad, very suddenly. I know Kathy would have turned to me and said, "I can't get away from this guy!" I think the fact that it took so long after her death for ME to run into him kind of proves her theory.

GIG MEMORIES

2007-05-17T20:13:00.000-04:00

We packed the house and we rocked the house. It was my best gig ever -- but I've been saying that the last three gigs, so I guess I'm just the Boy Who Cried Best Gig Ever.

We set up the night before. One thing you notice pretty quickly about the area -- there was a go-go bar called Cheerleaders next door. A few stops down, there was an adult book store. Across the street, there was ANOTHER adult book store. So this stretch of the highway, at least, was a mecca for, shall we say, aficionados of adult entertainment.

A heartbreaking (for me) technical setback was discovered during setup: My Guitarbug wireless unit was buzzing something awful. Which meant it couldn't be used. Which meant if "Tube Top" showed up again, I wouldn't be playing my guitar between her legs. I swore a blue streak, and then sucked it up. (P.S.: "Tube Top" was a no-show. Boo hoo.)

The next night, Mad Jack opened with "I Just Wanna Make Love to You." We connected intensely with the crowd. We nailed it. We were ferocious. We never played it like this before. It was the best single performance of any song I've ever played in my life, bar none. The room went immediately nuts. (But then it trailed off right away, and it took until our three-song finale to get it back up again.) At the end of "I Just Wanna Make Love to You," I remember thinking, "I'm done. I can't give anymore. That's all." But we had four hours to go.

There was no dressing room, but we had the next best thing: a tight little storage room off the stage with a door and a light. We made the most of it. We did quick changes and guitar-swappings amid shelves of cooking accessories, wine glasses, napkin boxes and one GIGANTIC olive jar. Between sets, I freshened up my eyeliner using the reflection from the lid of a catering heater.

The Burners opened with "Under My Thumb." It worked like a charm. Maestro's xylophone sound was eerie. Bad Bobby played some tasty stuff. Our "Dueling Godfathers" comedy routine was a noble flop (which was no surprise). "Let's Spend the Night Together" was magical. The six-song dance set worked as we'd hoped. I still had my wireless microphone, so I worked the long room, dragging people to the front. Once and future Burners singer Chris Walthy joined us onstage for two songs.

We had some local celebs in the audience, such as motorcycle customizer Biker Bobby, who designed a rideable motorcycle equipped with a useable stripper pole; founding Dead End Kids guitarist Kelly James; and lots of musicians from the South Jersey bar scene.

Six of us limped into a diner for omelettes at about 4 a.m. I still had my "racoon" eyes and black nail polish. Nobody in the diner flinched. They're quite accustomed to weekend weirdos.

LAST NIGHT'S "SOPRANOS"

2007-05-14T22:35:00.000-04:00

WHOA!

Last night's episode of "The Sopranos" was probably the most jaw-dropping ever. My heart was pounding out of my chest the whole time.

When Tony put his hand over Christopher's beak, I kept saying, "Don't let go ... don't let go ..." Isn't that weird? A girl I know, who is a devout Christian, commented that the car accident provided a "good opportunity" for Tony. It's so weird how we root for the bad guy on this show. I kept saying to people, "Didja see how many times that car rolled? All because Chrissy was high!"

When Tony started confessing to murders in a session with Dr. Melfi, and then it wound up being a dream, everybody in my viewing group immediately started screaming profanities at the screen. You see, we initially thought the entire accident was a dream. When we realized that just the Melfi session was a dream, we calmed down.

A friend commented that Carm's panicked response to the news on the phone was fine acting, whereas Kelly's scream and dropped phone was OBVIOUS acting. I don't want to denegrate the younger actress, but Edie Falco IS in a class by herself.

The Paulie's mom/aunt thing was a nice counterpoint to the Chrissy thing. (No, I don't subscribe to the theory that Chase is now whacking characters wholesale.) Paulie's great line: "I ordered 500 Mass cards!"

People -- myself included -- have been expecting, or at least hoping for, a big bang at the end of the series. I think we just saw the big bang. For all intents and purposes, I think we just saw the "farewell" episode of "The Sopranos," and that the final three will trail off from there. Think back. The first time we saw Chrissy -- in Season 1, Episode 1 -- he was driving Tony and saying something along the lines of: "My mom says I'm too sick to be driving today." The kid was never second-to-the-boss material. So there's a definite full-circle feeling here. But complicated. Like life.

POLLEN AND PINE HILL

2007-05-09T22:34:00.000-04:00

Wish me luck, Dear Reader. Friday night is "go" time. I took tomorrow (Thursday) off so's I can drive to South Jersey and help set up the stage. It'll be me, Brinie, Nephew, Maestro, maybe Jazzy and maybe Karch.

All this pollen gave me a sore throat for about three days. I was worried that it was a cold and would carry into the gig, but it faded. When I got to my brother's for our final Mad Jack rehearsal, he and Nephew were leaf-blowing. Usually, I join in on whatever chores are going on at my brother's, but in this case, I sat inside watching television like a wuss rather than lend a hand. I wasn't going to play the hero with six nights to go until a gig at which I will sing for about four and a quarter hours with a few breaks here and there. I'm smarter than I look. Thank God.

On Saturday, me 'n' Brinie actually played a gig -- well, one song. What happened was, The Burners' guitarist and drummer, Bad Bobby and Jazzy respectively, are in a quartet called Sordid Past. They were playing a gig at the Pine Hill Tavern in Pine Hill, plus it was Mrs. Bad Bobby's birthday. Me 'n' Brinie were invited to play a song. Sordid Past gave us a lo-o-ong list of songs to pick from. We chose The Beatles' "I Saw Her Standing There," because Mad Jack is doing it on Friday and we've been practicing the hell out of it. I strapped on one of Bad Bobby's guitars. He said, "Dirty or clean?" meaning the sound. Of course, I chose "dirty." We did OK. It was a lot of fun. Maestro showed up too, meaning all of The Burners and half of Mad Jack were on hand. (We didn't hand out any of our gig postcards, though. Brinie said that would have been terrible band etiquette.)

Later in the night, a young student of Bad Bobby's played sax on "Mustang Sally." The kid was great! Me, Brinie and Maestro all want him to join us Friday on "Brown Sugar." I don't know if Brinie or Maestro asked Bad Bobby, or if Bad Bobby asked the kid. But that would be sweet. This kid could NAIL Bobby Keys.

Anyway, when I get back, I'll let you know all about what happened in Gloucester City.

BUSTER'S COLUMBIA SHORTS

2007-05-08T22:37:00.000-04:00

I recently watched the DVD boxed set "The Buster Keaton Collection" (Sony Pictures), which presents 10 short comedies starring my cinematic hero, Buster Keaton.

I assumed they'd be silent shorts. To my surprise, Buster made 10 sounds shorts at Columbia in 1939-41, the home of the Three Stooges. Eight of the 10 were directed by Jules White, the guy who helmed most of the Stooges' shorts. The sets, props, film stock, sound effects and players are all very recognizable from the Stooges shorts (which are BURNED into the memory of anyone my age -- 48 and counting -- from the Philadelphia television viewing area). Vernon Dent and Bud Jamison, familiar faces from the Stooges shorts, are in most of these. So these are kind of like Three Stooges shorts with Buster Keaton instead of the Three Stooges!

I watched each short twice, with and without commentary. The commentary was excellent throughout. Nobody is pretending that this is Buster's finest work, but nobody is outright trashing it, either. Nor SHOULD they. Everyone seems knowledgable on which gags were Buster's and which gags were foisted on Buster by White.

Buster is amazing in these. He's in his mid 40s and taking a LOT of punishment. Sometimes he resembles the '20s "young genius" Buster; sometimes he resembles the '60s "beach party movie" Buster.

"Pest from the West" is the best of the bunch, and the "purest" Buster. It also has the biggest budget. Buster wears a lot of costumes and sings a hilarious song accompanying himself on ukulele. "Mooching Through Georgia" is a Civil War piece with echoes to Buster's masterpiece, "The General." "Nothing But Pleasure" has lots of car gags. "Pardon My Birthmarks" is copy boy Buster on a train with a parrot, a gangster's wife and, eventually, the gangster. "General Nuisance" has a hilarious dance routine between Buster and Elsie Ames (who is in most of these and, though a bit over-the-top, matches Buster pratfall for pratfall). Other titles are "The Taming of the Snood," "The Spook Speaks," "His Ex Marks the Spot," "So You Won't Squawk" and "She's Oil Mine."

The Columbia shorts represent Buster's brief -- and final -- return to old-fashioned slapstick in short form. Buster never really did it again after this, so it's an historically significant series and a real find for Buster fans.

"SCRUBS"; O'MALLEY'S

2007-05-03T19:57:00.000-04:00

Tonight's the night!

My little niece will be on NBC's "Scrubs" in another couple of hours. A few of us will be tuning in here at the office. I was thinking of bringing in Bugles as a telesnack, but I then thought that would be too salty and greasy. So I brought in a coupla bags of Tropical Chex Mix With Almonds instead.

I sent my niece a card with a drawing of myself and two co-workers who are planning to watch. I'm guessing her scenes will be brief, so I'm VHSing the episode.

It's been a while since I've written about the big Mad Jack/Burners double-bill set to take place at 8 p.m. May 11 at O'Malley's Bar & Grill in Gloucester City.

Rehearsals have been a lot of fun. We Burners made our show a bit more danceable, a bit less stadium-rock-ish, by losing a few numbers, bringing back a few (such as "Magic Carpet Ride") and introducing three new songs, all by the Rolling Stones. We're even opening with one of the new ones, just to give the whole show a new complexion. With the new venue, the elevated stage with the built-in light show, a remodeled set list and some new comedy bits, the show should feel pretty fresh.

The Burners are doing one more rehearsal without me, to brush up on some endings, etc. Me and Mad Jack will be getting together this weekend to run through our 90-minute set two more times. I'm being SUPER careful not to catch a cold.

AND I'm getting pretty hungry for that Tropical Chex Mix With Almonds.

"SOPRANOS," EPISODES 3 AND 4

2007-04-30T14:35:00.000-04:00

My two cents on "The Sopranos," Episodes 3 and 4:

Would, or could, Tony have whacked Paulie? I always thought that -- ratting to the Feds and dancing in gay bars notwithstanding -- "made" men were whack-proof. (For instance, Tony went to great lengths to hide his complicity in the murders of Richie and Ralphie.) But my nephew pointed out that if Tony believed it was Paulie who leaked the fat joke about Ginny Sack to Johnny Sack (thus igniting a bloody New Jersey/New York rift), that alone would give Tony the license to silence Paulie forever.

The Uncle Junior storyline was amazing. For a brief moment in his dotage, Corrado rose back to his former mob-boss stature -- or, let's say, a nursing-home version of same. There he was, running a card came (with Kit-Kats and Cokes instead of thousands of dollars), cultivating cronies and beating up that professor. Then, alas, it was back to reality. The young actor who played Junior's disturbed fleeting henchman gave an excellent performance.

The Little Vito thing -- OY. David Chase could easily, and blamelessly, declare the Spatafore storyline finito, and leave those loose strings untied (as he likewise could have done with Johnny Sack), in order to focus on building toward the series finale. But Chase proves again and again that every character can be explored and developed. And what Little Vito did in that gym shower -- OY.

The fight between Tony and Carm was brutal. The look of resignation on Carm's face when Tony actually got physical with her seemed so genuine. What Tony said about iffy lumber causing Carm's spec house to collapse and kill an unborn baby is a case of -- as in real life -- hurtful words spoken in a moment of passion that can never be taken back.

Seeing Nancy Sinatra say, "Congratulations, Philly" to Phil Leotardo was hilarious. Her father always tried to play down (if not outright deny) his mob connections, and here Nancy plays herself practically giving the new boss of New York a lap dance. What a sport. Remember when her brother likewise appeared as himself?

My brother asked me, "Why did Tony return the money (after Hesch's lady died)?" It took me a 90-minute car ride to develop a theory. The Tony who returned Hesch's money was the same Tony who apologized to Carmela. He realized in both cases that he was hurting two people he cared about.

I AM SEEING RED!

2007-04-26T14:43:00.000-04:00

I AM SEEING RED!

You know me, the Metal Men completist. That also makes me a Metal Men purist. You may have read my previous Web columns -- OK, blogs -- criticizing DC Comics for messing with the Metal Men's origin, or for cavalierly using the Metal Men for fleeting cameos in order to "up" the character count in DC's infernal ongoing imitation of the '80s "Crisis on Infinite Earths."

Superman/Batman #34, just out, gives the robot team a lot to do for a change, but at a price. Willy-nilly, they've added a character and renamed another!

With zero fanfare, we suddenly have Copper, another female robot. The sole original female member of the robot team, Platinum (nicknamed "Tina") has suddenly been renamed "Platina." Would they rename Batman?

Not to mention the fact that artist Pat Lee is drawing the Metal Men in a manga-ish (to me) style. Tin, especially, is unrecognizable. (Read about Superman/Batman #34 by clicking here.)

I can't help but suspect this out-of-the-blue amping up of the Metal Men will somehow seep into the announced movie project. I can only hope Lauren Shuler Donner (who claims to have a long-held love for the Metal Men) will follow Alex Ross' example, and present the Metal Men as created by editor/writer Robert Kanigher, penciller Ross Andru and inker Mike Esposito -- the REAL Metal Men. These characters survived reasonably intact for a good 40 years before these punks took over.

"GRINDHOUSE," TAKE 3

2007-04-22T15:59:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I caught "Grindhouse" a third time (with a friend who wanted to go).

So, considering that Movie Boy and other in-the-know types are predicting that this is the final weekend for "Grindhouse," I can hold my head high that I supported this thing at the box office.

People have complained that "Grindhouse" is too long, or that Quentin Tarantino's segment is too "Tarantino-y," and not "grindhouse-y," enough. Both arguments are probably valid.

Truthfully, Tarantino's segement breaks the rules of "Grindhouse." Robert Rodriguez and his fellow fake-trailer directors -- Eli Roth (‘‘Thanksgiving"), Rob Zombie ("Werewolf Women of the SS") and Edgar Wright ("Don't")-- keep it real with their homages to '70s and '80s grade-Z schlock. Then Tarantino takes over and delivers what we've come to recognize as a Tarantino film (to say a "typical" Tarantino film would not be fair), with only a few film scratches and jump cuts to link it to the whole. And, of course, the car-crash/girl-gang/vintage-music thing, which would not be out of place in ANY Tarantino movie.

I ain't complainin', though. I could listen to those girls talk forever (especially the second group: Tracie Thoms, Zoe Bell, Rosario Dawson and Mary Elizabeth Winstead). I marvel at their long dialogue scene captured in one shot.

I had no new revelations on Viewing 3 except to add that Michael Parks is the MAN.

"SOPRANOS" EPISODES

2007-04-19T21:49:00.000-04:00

Everybody's talkin' 'bout the first two episodes of the final season of "The Sopranos."

Here's my two cents:

Christopher's distraction ("Cleaver") is one thing, but when he slept with that junkie chick Tony earlier courted (Julianna Margulies), THAT was disrespectin' the boss. (Remember when Tony belt-whipped Assemblyman Zellman for taking up with his old "comare"?) Tony didn't belt-whip Chrissy, but this considerable slight made him question Chrissy's loyalty -- hence Tony's discussion with Bacala in the boat. Tony has made it clear time and again that when it comes to appointing a right-hand man, blood is key. But Tony sounded like he was willing to stretch the issue by heaping more confidence on Bacala who is, after all, a brother-in-law if not a brother.

That is, until the drunken Monopoly brawl.

That was a jaw-dropper. Who, like me, thought Bobby was gonna get his face rearranged when he and Tony took that little ride the next day? Tony assigning Bobby to take out Laundry Boy was penance -- and probably not the ONLY penance.

I'm sure you picked up on this: When Janice spilled to Carmela about an old "boyfriend" who hit her and made her go ballistic -- "I'm not proud of it" -- she was talking about the late, unlamented Richie Aprile. "In the end, he went his separate way," is one way of putting it.

What a surprise to see Johnny Sack again. With all the pressure to wrap up "The Sopranos" with a nice, pretty ribbon, David Chase could certainly have left that character alone. But "The Sopranos" never fails to surprise. What a touching coda for the character. A friend said Vince Curatola should get an Emmy for that one episode.

The restaurant whacking in Episode 2 had echoes from the restaurant whacking in "Godfather" I.

I found Little Carmine's TWO speeches unbearable. Who wants to hear about this idiot's dream or his light dinner after skinnydipping? You could just feel Tony seething.

Where is Chase going with Phil Leotardo? How will the Tony/Christopher thing play out? Why does Carmela keep bringing up Adriana? I can't imagine how they're going to wrap this thing up, but I hope we aren't disappointed. "Sopranos" fans DON'T expect that pretty ribbon, but at the same time, we've come to expect so much from this show. The bar is high.

"GRINDHOUSE," TAKE 2

2007-04-15T15:01:00.000-04:00

I saw "Grindhouse" again over the weekend. Couldn't stay away.

The movie haunted me all week, and I decided I couldn't wait for the DVD. And since I heard producer Harvey Weinstein was disappointed in the opening-weekend take, I thought I'd cast my vote for culture and buy another ticket.

Once again, Rose McGowan stole the film out from under everyone. Her portrayal of Cherry Darling is hypnotic; she somehow makes Robert Rodriguez's (albeit, intentionally) cliche-ridden dialogue ring true. And when she's firing off that machine-gun leg of hers, it's party time.

I have a new favorite film moment: the diaper-wearing adult baby jumping up and down with a teddy bear in the cellar from the trailer for "Don't." If I'm hard up for a laugh -- and who isn't from time to time? -- I need only conjur that image.

My favorite line of dialogue is still Rosario Dawson to Tracie Thoms: "Did you just hit a BOAT?"

I love how "Planet Terror" doesn't take itself seriously. The scene when you first see the Army base looks like it was shot in the back of a warehouse. If that scene were in a Tom Cruise movie, it would have been a massive complex teeming with extras, high-tech equipment and vehicles. I love the return to old-school restraint. Like the great "Terry and the Pirates" writer/artist Milton Caniff used to say, "There has to be a place to rest your eyes."

I learned from Movie Boy's blog (click here to read it) that Weinstein made some disparaging statements about "Grindhouse" when it didn't do the box office he'd expected. Said Weinstein, "We tried to do something new, and obviously we didn't do it that well."

Don't backpedal, Harv. Rodriguez, Tarantino and the guest trailer directors delivered three-hours-plus of great entertainment. I understand that the movie business is a BUSINESS, but that's no reason to denigrate their achievements.

Weinstein's idea to re-release the "Grindhouse" films as two separate features is heartbreaking to me. I'm hoping the Easter-weekend excuse plays out, and "Grindhouse" rebounds in Weekend Two.

Of course, if the audience ain't there, the audience ain't there. I'm reminded of how "Arrested Development" couldn't stay alive even after its Emmy win, but "Friends" lasted for nine seasons. People get the kind of culture they deserve.

HITCHCOCK, SEASON TWO

2007-04-12T19:36:00.000-04:00

I just finished all 39 half-hour episodes of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents: Season Two'' (Universal Home Video), a five-disc DVD box set a friend was kind enough to lend me for a couple of weeks.

Like Season One, the episodes are were addictive, like eating potato chips. You just keep watching and watching.

I saw portly Robert Emhardt (a very recognizable character actor who did a ton of TV in the '50s and '60s) as a cuckolded college professor; an amateur gardner whose wife fancies herself a movie star's twin; and a maniac stalking a honeymooning couple.

I saw Sir Cedric Hardwicke (who we horror geeks loved as Ludwig Frankenstein in "Ghost of Frankenstein" and Rollo in the Charles Laughton "Hunchback of Notre Dame") in two roles, as the patriarch of a respectable family covering up his daughter's murder of a schoolteacher; and a stranger in town whose wall of indifference is pierced by a precocious little girl.

I saw Claude Rains (another fave of horror geeks, for reasons I need not recount) as a washed-up alcoholic actor. Game Claude does a nice stunt fall and cries on camera (as he did in Season One).

I saw Robert H. Harris as a desperate would-be groom; and a paranoid commuter in a city with an escaped lunatic.

I saw the tall, veddy British John Williams as a publisher who guesses his new author's murder novel may not be fiction; a homicide detective with too many confessed suspects for one murder; and a henpecked husband who escapes to a tropical paradise via his fantasies, accompanied by a fetching Barbara Baxley in a sarong.

I saw Hume Cronin and Carmen Matthews as a featherbrained brother and sister who plot to kill random hobo James Gleason in a house fire for the insurance money.

I saw an old-timer named Russell Collins who I consider to be the secret weapon of Season Two. Collins seemed to specialize in drunks, hobos, ex-cons and mentally fragile characters. I'm going to keep an eye out for this guy (who died in 1965 at age 68).

I spotted three up-and-comers: Vic Morrow, Rip Torn and -- believe it or not --Harry Shearer (who was 11 at the time).

I believe there was a little more humor in Season Two than in Season One. Hitchcock was his usual droll self in the introductions and wrapups. Many times, the murderer got away with his crime in the episode, but then Hitchcock would explain, with a wink, how the murderer eventually got his comeuppance -- AFTER the episode's conclusion. Ha, ha.

"GRINDHOUSE" REVIEWED

2007-04-08T18:46:00.000-04:00

I caught "Grindhouse" last night with three friends. We attended a 10:50 p.m. screening. The ticket seller AND the ticket tearer both stressed that this screening would take us past 2 a.m. It was a dark, cold 2:20 when I walked to my car after the flick.

My verdict: "Grindhouse" rocks.

This movie nails the elusive vibe of exploitation movies of the past. It's as if Robert Rodriguez, Quentin Tarantino and company mixed ingredients from "Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry," "Eaten Alive," "Death Race 2000," "City of the Walking Dead," "Ilsa, She Wolf of the S.S.," "The Incredible Melting Man," "The Crazies," "The Toxic Avenger," "Reanimator" and others in a blender -- without the lid on.

The scatched film stock, the sometimes monophonic soundtrack, the missing frames (and "reels"), the deadpan dialogue, the cheezy FX, the car crashes, the leering shots of scantily clad actresses -- all of it added up to a dream movie for aficionados of low-budget exploitation movies.

Of course, thanks to those irresistable "Grindhouse" trailers, everyone was dying to see Rose McGowan with a machine gun for a leg. Rest assured, those scenes really pay off. Rose is luminous in her two "Grindhouse" roles; this should be her starmaker. Ageless Kurt Russell is so good, you'll forget all about "Tango & Cash" and "Captain Ron." Rosario Dawson (a doll as always), New Zealand stuntwoman Zoe Bell (playing herself!) and Tracie Thoms are three girls you don't wanna be messin' with.

I think it's time for Quentin Tarantino to finally make HIS dream movie, "Playing Footsie," about a foot fetishist gone wild. After presenting loving closeups of the tootsies of Bridget Fonda (in "Jackie Brown") and Uma Thurman (in "Kill Bill: Vol. 1"), Tarantino has gone whole hog in "Grindhouse" with shot after shot after shot emphasizing the pretty peds of Sydney Tamiia Poitier. Get it out of your system already, Quentin.

My favorite of the fake trailers is "Machete." Man, that Danny Trejo is magic. He can do no wrong. WHAT A FACE. To Robert Rodriguez: Please, please, please finish making "Machete."

My biggest complaint about "Grindhouse": Tarantino's two onscreen roles. Rodriguez's casting of Tarantino, not to mention Tarantino's casting of himself, is far from objective or organic. You can't even call it "nepotism"; I'll call it "filmmaker masturbation." It stinks of indulgence.

Listen, some directors have acting chops -- Kevin Smith among them -- and have rightfully earned a place in front of the camera. Tarantino ain't one of those dudes. If Tarantino was to play a movie geek, that might work. But darned if he isn't always cast as a tough guy and/or a cool guy, SOMETHING HE IS INCAPABLE OF PULLING OFF.

WINTERS-DERRINGER

2007-04-08T18:11:00.000-04:00

I reviewed my first show since losing Kathy: Johnny Winter/Edgar Winter/Rick Derringer Friday at the Basie. It had taken me all this time -- 10 days shy of 19 months -- to re-enter that arena. Of course, this historic triple-bill was nigh impossible for an old concert hound like myself to resist (notwithstanding my duty to my readers).

It was really funny watching Red Bank fill up with old rockers (myself included) from about 6 p.m. on. It was so obvious why they were walking the streets here. I was standing with a few at the corner of Monmouth and Pearl waiting for the light to change, and thought I'd have a little fun. I said to an old long-hair: "Jeez, I keep seein' all these '60s/'70s people walking around. You'd think there was a Johnny Winter concert in town." But he didn't get my humor. "There is," he deadpanned. "We're going to it."

While I was in the lobby waiting to spot Brinie and Sister-in-Law (who were driving up from South Jersey), I swapped concert stories with a very interesting couple. I said to them, "You two haven't changed a bit in 30 years." Of course, I'd never met them before, but they just had that late '60s/early '70s look: denim, boots, feathered hair and lined faces. They were adorable together. The fella told me he'd seen the Allman Brothers Band with Duane Allman many times. He'd also seen Jimi Hendrix (including the Band of Gypsies concert on New Year's Eve 1969) and Janis Joplin. They laughed when I said, "I've never even MET anyone who's seen the Allmans with Duane!"

The concert was really amazing. (Read my review by clicking here.) There was one credentialed photographer, and an annoying abundance of audience members running up to the stage with cell phones to take closeups. It was like the Wild West all night. Of course, I kept picturing the kind of photos Kathy would have brought back from the show. I could just see them so clearly in my mind.

PINCH ME

2007-04-04T15:43:00.000-04:00

Nephew e-mailed me some news today that I can scarcely believe.

A major Hollywood player, Lauren Shuler Donner, is planning to make a ... a ... Metal Men movie?!

The Metal Men are somewhat obscure, usually humorous DC Comics characters, robots with human personalities who squabble, shape-shift and otherwise cause trouble for their inventor, Doc Magnus.

I made such a big noise about the news at the office that Movie Boy (who sits three workstations to the east of me) asked, "So, you think it's going to be a big deal?"

The point is, I DON'T think it's going to be a big deal. It's just that I'm positively dumbfounded that someone thinks a Metal Men movie would be marketable. But I am so down with the idea. As I've said in earlier Web columns -- OK, blogs -- I am the world's only Metal Men completist. I have every, every, every piece of MM memorabilia in existence. These are my characters, my boys. I've loved these guys since I was 8 years old. But the characters are so obscure that I've often felt like an audience of one.

"Are you the kind of person who hates it when a cult obsession goes mainstream?" asked Movie Boy.

I said, no, I'm THRILLED that more people are potentially going to learn about noble Gold, lovesick Platinum (nickname: "Tina"), hot-headed Mercury, strong Iron, loyal Lead, humble Tin and studly Doc Magnus.

Who, by the way, is not written or drawn correctly these days. Doc -- as originally conceived by writer/editor Robert Kanigher and artists Ross Andru and Mike Esposito (the character's creators) -- was President Kennedy in a lab coat, with Hugh Hefner's pipe dangling out of his mouth for good measure. He dated supermodels before they were CALLED supermodels. He'd bring them to his laboratory-complex and dance the latest '60s dances with them, right there in front of the robots! (It used to make Tina so jealous.)

Anyway, maybe now my dream book project, "The Metal Men Companion" (that's the subtitle; I still need a main title), will become a reality. Or maybe the whole thing will fall apart like half the comic-book movie adaptations that are announced. The latter scenario is more likely. But like the song sez, "You gotta have a dream/ if you don't have a dream/ how you gonna make a dream come true?"

FROM "SOPRANOS" TO "SCRUBS"

2007-04-01T14:14:00.000-04:00

Exciting news!

Remember my little niece, the one who played Allegra Sacrimoni's flower girl on Season 6/Episode 5 of "The Sopranos" (albeit, in a blink-and-you-miss-it scene)?

(To reacquaint yourself, click here.)

Well, she's going to be on the longrunning NBC sitcom "Scrubs" on Thursday, May 3rd. Her mom (my cousin-in-law) emailed me a photo from the shoot.

I believe my niece will play one of three younger versions of Sarah Chalke's character, Dr. Ried, in some sort of fantasy sequence. The janitor character played by Neil Flynn will also be portrayed, by three young boys.

As "Scrubs" fans know, the show incorporates a lot of quick comedy bits, frequently utilizing fantasy, so there's a good chance my niece's scenes will be likewise brief. We shall see.

Since all of the little girls are blond cuties, it would be impossible for me to describe my niece accurately enough for you to pick her out. So I'll put it this way: She's the cutest one.

I work on Thursday nights, but there's a TV near my workstation, so nobody here will be able to squeeze any work out of me for a half-hour that night. I think I'll bring in a snack. Maybe Bugles?

BUNNY EYES

2007-03-28T22:24:00.000-04:00

I have a surefire idea for a new Easter candy that would sell like ice cream sandwiches in hell.

It would come in a bag. It would be called "Bunny Eyes."

Remember when you were a kid and you would unwrap the hollow chocolate bunny? And the first thing you did was pick off the crunchy, yellow "eye" on the bunny? And chomp it down like a Flintstone Vitamin?

When we were VERY young, we sometimes felt weird about this act -- we felt guilt over "disfiguring" the bunny. Then, of course, we'd commence to biting off the bunny's ears, head, etc.

But with a trusty bag of "Bunny Eyes," you can just reach in, pull out one of the hundreds of spare yellow "eyes," pop it into the appropriate space on the side of the bunny's head, and BINGO! Problem solved.

Or, just pour the bag into your mouth and crunch away.

"Bunny Eyes" would be a hit. I've never heard this idea from anyone else. My Web column -- OK, "blog" -- is time-stamped at 10:24 p.m. on Wednesday, March 28, 2007. YOU ARE MY WITNESS.

AN EASTER ANECDOTE

2007-03-26T20:28:00.000-04:00

My niece Gracie is a lovely young woman now, but when she was tiny, her father decided that she'd had enough candy one Easter.

"OK, pick out one more piece of candy from your basket and that's it for the night," he said.

Gracie extracted the large, solid-chocolate bunny from her basket.

Hey, you can't blame the kid. It's the American way!

Kathy loved that story and laughed every time we remembered it.

(By the way, Dad didn't let Gracie get away with it. Or else she would have been gnawing chocolate bunny until daybreak, eyes like pie plates fixed on the ceiling.)

OVER THE NEXT HILL

2007-03-22T22:24:00.000-04:00

A little more than a year ago, I told my grief counselor that I figured I'd be feeling better by Spring 2007. His eyebrows went up and he laughed. "You journalists really live by your deadlines," he kidded me. Then he asked me to explain my reasoning.

I figured it like this: The first year is a wash. Brutal, horrible, merciless, unrelenting. You just have to somehow get through it.

In the second year, you're reliving the horrors of the first year. But after that second Christmas, that second miserable winter, I figured by then, at least I would finally start getting used to it. As the world around me wakes up -- as the birds sing and the trees flower and the air warms -- I'd be in a better position to appreciate it all.

Of course, this was a very optimistic projection. The sound of the first chirping bird, which happened just the other morning, made me bawl my eyes out, because Kathy loved that sound so much.

Stop me if you've heard this one: Have I yet shared my theory I call "Over the Next Hill"?

That's the title of a wonderful album and song by Fairport Convention. The full lyric goes: "Over the next hill, maybe there's good weather." The lyric -- or, at least, my interpretation of it -- is about how we get through life by telling ourselves these little lies. Like, life will be perfect when (1) I finally get my driver's license, or (2) I finally graduate, or (3) I finally get married, or (4) I finally buy a house, or (5) my kids finally get married, or whatever it is.

But life never gets perfect.

So my prediction about feeling better in Spring 2007, which arrived at 8:07 p.m. on Tuesday, was another case of "Over the Next Hill." I probably knew it at the time. I'm good at fooling myself. And anyone who thinks they aren't is GREAT at it.

"PAN'S LABYRINTH"

2007-03-18T15:37:00.000-04:00

Nephew and Roofus have been raving about "Pan's Labyrinth." It was hard to find for a while, but after snagging an Oscar, it re-opened wider. I caught it with a friend over the weekend.

But going in, I knew very little about the film. Nephew said it was a masterpiece; Roofus echoed that sentiment, but warned of its hard-to-watch violence; even The New Yorker failed to adaquately communicate the prominent "fairy" aspect of the movie (meaning: flying magical fairies, not the derogatory epithet favored by Archie Bunker) in a minireview I read. I just knew, from the minireview, that military oppression dominated the plot.

So when the little graphic at the cineplex resembled that of a Tim Burton movie, I joked, "What IS this, a Tim Burton movie?"

I can say this: If I had been watching "Pan's Labyrinth" on DVD, I never would have finished it. But I saw it through, and I'm very glad I did.

You see, I'm not big on modern fairy movies, and a little less than halfway through the movie, the fairy stuff seemed to be taking over the film. I was relieved each time the film returned to the reality part of the story, which concerned a sadistic Captain in World War II Spain (Sergi Lopez), an underground movement to overthrow him, and an imaginative little girl (Ivana Baquero) whose mother (Ariadna Gil) has married the Captain and is carrying his son.

(SPOILER ALERT FROM HERE ON OUT)

As the fantasy and reality begin to crossover, it dawns on the viewer that it's all in the little girl's head. (This is made clear in a clever scene in which the girl sees a Mandrake root as a squirming baby, but adults see a dried root.)

So I thought one shot in the movie was badly played. When the Captain finds the little girl delivering her baby brother to a creepy fawn, the girl sees the fawn. But in a POV (point of view) shot, the Captain does not. Alas, director Guillermo del Toro underestimated his audience. It was like: "Attention, audience! It's all in her head! Get it?" It would have been better if they had blurred the Captain's POV shot; after all, he had just been drugged by the girl.

Otherwise, "Pan's Labyrinth" is a beautiful film. But I'm confused about the age group it is aimed at. Sometimes, it is a child's film (and there WERE a couple of little ones in the audience). At other times, the violence is nightmarish, even for adults.

MAY 11

2007-03-15T21:54:00.000-04:00

We've got another gig!

It'll be May 11th at a place called O'Malley's in Gloucester City (in South Jersey, natch). I haven't visited there yet, but I've seen the photos, and it's a real classy lookin' place. It might be the first place we've ever played where all the urinals in the men's room flush.

We're doing another double-bill of The Burners (our keyboard-based quintet) and Mad Jack (our guitar-based quartet). We'll be working with our original sound company again. We'll be adding new songs. We'll be on a sweet, elevated stage with a built-in light show. (That means no slogging out to hang lights the night before which, at our age and weight, gets less and less fun.) So the whole experience will have a feeling of newness for us.

I hear there's a go-go bar across the way, so I'll be sure to let the guys in the audience know when Karch will take a seven-minute solo.

The recording sessions last week were a blast. As I suspected, I was a bit too ambitious regarding the cues I recorded for Nephew. Fifteen in one afternoon was unrealistic. We now consider them to be "demos" of cues, not the cues themselves. But it's all good. As I tell the young people, this is a journey, not a destination. Nephew can now absorb the music at his leisure, and then get back to me if he wants me to perfect one of the cues for a project.

The Scream medley was the opposite. I intended this thing to be "dirty" -- in other words, a very rough track for learning purposes only. But this time, it was my brother who got ambitious. He double-tracked my guitar, double-tracked my vocals, and then added a couple of subtle keyboard tracks. The thing sounds like an album! I think the old Screamers are gonna flip when they hear it.

It'll be 18 months on Sunday. A year and a half. Feels like four months.

OLD TELEVISION

2007-03-13T23:19:00.000-04:00

I've been watching a lot of old television lately, thanks to dollar DVDs and You Tube. I bought dollar DVDs of Jack Benny, Red Skelton, "Love That Bob," "Ozzie and Harriet" and "Burns and Allen."

The Red Skelton DVD has a terrific early Carol Channing performance. She plays a hillbilly girl (sort of like Ellie May on "The Beverly Hillbillies" or Daisy May in "Lil Abner") who is in love with Red's character Clem Cadiddlehopper. He wants to marry her, but her dream is to go to New York to become a famous actress. Clem later strikes oil, becomes a millionaire, founds Cadiddlehopper Enterprises in New York and meets up with Carol again. She sings a comic version of "Heartbreak Hotel," which I'm guessing was a hit at the time by Elvis Presley. On the same DVD, there's an episode with Vincent Price and Jackie Coogan. It's wonderful to see Henry Jarrod work with Fester Addams.

The Ozzie and Harriets are cute. These are later episodes, when Ozzie and Harriet are ancient and not doing very much. The heavy lifting is being done by Ricky OR David, who have both married and moved out of the house. The girl who plays David's wife is a doll.

"Love That Bob," starring Bob Cummings, really has its moments. I never realized how "adult" the show was. It's all about That Skirt-Chasing Bob. He photographs models, so there are a lot of jokes about models' "figures." One episode was like a "Who's Who of TV Comedy." It had Bob, Ann B. Davis (Alice on "The Brady Bunch"), Dwayne Hickman ("The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis"), Rose Marie (Sally Rogers on "The Dick Van Dyke Show") and Nancy Kulp (Miss Hathaway on "The Beverly Hillbillies"). That's ONE episode!

But I learned from You Tube that not EVERY television show from the '50s is a timeless classic. I saw one You Tube posting from the '50s that teamed Jackie Gleason and Groucho Marx. Well, this historic teaming would have to be the funniest thing ever, wouldn't it? Nope. It was just a lazily written variety number resting on the laurels of both men's careers. And Boris Karloff singing on a monster-themed "Dinah Shore Show" was, frankly, a little embarrassing.

Old television -- watch some today!

HUMAN JUKE BOX

2007-03-08T19:55:00.000-05:00

I'll be a human juke box this weekend. Hopefully.

I've got three musical projects going -- all involving my brother, of course.

First off is a rehearsal with Mad Jack, our 31-year-old guitar-based quartet. It'll be great to see Karch and Fro again. Nephew, on spring break from the School of Visual Arts, will be on hand. Mad Jack is basically going to rehearse the 90-minute show we did in November with one hoped-for switch; Brinie may sing "Fortunate Son" instead of "Sunshine of Your Love." We'll try it on for size tomorrow -- if the song doesn't click right out of the box, we'll have to re-examine the idea.

Next, Brinie and Nephew will record me playing cues I've written for possible use in Nephew's student films. You see, Nephew has entered his student films in a couple of contests, and one bugaboo keeps popping up: Most contests require that the entrant "own" the music used in his or her film. One of Nephew's gifts is his uncanny knack for matching up his visuals with appropriate music. So I've written a bunch of cues that he could use in the future, if he sees fit. (If he never uses them, it's no biggie; I want to do this.) Brinie will record them with just me on guitar (no overdubs, no vocals). Some are pieces I've written specifically for Nephew's films, others are excerpts from existing songs. The titles of the cues are (hopefully) evocative of the mood they intend to create: "Panic Sets In," "Run and Hide," "Echoes," "Driving Stoned in Rain," "Altar/Stage," "Up From the Bottom," "Sweet Memory," "Siempre."

After that, Brinie will record me singing and playing guitar on a thing I've whipped up for a planned October gig titled "The Scream Medley"-- excerpts of 12 original songs by my old high-school rock band, Scream. We were glitter-rock nerds obsessed with David Bowie, Roxy Music, Sparks, T-Rex, the Sensational Alex Harvey Band, Mott the Hoople, Kevin Ayers, John Cale, Nico, Eno, the Velvet Underground, Kiss and, believe it or not, '50s rock 'n' roll. One of the Screamers lives in California and says he may visit New Jersey in October. Well, that's all me 'n Brinie needed to hear; we've been in scheme mode ever since. So we're planning a Scream reunion gig -- not that there's the SLIGHTEST demand for such an event. Some of the song titles in the medley: "The Crimson Cult," "The Funeral March," "I Walked With a Humanoid," "Mastermind," "Something in This Room," "Jack the Ripper."

Anway, I've been practicing up a storm. I've even re-strung my guitar (Karch will be proud). My finger callouses are like rock. I have the dexterity of a tarantula. But I'm probably trying to jam too much work into a short period. I can be sloppy on "The Scream Medley" -- it's just a "dirty" version for the other guys to learn on -- but I've got to NAIL it on each of the film cues. So here's hoping for a little magic.

"DICK TRACY VS. CUEBALL"

2007-03-07T20:29:00.000-05:00

I just caught "Dick Tracy vs. Cueball" (1946), which is an unusual mix of film noir and the Sunday funnies.

The movie can be cartoony, yes. (Skelton Knaggs is wearing his most ridiculous "coke bottle" specs, and a diamond dealer in the film is named "Jules Sparkle.") But there are times when the movie is so gritty, it out-noirs many of the "chick flicks" that Fox Video has been passing off as noirs in its otherwise excellent series of DVD releases.

It's almost hard to watch the scene in which burly Cueball whips dottering drunk Filthy Flora in the face with his hatband, before strangling her with same. It's not for "Little Orphan Annie" readers.

Then again, Chester Gould's "Dick Tracy" comic strip never was, either. Gould often depicted murder unblinkingly in the strip. In most cases, his bad guys met grisly ends rather than be captured by Tracy. Gould, a crime buff, explained that in real life, the criminal would likely avoid incarceration or execution by exploiting some legal technicality. So Gould preferred to kill his villains right then and there.

Another highlight of "Dick Tracy vs. Cueball" is Ian Keith's performance as Gould's hypochondriac ham, Vitamin Flintheart. I've never heard anyone mention this, but to me, it's obvious that Keith is doing a ruthless parody of John Barrymore, and having a ball doing it. (I suppose Flintheart is, himself, a reference to "the Great Profile.") In one scene, Keith pulls out a vitamin bottle and downs some pills, just like in Gould's strips. It's heartwarming.

P.S.: I saw Warren Beatty's 1990 film "Dick Tracy" one time. I feel no particular need to see it again. I remember a scene in which Beatty makes out with Madonna. As a fan of the REAL Dick Tracy, I found this to be a disgustingly cavalier disregard for the Gould strip. DICK TRACY WOULD NEVER MAKE OUT WITH A SUSPECT, AND HE WOULD NEVER CHEAT ON TESS. Chester Gould must have been spinning in his grave.

"THE MONKEYS ARE MATING"

2007-03-01T20:09:00.000-05:00

One summer when I was really little, probably between first and second grade, my mom enrolled me in a summer art school. Wouldn't you know it -- the very first class was a field trip to a zoo (probably the Philadelphia Zoo). This trip was extremely strange for me, because I literally was dropped off to class and ushered onto a bus. I didn't know a soul, not even a teacher. I was so young, and this was the first time I did anything on my own.

I can't speak for today's generation with their i-Pods and video games and text-messaging and K-Fed, but little boys in the early '60s were fascinated with monkeys. If there was a movie or television show with a chimpanzee, WE WATCHED IT. So if I did make an acquaintence or two on that trip to the zoo, I'm sure we agreed that we were particularly anxious to see the monkeys.

To our great disappointment, a teacher said to us: "We won't be seeing the monkeys today, boys and girls, because they are mating."

I didn't know what "mating" was, but when I got back home and said to my parents, "We couldn't see the monkeys because the monkeys were mating," it was a big hit. For the next week or so, I was asked to repeat it to any grownups who visited our house.

I do remember that at the zoo, as we were being told that the monkeys were mating, we were shown a tiny, fenced-in building, inside which this thing called "mating" was in progress. There was a tiny window, and I distinctly remember that there was one monkey looking out the window at us.

Today, with the benefit of my decades of life experience, I know what mating is. And I grew to realize that the one monkey who was looking out the window at us was -- for the moment, at least -- NOT mating.

ONE OF THOSE DUDES

2007-02-25T14:06:00.000-05:00

I caught Billy Hector at the Wonder Bar in Asbury Park on Friday night. It was wild. The gig was billed as the "Billy Hector Big Band," and the extra personnel indeed lent a big sound to the proceedings. Billy had a bass player, two drummers (one of whom occasionally switched to timbalis), a saxophonist and a trombonist.

The horns really kicked in for "Soul Man"; those dudes were PUNCHING it up. The show was very jammy, but a musician's ears could identify the riffs that signaled the boys from part to part. Good music, and a good time.

I was there with my brother, sister-in-law and a friend. My sister-in-law is a Billy Hector freak. This guy has a devoted following here at the Shore and down in South Jersey, from whence I sprang. Billy is friendly with my sister-in-law, and my brother is friendly with his sometime drummer, Sim Cain, one of the two dudes pounding the skins on Friday. (I think my brother must know every musician who plays in South Jersey.)

Affable and amazingly talented, Sim is the longtime drummer for Rollins. My brother remembers watching Rollins play at Woodstock '94 live on pay-per-view. Brinie once said to Sim, "It doesn't get much more high-profile than Woodstock." Sim replied, "We played the Grammys that same year." It was amazing to think that a dude who played Woodstock and the Grammys was up on that cramped Wonder Bar stage having a ball (and wearing a Fantastic Four T-shirt).

I'm not a Shore native -- I moved here in '84 -- so I'm not the kind of dude who saw Bruce before he was Bruce and keeps a scorecard of all the hep Asbury cats and all of that. But this dude playing sax for Billy Hector just had a face that I seemed to recognize. Not like I ever saw him before; he just looked like one of those dudes you hear about from the old Asbury days. His worn saxophone had obviously logged many, many stage hours (as did Billy's SUPER-worn guitar).

Brinie and me rapped to the dude after the show, and sure enough, he WAS one of those dudes. Tommy (I didn't jot down his last name, but you Asbury freaks probably know who I'm talking about) played with Tim McLoone's Holiday Express for years (though not in recent incarnations); played gigs that Bruce jumped onstage at; and played with Bobby Bandiera at the Jersey Shore Rock 'N' Soul Revue's Phil Spector tribute, for example.

And the sax? "It's a '59; I've had it about 30 years," said Tommy. You could just tell.

MUSTACHE MOVIES

2007-02-22T19:49:00.000-05:00

Coining-a-phrase time, folks. I'm identifying, and naming, a film genre of relatively recent vintage:

The "mustache movie."

I'm sure "Reno 911!: Miami" is hilarious. (I'm in no rush to see it; I'll probably catch it at my brother's in six months after rehearsing with The Burners.) I really don't know a thing about it. But when I saw the trailer with all those guys in sunglasses and mustaches (and even one guy in what looks like hot pants), it reinforced a pattern I'd been noticing for a few years.

That movie "Anchorman"? That movie "Dodgeball"? They're all about the bad hair and the uncool clothes.

So this is how I define a "mustache movie": Comedies of the '00s About Guys Who Think They're Cool But Are Really Dorks Who Wear Bad Hair and Clothes Vaguely Reminiscient of the '70s and '80s.

The clothes: sunglasses, wide lapels, tight shirts, flared trousers, clog shoes. The hair: kinky perms, mullets, hairy chests, sideburns and, usually, mustaches. The kings of the genre: Ben Stiller and Will Ferrell.

So here's a list of "mustache movies": "Zoolander" (2001), "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story" (2004), "Starsky & Hutch" (2004), "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy" (2004), "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" (2006), "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" (2006) and the aforementioned "Reno 911!: Miami" (2007).

Are they funny? Only when they're written well. A bad mustache cannot carry a movie. ("Anchorman," for example, STUNK.) Any good movie, any good television series, any good anything -- first and foremost, it's thanks to the WRITING. Valerie Harper once told me something I have quoted ever since: "If it ain't on the page, it ain't on the stage."

WHERE I CAME IN

2007-02-19T22:29:00.000-05:00

First impressions can be lasting, they say, but I was able to shake my first impressions of three giant artists.

My first exposure to Elvis Presley was his 1969 hit "In the Ghetto." I was in grade school and had just received a transistor radio as a gift. To grade school kids in the '60s, I suppose transistor radios were the equivalent of i-Pods. Anyway, this thing was glued to my ear. I was learning all about Tommy James and the Shondells and Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. And in the middle of all this was some guy named Elvis Presley singing this slow, depressing song in a bizarre (to me) vibrato.

Around that time, I was thumbing through a teen magazine one day, when I came across an article about Elvis Presley which called him "The King of Rock 'n' Roll."

All I could think was: THE GUY WHO SINGS "IN THE GHETTO" IS THE KING OF ROCK 'N' ROLL?

Then there was Johnny Cash. My introduction to Cash was most ignominious: His 1969 novelty hit "A Boy Named Sue." THAT'S what I thought Johnny Cash was all about. I had a lot to learn on that score. It took me a lifetime, in fact. Just this week, I feel ready to declare "American Recordings V: A Hundred Highways" the most beautiful album I've ever heard.

The third artist was Chuck Berry. My first exposure to Chuck Berry came when I was a freshman in high school. There was a jukebox in Cafeteria 2 at Cherry Hill High School East in 1972-'73, and four songs were then in heavy rotation: "Get on the Good Foot" by James Brown, "Roundabout" by Yes, "Jim Dandy to the Rescue" by Black Oak Arkansas and "My Ding-a-Ling" by Chuck Berry -- an eclectic mix by ANY musicologist's standards.

Some time later, I was visiting my dad at Dan McShea's Rustic Tavern, where he tended bar on the weekends, wearing a red vest and playing host to a colorful cast of characters. My dad was friendly with the keyboardist who was performing there. I actually heard the keyboardist mention the name Chuck Berry.

All I could think was: WHY WOULD A FRIEND OF MY DAD'S HAVE HEARD OF THE GUY WHO SINGS "MY DING-A-LING"?

MY FAVORITE THINGS II

2007-02-15T22:30:00.001-05:00

Favorite supermodel: Laetitia Casta.
Favorite actress: Pam Grier.
Favorite Pam Grier movie: "Coffy" (1973).
Favorite possession: My stuffed Boo Boo (Yogi Bear's sidekick) from babyhood.
Favorite shopping center: The Berlin Farmer's Market in Berlin, NJ ("Where shopping is an adventure").
Favorite store: The Book Garden in Upper Freehold, NJ.
Favorite comic book: "Metal Men."
Favorite comic book artist: Ross Andru (when inked by Mike Esposito in the 1960s).
Favorite superhero: Batman.
Favorite cartoonist: Charles Addams.
Favorite underground cartoonist: R. Crumb.
Favorite monster: The Frankenstein monster.
Favorite toy: Captain Action.
Favorite Aurora monster model kit: "Phantom of the Opera."
Favorite Hardy Boys book: "Secret of the Old Mill."
Favorite magazine: The New Yorker, that liberal rag.
Favorite Kevin Smith film: "Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back" (2001).
Favorite meal: Spaghetti and meatballs.
Greatest day of my life: Dec. 12, 1986.
Worst day of my life: Sept. 18, 2005.
Favorite place: The Manasquan Inlet.
Favorite day of the year: Christmas Eve.
Favorite season: Summer.
Favorite color: Black.
My hero: My dad.
Favorite ice cream flavor: Vanilla.
Favorite junk food: Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts -- damn them!

MY FAVORITE THINGS I

2007-02-15T19:21:00.000-05:00

Favorite movie: "Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein" (1948).
Favorite TV show: "Leave it to Beaver" (1957-1963).
Favorite animated series: "The Flintstones" (1960-1966).
Favorite actor: Boris Karloff.
Favorite Boris Karloff movie: "Targets" (1968).
Favorite comedy team: Laurel and Hardy.
Favorite Laurel and Hardy film: "The Music Box" (1932).
Favorite Christmas movie: "Scrooge" (1951) starring Alastair Sim.
Favorite band: The Rolling Stones.
Favorite album, traditional: "Exile on Main Street" (1972) by the Rolling Stones.
Favorite album, modern: "Perfect Strangers" (1984) by Deep Purple.
Favorite Johnny Cash album: "Unchained" (1997).
Favorite Bob Dylan album: "Nashville Skyline" (1969).
Favorite song: Studio version of "Under My Thumb" by the Rolling Stones.
Favorite singer: Paul Rodgers.
Favorite guitarist: Paul Kossoff.
Favorite pedal steel player: Pete Drake.
Favorite pianist: Nicky Hopkins.
Favorite organist: Jon Lord.
Favorite bassist: John Entwistle.
Favorite drummer: Ringo Starr.
King of Rock 'n' Roll: Jerry Lee Lewis.
Would the aforementioned eight musicians make a great band? Probably not.
Favorite concert: A.R.M.S. at Madison Square Garden (1983).
Favorite theatrical performance: "Jesus Christ Superstar" at the Mark Hellinger Theater (early '70s).
Favorite book: "The Complete Sherlock Holmes" by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Favorite author: Arthur Conan Doyle.
Favorite actor as Sherlock Holmes: Basil Rathbone IS Sherlock Holmes. Everyone else PLAYS Sherlock Holmes.
Favorite actor as Dr. Watson: Nigel Bruce. (Expletive) all you Conan Doyle purists.
Favorite Sherlock Holmes movie: "Sherlock Holmes in Washington" (1943).

THE TITLE TELLS ALL?

2007-02-13T14:31:00.000-05:00

A while back, when Marge-in-Law wanted to go to "Little Miss Sunshine" after seeing little Abigail Breslin on Jay Leno, we all figured the movie was going to be a sweet, Dakota Fanning-ish bit of fluff. We were surprised -- pleasantly so -- when all that dark humor started pouring from the screen. The proof is in the pudding in the form of a Best Picture nomination.

The title fakeout reminded me of two or three times when a movie title has misled people I know -- WITH HILARIOUS RESULTS.

Like that time in 1968. I believe the story goes like this: My parents and two other couples would get together once a month on a Saturday night to see a movie. It was my parents' turn to pick the film. My mom saw a newspaper ad for a new movie titled "Rosemary's Baby" starring Mia Farrow. This sounded something like a Doris Day movie to her -- the kind of movie with a madcap scene in which Mia's hapless hubby runs around like a maniac, yanking the telephone out of the wall and knocking over lamps, when Mia says, "I'm having the baby!" And then he's getting a faceful of baby powder or sticking himself with a safety pin the first time he tries to diaper the baby.

I can't even imagine my father's reaction when Mia was impregnated by Satan as the cult members watched.

Then there was the time in 1972 when my family was visiting my aunt in Long Island. I guess our folks wanted to get us kids out of their hair for a couple of hours, so they picked out a movie for us. My cousins, sister, brother and myself -- ranging in age from 9 to 14 -- were unceremoniously dropped off at the mall to see "Pete 'n' Tillie" starring Walter Mattau and Carol Burnett. Sounds like a zany comedy, right? "Pete 'n' Tillie" with those clowns Walter Mattau and Carol Burnett! Surely a movie with a climactic pie fight!

It was a deadly dull film about adultery and divorce. We little kids could only sit there scratching our heads.

I also heard that my niece's Girl Scout troop went to see "Riding in Cars With Boys." But that title would have set off my red flag. YOU know what happens when you ride in cars with boys.

"FOR LOVERS ONLY" #63

2007-02-08T23:22:00.000-05:00

Last week at my local comic shop, there was a bunch of tattered, early '70s Charlton Comics for 50 cents apiece. For fans of cheezy comics, this was a SCORE.

For you non-comic-book-geeks out there, Charlton was the distant, decidely poor cousin to DC and Marvel Comics. Charlton art wasn't as good, the stories weren't as good, the printing wasn't as good.

You know how Avis tried harder? Charlton DIDN'T.

The Charlton genres my shop had were romance, war and western. I bought 'em all. Today, I brought "For Lovers Only" #63 (1972) to the office. A girl I work with read every story! She said, "If you have any more, bring 'em in." I said, "I've got a stack of 'em!"

The stories are so laughable.

"More Than One Love" is about two couples who kind of flirt with each other, and then suddenly decide to swap. ALL FOUR people are cool with it! "There's nothing to stop you from kissing me now," says the trampy blonde in the final panel.

"What Do Parents Know?" is about a girl who rebels against her parents, gets in a car with a boy who drives too fast, and survives an accident in which a father of five is killed. "I really messed things up, didn't I?" she says from her hospital bed, her head swathed in bandages. Answers her wise daddy: "We all make mistakes, honey . . . We only hope you'll be wise enough not to go on making them!"

"The Ones That Got Away" is about a bickering couple who keep throwing old lovers in each other's faces. But when they MEET UP with those old lovers -- who, incidentally, have married EACH OTHER -- they are shocked to see that both of them have gained about 50 pounds. "Let's face it baby . . ." says hubby. "We're the greatest!" says wifey.

"Everything Wrong But the Kissing" examines professional ethics. A groovy young chick in a matching green miniskirt and go-go boots happens to be the quality inspector for a chain of motels. She is torn when the studly young manager of the Grand Tepee Lodge kisses her -- and she likes it!

The icing on the cake is that "For Lovers Only" #63 features a pinup page of SUSAN DEY.

Jealous?

"BEAT THE DEVIL"

2007-02-05T21:48:00.001-05:00

I just caught "Beat the Devil" (1953) for the first time. I'd always wanted to see it, because I adore just about everything Humphrey Bogart did in the '50s. I say "just about" because I rather doubt I'd enjoy "The African Queen" (1951). The idea of a long boat ride with a middle-aged Katharine Hepburn doesn't do it for me.

I really enjoyed "Beat the Devil," which divides the Bogie cult -- and which Bogie himself famously called a "mess."

"Beat the Devil" has been called a spoof of "Maltese Falcon"-type films. That's wishful thinking. Even to call it a comedy is a stretch, I believe. This is a movie with a lot of comedy, yes, but one that doesn't consider itself a comedy as such. Just compare it to, say, "We're No Angels" (1955), which also had Bogie, and you'll see what I mean, even if you don't agree.

In Italy, Bogie is an American married to an Italian (Gina Lollobrigida, whose figure leaves no doubt why Tony Quinn's Quasimodo was so smitten). He is to take part in an African uranium scheme with four at first scary, but ultimately bumbling, criminal types (led by a hilarious Robert Morley, and including Bogie's old punching bag Peter Lorre). This group attracts the attention of a British couple (Jennifer Jones and an actor named Edgar Underdown, a master of stuffiness who later showed up in "Dr. Terror's House of Horrors" and "Thunderball," both 1965).

Obviously, the star-o-meter is on high.

About halfway through the movie, though, it becomes apparent that the central premise is beside the point. "Beat the Devil" devolves into something like a travelogue with some dear old friends trading witty banter -- and lubed with hootch.

I don't know if I've ever seen Bogie as charming as he is in "Beat the Devil" while wooing Jones. (Nor is his smoker's laugh more pronounced.) And it's heartwarming to see Bogie and Lorre take a final bow together -- in another John Huston film, yet.

I consider myself to be at least on the fringes of the Bogie cult, and if this designation is deserved, then put me on the side that applauds "Beat the Devil." Maybe it IS a bit of a mess, but it's a damned fun mess.

INSTANT GENTLEMAN

2007-02-01T10:42:00.000-05:00

"My, what a gentleman," a woman said to me when I held a door open for her.

I became a gentleman when I was 5 years old, in one traumatic lesson.

It was at a birthday party. Birthday parties in the 1960s were different from today. The kids wore their Sunday best. The parents would drop us off and return later to pick us up.

This particular party was held at either the Moorestown or Cherry Hill Mall. (This was rare. Back then, birthday parties were usually held at the birthday child's home. There was no such thing as Chuck E. Cheese or organized parties at movie multiplexes or McDonalds.)

There was a small amusement ride at this mall. Four or five little cars rode around on a track. The final activity at this party was that every kid got a turn on the ride. When I was a kid, I loved cars. Loved, loved, loved 'em. My turn was next!

It was near the end of the party, and I hadn't noticed that my dad walked in to take me home. The car ride stopped, and kids started getting out of the cars to make way for the next group of riders. In my excitement, I put my leg into a car before a little girl had a chance to get out of the car. (I can still see her flouncy party dress.)

The next thing I knew, I was being lifted OUT of the car by my collar.

"Don't you know that you were supposed to help that young lady out of the car and make sure that she was OK before you got into the car?" my dad said firmly, one inch from my ear, as he ushered me into the mall parking lot -- toward HIS car. I never did get on that amusement ride. I bawled my eyes out. But I learned my lesson. I became an instant gentleman.

UNMASKING "THE PHANTOM"

2007-01-31T16:00:00.000-05:00

A friend lent me the deluxe DVD edition of the 1925 "The Phantom of the Opera" starring Lon Chaney. Or was it 1926? Or 1929? Or 1930?

I never knew this movie had such a checkered history. The "Phantom" expert who provided the commentary said there is no "one" version of "Phantom of the Opera," but that the film has five "pedigrees."

Scenes were re-shot to appease preview audiences; subplots were added and subtracted; the Phantom's manner of death was changed (from heart attack on the organ bench to fleeing angry villagers through the streets of Paris); Chaney was called back to Universal to shoot additional scenes after defecting to MGM; and on and on. All of this was aggravated by the film's re-release four years later with recorded dialogue, music and synchronized sound effects. An unidentified (and rather hammy) actor even spoke for Chaney's Phantom!

Try as I might, I couldn't keep the whole story straight. To accomplish this, I figure you would have to own this two-disc set (which I plan to do) and then revisit it periodically until it finally enters your bloodstream. That is, if you care enough, which I do.

To me, the unmasking scene in the original "Phantom of the Opera" is THE scariest moment in any the horror film. Though "Phantom" is by no means the earliest horror film -- it was preceded by Chaney's own "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" (1923), "Nosferatu" (1922), "The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" (1920), John Barrymore's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" (1920), Thomas Edison's "Frankenstein" (1910) and any number of others -- I still think of the unmasking scene as THE seminal moment in the horror film. I put it up there with "Rock Around the Clock" (the first rock 'n' roll song), "Action Comics" No. 1 (the first superhero comic book) and other milestones that have changed our culture forever.

"TWO TRAINS RUNNING"

2007-01-28T14:18:00.000-05:00

On Friday, a freezing cold night, a friend and I caught August Wilson's "Two Trains Running," directed by Lou Bellamy, at the Peter Norton Space on 42nd Street between 10th and 11th in Manhattan. It was a transcending experience.

We had front row seats, a bit closer to stage-right than center. The Peter Norton Space is a small house with a low, wide stage, so the cliche "there's not a bad seat in the house" applies. The action takes place in a dingy Pittsburgh diner in 1969, and set designer Derek McLane took full advantage of the stage's generous width. Just sitting in your seat waiting for the play to begin, you could study the set and marvel at the details ... a battered frying pan, a nasty mop hanging in the back, framed photos of famous black atheletes, a vintage juke box, missing floor tiles, a coffee urn with the red light on, a hint of a street scene. (There were even olfactory touches; at one point in the play, the smell of bacon permeated the theater.)

"Two Trains Running" largely focuses on the hopelessness felt by many African Americans in the late '60s, following the fading promise of the Civil Rights movement and the assassination of two inspirational figures, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. (A rally in memory of Malcolm X is a plot point.) Not that this is a preachy piece; this is one of those plays that can have you misty-eyed one second and laughing the next. Wilson's penchant for characterization via dialogue is remarkable. "Two Trains Running" is a long play, but I never wanted it to end.

The cast is glorious. Frankie Faison (known as Barney, the prison guard who treats Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lecter with humane decency in "Silence of the Lambs," and Burrell, the police commissioner often at the receiving end of bitter political fallout in "The Wire") is Memphis, the owner of the diner who dreams wistfully of selling it to the city at 500 percent profit. January Lavoy is Risa, the waitress whose profoud self-esteem issues have driven her to self-mutilation and mistrust of men. Chad L. Coleman (another "The Wire" cast member) is Sterling, a young buck recently released from prison who tries to score a job and penetrate Risa's invisible wall. Also in the cast are Ron Cephas Jones as a likable numbers hustler, Leon Addison Brown as a mentally disabled man, Arthur French as a sage-like old-timer and Ed Wheeler as an imperious funeral home proprietor.

I'm sorry to report that the final performance of "Two Trains Running" is today. But I hereafter plan to monitor the work of this cast, not to mention Tony-winner Wilson (who died in 2005), and urge you to do the same.

THE SOUL OF CURLY

2007-01-25T21:57:00.000-05:00

You think the strangest things when you're a kid.

In the Philadelphia television viewing area in the 1960s, we kids faithfully watched Sally Starr, a cowgirl kiddie show host, every weekday after school and before dinner. "Our Gal Sal" showed Popeye cartoons and Three Stooges shorts.

We knew, even as kids, that the Stooges shorts were from another time. We could tell this from the cars and the fashions and the haircuts and the music and the lingo. But there was no generation gap here -- all of us kids ADORED the Stooges, especially the manic, hilarious, childlike Curly.

One day, my mom happened to mention that in real life, Curly was dead. (Moe and Larry were still alive at the time.) This bit of sad news FREAKED ME OUT. I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that this sweet, funny man was making me laugh right now, and yet he died a long time ago.

At Holy Rosary School in the Camden Diocese in the 1960s, the younger grades were taken for a bathroom break every morning. We all stood in line, two-by-two, by the big rest rooms next to the Sacred Heart of Jesus statue. Five us went in at a time, while the others were supposed to stand patiently and wait, something like statues ourselves. Of course, kids being kids, it didn't always work that way. Sometimes, we misbehaved -- whispered or laughed or even shoved each other.

One day when this happened, Sister became angry and said, "Instead of fooling around, gentlemen, you should be saying prayers for the souls in Purgatory." (To non-Catholics: Purgatory was a kind of "way station" where you would go upon your death if you were bound for heaven, but still had venial sins on your soul. I haven't kept up as much as I should, but I believe Purgatory is no longer taught.)

Sister continued: "There may be a soul in Purgatory who needs just one more Hail Mary to get to Heaven. If you say that Hail Mary, and that soul gets to Heaven, he or she will watch over you for the rest of your life."

In my child's mind, I fantasized that I was saying the VERY LAST HAIL MARY that Curly of the Three Stooges needed to get to Heaven. As I finished the prayer, I looked up and had a very strong fantasy that I could see Curly in a flowing white robe with wings and a halo, floating up to Heaven. I could even hear a harp being strummed as he rose. Curly was smiling down at me -- one of those goofy Curly smiles -- and waving.

You think the strangest things when you're a kid.

STOP ME IF YOU'VE HEARD THIS ONE

2007-01-24T14:26:00.000-05:00

Here's a formula I swear I came up with on my own. I did not read about it or find it on the Web or see it on TV. By the same token, I'm sure I'm not the first person to have stumbled onto this. Yet, anyone I've told it to has never heard it before.

Here it is:

The year when your age reaches half your parent's age, that's when you are the age your parent was when you were born.

I know it sounds simple, obvious, elementary. But I've never heard any one say it.

It works with any child and any parent. So if your sister turned turned 29, say, the year your father turned 58, that means your father was 29 the year your sister was born.

WOW, right?

Digging a little deeper into this formula: During the year your age reaches half of your parent's age, if you locate the exact halfway date between your birthdays, that is the day when YOU HAVE LIVED ON THIS EARTH THE EXACT SAME NUMBER OF DAYS YOUR PARENT LIVED ON THIS EARTH ON THE DAY YOU WERE BORN.

So if your mother was born on, say, March 23, 1969, and you were born on May 10, 1991, she was 22 when you were born. You will turn 22 in 2013, when she will turn 44. Your age will have reached half her age, which means that's how old she was when you were born. There are 48 days between March 23 and May 10, putting the halfway point between those dates at April 16. In this scenario, on April 16, 2013, YOU WILL HAVE LIVED ON THIS EARTH THE EXACT NUMBER OF DAYS YOUR MOTHER LIVED ON THIS EARTH ON THE DAY YOU WERE BORN.

There's more. If you know the exact time of day for both your mother's birth and your birth, and you pinpoint the halfway point between those times -- to the minute, now -- for April 16, 2013, YOU WILL HAVE LIVED ON THIS EARTH THE EXACT NUMBER OF MINUTES YOUR MOTHER LIVED ON THIS EARTH AT THE EXACT MINUTE YOU WERE BORN.

Freak . . . you . . . out.

Of course, thanks to this World Wide Web, there are thousands out there who can probably say, "Hey, buddy, this formula was first espoused in the 12th century by Henry Wadsworth Copernicus. Where've you been?" But just in case I AM the first, I've decided to name it. I've decided to name it after actor Larry Storch, who made us laugh as Agarn on "F Troop." Henceforth, I am calling it The Larry Storch Formula.

FANTASIZING PHASE

2007-01-18T22:48:00.000-05:00

Me 'n' Brinie are talking about another double-bill with Mad Jack and The Burners. The target date we've put out to our Fried Brethren is "late March," but me 'n' Brinie have already concluded that this would be a tad optimistic.

With The Burners, the goal is to sift in some fresh material. We've agreed that any new songs added should be "danceable," though not "dance songs" per se. That could mean Rolling Stones or shewdly selected '60s pop or -- who knows? We're still in the fantasizing phase.

With Mad Jack, the ultimate goal is for us to headline -- to break away from The Burners and play three hourlong sets in one magical evening. We're still not ready. Me 'n' Brinie figure one more double-bill should toughen us up enough. We have 36 songs planned. (Twelve songs take about an hour to play.) Seven or eight of 'em are brand spankin' new to us. So our plan is that, while rehearsing our 90-minute set for the next double-bill with The Burners, we'll simultaneously rehearse our ENTIRE headlining show. Are we smart, talented and just plain healthy enough? I'm a paunchy 48-year-old trying to avoid Pop Tarts. Should be fun.

I play guitar with Mad Jack but not The Burners. But when Mad Jack breaks off, I'm gonna ask The Burners if I can play a little bit of guitar with them. (I gotta get more use out of my wireless unit, or as I call it, my "mid-life crisis toy.") Like, maybe the Maestro can take a three-song break and schmooze with friends while me, Brinie, Jazzy and Bad Bobby do a little guitar-quartet action. Me 'n' Brinie have also discussed adding me as a second guitar on two barn-stormers we would introduce toward the end of the show: "Freebird" and "Layla."

Yeah, yeah, call us corny dinosaurs. But at every single Burners show, some crowd member or other has shouted "FREEBIRD!" It never fails. And dammit, one of these nights, I wanna play it for them. As for "Layla" -- well, we have the Maestro. Imagine him playing that sweet piano part that leads into the final jam? I'll be on the lookout for wet eyes. My OWN eyeliner may be running.

By the way -- all of this is privileged information. Don't tell the Maestro, Jazzy, Bad Bobby, Karch or Fro. Controlling set lists is an art. Too many cooks spoil the broth. If it was up to Fro, we'd be doing Huey Lewis and the News.

HABITUATION

2007-01-18T15:36:00.000-05:00

It's been 16 months today -- a long time, and then again, a short time.

Stuff still punches me in the stomach. Stupid stuff. The other day, I found a small, Teflon frying pan that I hadn't seen in all this time, and I started wailing. My counselor calls this phenomenon "habituation." Today, the frying pan is a memory trigger. Tomorrow, the frying pan will be just a frying pan.

Whenever Kathy sent me to the Post Office for a book of stamps, she would always say, "Get something pretty." In other words, get birds or flowers or hearts rather than flags or faces or fish.

The other day, I was at the Post Office buying a book of stamps. I had already been rung up when I saw that the stamps were of flags.

"Is it too late to exchange these for something pretty?" I asked.

"Not at all," said the female Post Office worker.

I was given a choice of birds or flowers. I chose the birds.

"I don't want you to get in trouble," she added with a smile.

"Thanks," I said, and then I bawled on the way to my car.

SMALL COMFORT

2007-01-11T22:33:00.000-05:00

Whenever I hear the Tommy James and the Shondells lyric "Yesterday, my friends were marching off to war" (from their hit "Sweet Cherry Wine"), it reminds me of the time, in the late 1960s, when the second-oldest child of our backdoor neighbors came home from Vietnam. I drew a poster that said, "WELCOME HOME, BILLY." I remember seeing the letters he'd write home; where you'd put a stamp on the envelope, he just wrote "FREE." I always regarded Billy as a hero. He's a cool customer. He kind of reminds me of Peter Fonda.

I have a cousin who did a tour in Iraq last year. My uncle and aunt sent me a photo of him in a helmet and uniform holding a huge gun surrounded by six Iraqi children who look very sweet and very at home next to him. Four boys and two girls. Little darlings.

I keep the photo in a frame at my desk. I hope they're all still alive and healthy and happy somehow.

In the new issue of The New Yorker, the lead "Talk of the Town" item is about the hanging of Saddam Hussein. It has a phrase that stuck with me: ". . . from shock and awe through stay the course to surge and pray . . ." Those cats can turn a phrase.

A friend referred to the president's facial expression during his speech yesterday as "deer in the headlights."

For those who never supported this war, Bush finally admitting that he got in over his head is small comfort.

I've always maintained that the 2004 presidential election was a national referendem on the Iraq War (not to mention the 2000 presidential election, but that's another sad historical chapter). One of the most clever things I've ever heard the president say was his infamous quote, "We had an accountability moment, and that's called the 2004 elections."

Classic Bush -- bravado and bad grammar vying for sovereignty.

"DARK" SECRET

2007-01-09T19:47:00.000-05:00

Please don't tell anyone the following. This is just between me 'n' you.

I've been reading those "Dark Shadows" novels from the late '60s and early '70s by "Marilyn Ross" (not his real name).

I just finished "Barnabas, Quentin and the Crystal Coffin." I'm halfway through "Barnabas, Quentin and the Grave Robbers."

"Crystal Coffin" is a bit slow. Something happens, and then the heroine (it's ALWAYS a heroine; this is 40-year-old Gothic "chick lit") discusses it with every other character for pages on end. Then she goes over it in her mind for pages on end. Then she has a nightmare. Then something ELSE happens.

But "Grave Robbers" moves at quite a clip. There's an evil surgeon with claw-like hands, a zombie with fixed eyes, a lady vampire with a painted face, Barnabas (himself a vampire), Quentin (a werewolf), a grave robber with pus-oozing gums and a fat, one-eyed, gin-soaked old lady.

The late "Marilyn Ross" was really Dan Ross, who wrote more than 300 books, many under non de plumes. (His wife's was named Marilyn.) Ross told Craig Hamrick (in an interview published on www.darkshadowsonline.com) that he knocked off each book in about three weeks. He would watch the show to make sure the characters' relationships and the locales agreed. But he hardly ever based his books directly on the TV show's storylines. He figured people would rather read something original. Good move.

"Dark Shadows" geeks are obsessed with how every bit of official "Dark Shadows" media -- the TV episodes, the two feature films, the comic books, the novels -- fit together.

I might have counted myself among "Dark Shadows" geeks -- until I attended a convention 10 years back. Trekkies laugh at "Dark Shadows" geeks.

But I'm still reading the novels because, as my loved ones know, I WORSHIP GARBAGE.

CASUALTIES OF 2006

2007-01-08T14:57:00.000-05:00

A year-end wrap-up is an annual tradition for my PAGE X column. I always present a list of selected pop-culture heroes we lost in the previous year -- "selected" because space does not permit me to list everyone. Let me tell you -- some of the chops I must make are painful. So I thought I'd use my Web column to list those folks who didn't make it in print. 2006 claimed:

"Jaws" author Peter Benchley
"The Jeffersons" Tom Willis Franklin Cover
"Rocky Theme" trumpeter Maynard Ferguson
"Green Lantern" artist Seth Fisher
"Superman" Pa Kent Glenn Ford
"Across 110th Street" weasel Anthony Franciosa
"Abbott and Costello Meet the Invisible Man" invisible man Arthur Franz
"Breakfast Club" principal Paul Gleason
1967 "Casino Royale" director Val Guest
Mr. Jayne Mansfield Mickey Hargitay
"Svengali" Trilby Marian Marsh
"Hello Mary Lou" composer Gene Pitney
Christopher Reeve's widow, Dana Reeve
"Village of the Giants" kid Tim Rooney
"Return of Dr. X" director Vincent Sherman
"Interiors" star Maureen Stapleton
"Brian's Song" coach Jack Warden
Ed Wood's widow, Kathy Wood

Regular readers of PAGE X may sense that two cuts were particularly painful: Marian Marsh and Kathy Wood. Make it your mission to see Marsh in "Svengali" (1931). Her transformation from virginal to zombified is amazing. And anyone who can steal a scene from the great John Barrymore, sometimes unknowingly, deserves a lot more respect than Marsh got. As for Kathy Wood -- who was played by Patricia Arquette in Tim Burton's 1994 biopic "Ed Wood" -- she was at poor Eddie's side when he died a homeless alcoholic wreck, and remained one of our vanishing links to the weird world of Wood.

REST IN PEACE.

'ROCKY BALBOA' ROCKS

2007-01-04T22:16:00.000-05:00

When I first saw the theatrical trailer for "Rocky Balboa," my reaction was: "Is he KIDDING?"

At the same time, I had an overwhelming desire to see the film.

But I must admit to an attraction for cheezy movies. I'm the only person I know who paid money to see "A Very Brady Sequel" and "The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas" -- not on video, but IN THE THEATER. It's just that I have a loyalty to the characters.

I have no such loyalty to "Rocky" -- the think the series tanked after the first sequel -- but there was something fascinating about that trailer.

Rocky: "It ain't over 'til it's over."
Mason "The Line" Dixon: "What's that, from the '80s?"
Rocky: "Probably the '70s."

It's from the '70s, all right. 1976. I remember seeing "Rocky" as a college freshman 30 years ago. The movie played for nine months! Watch it again -- it's a good little low-budget movie. Great cinematography. Great locations. It's got heart.

So I saw the trailer for "Rocky Balboa," and felt myself getting sucked in. I knew I was going to call my brother. I would say, "I have this urge to see 'Rocky Balboa.' " My brother would say, "Are you serious? Of COURSE we should see 'Rocky Balboa!' "

Well, there we were on New Year's Eve weekend -- me, Brinie and Nephew (who was on winter break from college in New York City). We did it right. First, we watched the original "Rocky." Then, we went straight to the theater to watch "Rocky Balboa." All of the references to the first film were crystal clear to us. This is the way to see "Rocky Balboa."

I HAVE TO ADD: As a still-fledgling widower (it'll be 16 months in 14 days), a lot of the grief stuff that Stallone did rang true for me. I feel Sly really captured the way Rocky would be walking around in a kind of daze, putting up a front, smiling, joking, all the while thinking only of one thing. Says Rock at one point: "My wife, she's gone, but she ain't, ya know what I mean?" For me, it felt real, and I'm a harsh judge. With my newfound, and wholly unwanted, experience, I can spot cliches from 20 paces. To be honest, I resent the cavalier use of those cliches. "Rocky Balboa" touched me.

THE GATEKEEPER IS DEAD

2006-12-31T19:09:00.000-05:00

I did what millions of Americans have done by now: viewed an underwear-free Britney Spears getting out of a limo and Saddam Hussein at the end of a rope.

Neither was a pretty picture.

When I was a Communications major in the '70s at TCFKAGS (The College Formerly Known as Glassboro State), one of my professors taught us the phrase "media gatekeeper." That, he explained, was what we Comm majors were studying to become. The media professionals in the "real world" -- writers, photographers, editors, TV, radio and film people -- were the "gatekeepers" who decided what the public was going to see, or NOT see, via their repective mediums.

Today, it seems like an elitist concept -- one rendered thoroughly outmoded by the World Wide Web.

There was a time when a news event with a nasty outcome caught on film would throw the gatekeepers into frantic debate. One that comes to mind was the time, more than a decade back, a public figure took his life during a meeting at which news photographers and videographers were present. The video was particularly graphic and disturbing. Of course, that footage was never aired.

Today, it would get five stars on Google Video Search.

The gatekeeper is dead. Long live the gatekeeper.

STAN AND OLLIE VS. HITLER

2006-12-28T22:21:00.000-05:00

I scored a Laurel and Hardy double-feature for Christmas. Thank you, Santa!

Man, was it great to spend a couple of hours with the boys again, in two movies I'd never seen before: "Air Raid Wardens" (1943) and "Nothing But Trouble" (1944).

Laurel and Hardy's biographers always point out that the boys were older and slower -- and had less creative clout -- by the time they made "Air Raid Wardens" and "Nothing But Trouble." PAY THEM NO HEED. This is Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, and by this time, they had decades of comic chemistry behind them. These later movies are very sweet. Of course they can't compete with the boys' early '30s shorts. What CAN? If you love L&H, you'll love every moment of these films.

"Air Raid Wardens" is a real time-capsule. In it, Stan and Ollie bust up a Nazi spy ring bent on destroying a magnesium plant (or, as Stan calls it, a "Magnesia plant"). There's a gag involving a painting of Hitler. This kind of culture clash must seem so weird to people who aren't used to the frequently jingoistic World War II-era Hollywood movies.

I propose a triple feature of "Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror" (in which Sherlock Holmes fights the Nazis), "Invisible Agent" (in which the Invisible Man fights the Nazis) and "Air Raid Wardens."

MR. BROWN'S PARTING WORDS

2006-12-27T22:08:00.000-05:00

People have been asking me all week, "How did James Brown sound?"

I interviewed the "Godfather of Soul" via telephone for 10 minutes beginning a little after 4 p.m. EST on Dec. 21, four days before his death on Christmas Day at age 73.

To answer the question: No, James Brown did not sound ill. He was cordial, forthcoming and -- I wouldn't be the first to make this comment -- difficult for me to understand. His answers were brief, but there was some gold in there.

Q: Do you have any New Year's resolutions?
A: Yep. We got to learn to love each other.
Q: How's that going to happen? What's the next step?
A: Well, you keep on practicin' and keep on talkin' about it. I'd appreciate it if you keep talkin' about it.
Q: Sure, I'll bang the drum.
A: Well, bless you.

A little later, I brought up current events, but the topic veered to Christmas and family.

Q: What do you think of Barack Obama?
A: Well, I'm not gettin' into politics.
Q: But you're a patriotic person.
A: Mmm-hmm. I'm concerned about the world. But I would serve every president we got, because that's the president of the United States.
Q: What would you say to the troops?
A: I would like to pray for them. I hope they have a speedy recovery and they'll come home.
Q: What would you say to young people?
A: Well, that is my thing. Tell 'em to love each other. I'm into education. I would like to see kids get educated.
Q: Did you receive enough education as a child?
A: No. I didn't go any further than seventh grade. But I was declared a genius, though. I was declared that.
Q: What were the happy parts of your childhood?
A: Christmas (laughs). My daddy gave me five dollars on Christmas and a suit of clothes.
Q: How do you remember your parents?
A: I remember them as hard-workin' people. My father was a filling-station worker. He had a second-grade education. But he was a good worker.

It would have been self-serving to have published Brown's final words to me before hanging up -- but this here's a blog, not a newspaper article. So just between you and me, it went this way:

Q: Well, Mr. Brown, we'll look forward to seeing you in Red Bank, New Jersey.
A: You're a very a nice man. Have a good Christmas, and the same thing to you and your family.

SELF-SERVING PIPSQUEAKS

2006-12-21T23:06:00.000-05:00

Metal Men completist that I am, I was forced to hand over cold cash to buy "52" #30 -- make that "52, Week Thirty" -- because, a fellow geek told me, the origin of the Metal Men is presented in the back of the issue.

I've been buying issues of "52" now and then because, well, a drop of Mercury or a loose screw of Gold or a follicle of Doc Magnus might appear in a panel. BECAUSE I'VE BEEN A METAL MEN COMPLETIST SINCE THE EARLY '80s, AND I CAN'T STOP NOW.

The origin made me angry. The art was too manga-ish. THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU DRAW TIN. Listed under "Essential Storylines" were "Metal Men Archives 1" (an excellent recommendation) and -- those self-serving pipsqueaks -- "52."

"52"? One of only two "Essential Storylines" for the Metal Men? Puh-LEEZ. What about writer Mike Carlin, penciller Dan Jurgens and inker Brett Breeding's excellent "Metal Men" four-issue miniseries of 1993?

SPEAKING of which -- the bold liberty Carlin took in retelling the Metal Men's origin in that miniseries (don't get me started) is nowhere to be found in the "52, Week Thirty" retelling. As if it never happened. As if it were a dream, like the dude taking the shower in "Dallas."

A character named T.O. Morrow figures prominently in this new "origin." More retelling of history. More self-serving pipsqueakery. More insult to longtime fans. More issues of "52" for me to buy because I am a Metal Men completist. I'm probably the only person on Earth with this sickness. There's no therapy group for me. It's my battle, and my battle alone. Pray for me.

"WIZARD OF OZ" MEMORIES

2006-12-14T22:46:00.000-05:00

I caught a little bit of "Wizard of Oz" the other day. It's amazing to me how, after all these years, watching that film makes me feel like I'm in grade school again.

Oldsters will tell the young'uns that back before DVDs, VCRs, iPods and MIMICs (Medically Implanted Memory and Information Chips, which are surely on the way), we only got to see "Wizard of Oz" once a year, and it was a very special event.

If you were REAL lucky, you got to watch it on a color television.

Here are three things my Adult Brain recalled my Child Brain thinking back when I watched "Oz" in grade school:

1.) We always knew it wasn't REALLY Bert Lahr who jumped through the window after being frightened by the Wizard.

2.) There's a non-dialogue scene during a musical number in which the Tin Man asks the Scarecrow a question; the Scarecrow makes a "thinking" expression; and then answers the question. As little kids, we always logically wondered: "How could the Scarecrow think without a brain?"

3.) Man, did that Wizard -- the "great and powerful Oz" version, that is -- look scary! It was like a scene out of a horror film! He was green with a giant, veined head! And he was see-through! And surrounded by flames! It was like an "Outer Limits" monster, but in color!

20 YEARS

2006-12-07T22:51:00.000-05:00

This Tuesday will be our 20th wedding anniversary. Kathy and I were married on Dec. 12, 1986, by the mayor of Manasquan at the Manasquan Inlet, just a few blocks south from where we had our first date.

It's also the anniversary of our debut as a writer-photographer team.

It happened like this: I'd been at the Press for nearly four years. I was a staff artist, but I'd been doing more and more writing. (That was my background; I have a degree in journalism and I'd worked as a stringer for the Gloucester County Times in Woodbury and a writer/designer for a string of weeklies in Philadelphia.)

Kathy and I booked a trip to Puerto la Cruz, Venezuela, for our honeymoon. Almost as an afterthought, I began to take notes for a travel story. Kathy was always an avid photographer, and so as she was snapping our honeymoon photos, I asked her to compose a few all-purpose shots that could accompany my travel story. Her photos were really terrific; it was the first time I noticed what an eye she had.

Little did we know that this was the beginning of a fruitful, rewarding career for both of us. I always say Kathy became "my" photographer because I was such a workaholic and she wanted us to spend more time together.

Almost every year on Dec. 12, Kathy and I visited the Manasquan Inlet to mark our anniversary. Ten years ago, we renewed our vows, with the mayor again officiating. I'll be there again this year -- just me, my memories and the sound of the surf.

'SEXTETTE' A JAW DROPPER

2006-12-03T17:35:00.000-05:00

Since 1978 when it was released, I've been dying to see "Sextette," the final film of Mae West (who died two years later). It's one of those infamous bombs you always read about, but it's hard to track down. While rehearsing with The Burners, I spotted it on my brother's DVD shelf. I realized immediatlely why Brinie bought it: Who drummer Keith Moon is in it. When I asked to borrow it, both Brinie and Nephew warned me that the movie is rough going.

I always figured "Sextette" would be so horrible, I'd have to watch it in 20- to 30-minute installments. Not EVERY bad movie is so-bad-it's-good. Not EVERY bad movie is "Plan-9-From-Outer-Space" funny.

My verdict: "Sextette" is a jaw dropper! A train wreck you can't look away from! A must-see disaster!

There are culture clashes galore. Timothy Dalton, nine years before playing James Bond, plays West's newlywed husband. Dalton looked 30. (He was 34.) Mae looked 85. (She WAS 85.) Dalton was acting as if he couldn't wait to get in bed with this woman who was old enough to be his grandmother. It makes "Harold and Maude" look like "Romeo and Juliet."

There's even a bit of unintentional foreshadowing, when Dom DeLuise tells Mae that Dalton is a spy who is "bigger than 007." (Mae's retort: "I didn't get a chance to measure him.")

Moonie, Ringo Starr and Alice Cooper are all in it, which leads me to wonder: Where are Harry Nilsson, John Lennon and May Pang? (These castings would complete the infamous Wasted Rocker Brigade of the '70s.) Ringo looks hungover, Moonie looks drunk (he died the following year) and Alice looks embarrassed (he SHOULD be). Also in the cast are Tony Curtis, Walter Pidgeon, George Raft, Regis Philbin and George Hamilton.

Raft's elevator moment with Mae is actually very sweet. (Mae: "I haven't seen you in two years, George. What have you been doing?" Raft: "Two years.")

At times, it appears that Mae can barely walk. During production numbers -- complete with dozens of dancers -- all of the action happens AROUND Mae. When she and Dalton serenade each other with "Love Will Keep Us Together," it makes your ears bleed. When Dom sings and dances The Beatles' "Honey Pie," you wonder who in his right mind green-lighted usage of the song.

There is something very "Plan 9" about this movie. In that film, the "star" (Bela Lugosi) was dead, and all of the action was centered around the existing footage of him. In "Sextette," the star is still alive, still very much participating, but very much past her sell-by date. So all of the action is centered around the actual, still-breathing corpus. This approach yields many moments of palpable desperation. But I have to say that Mae is a game old girl, and for better or (much) worse, she got out her lines and finished the job.

I LOVE THIS MOVIE.

PIEROGI PARTY

2006-11-30T21:56:00.000-05:00

On Saturday I went to my aunt-in-law's in Sayreville to take part in her annual Pierogi Party. They've been doing it for years, but it was my first time. It's a very festive occasion, though you have to show up ready to BRING IT. (You also should wear old clothes, preferably white, because you'll be covered in flour.)

The objective is to make many dozens of pierogis in two varieties, potato and saurkraut, to be served at my aunt-in-law's huge, raucous, Santa-visited Christmas Eve party.

There are three jobs: Rollers, Fillers and Boiler. The Rollers roll the dough thinly on a table, and then use cups to "cut" out circles which are put on cookie trays. The trays are then delivered to the Fillers, who put the circles of dough on pierogi presses (which are little folding plastic devices). The Fillers add a bit of filling, snap the press closed, peel off any excess dough, coax out the resulting raw pierogi and place it on another cookie tray. (I was a Filler, and if I say so myself, I got those babies looking like works of art.) The Boiler then drops the raw pierogis into a huge pot of boiling water. The pierogis are boiled until they float to the top. The Boiler butters the cooked pierogis and places them on yet another cookie tray to cool. Once they've cooled, the pierogis are placed in plastic bags to be frozen. Workers at the Pierogi Party also get to bring a dozen or two home.

When ready for use, I'm told, the pierogis are not thawed. You just throw them straight from the freezer into a frying pan with onions. Once the onions "carmelize," I'm told, the pierogis are ready to eat.

We listened to polkas during most of the production. The music really got you psyched to crank out the pierogis. (So much so, I now want to do a couple of polkas with The Burners; wish me luck talking THOSE guys into it.) We got to eat our "mistakes." They were ambrosia! Kathy would have been laughing and snapping pictures the whole time.

After the last bit of flour was wiped up, my little niece -- the one who played Alegra Sacrimoni's flower girl on "The Sopranos" -- played "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on guitar. (Her teacher is the guitarist for Sugar Ray. She recently played a gig that Dick Dale played at.)

Maybe I'm still buzzed from all of that dough and polkas, but if I spot those little plastic pierogi presses at a department store, I'm BUYING a few.

THANKS, JIMBO

2006-11-29T21:54:00.000-05:00

At the Big Apple Con earlier this month, I ran into Jim Salicrup, the former Marvel Comics editor who helmed the best-selling Spider-Man edition of all time, Todd McFarlane's "Spider-Man" No. 1, in 1990. I'd earlier profiled Jim on PAGE X, accompanied with a photo by Kathy.

Jim got to know Kathy and I during our time covering the comic book beat. One grueling day, we were seated next to Jim, and he got a kick out of Kathy's running commentary of the human parade that is a comic book convention. Kathy's chops-busting sense of humor was on full display. And since Kathy was definitely NOT a comic book geek (and therefore possessed not a shred of the reverence we geeks hold for the medium), Jim found Kathy's humor all the more refreshing. From that day on, when Kathy and I would run into Jim from time to time, we would always pause for a few laughs.

The first time I saw Jim after Kathy died, he told me he'd written a blog about her, and even received messages of sympathy from some readers. But for some reason, I wasn't able to access that blog for a long time. Since then, I've finally read it, and I'd like to share some of it with you.

He titled it "Broken Flowers for Kathy Voglesong." Following is an excerpt.

"I can't tell you how hard that (the news of Kathy's death) hit me. The waves of sadness that suddenly overcame me were surprisingly powerful. ... despite not knowing her very well, the few times I had spent with her at Big Apple and Hawthorne comicbook conventions were very memorable. She enjoyed teasing me, and I loved teasing her right back. Beyond being a very beautiful woman, she was obviously very smart and talented with a wicked sense of humor. Seeing her and Mark at the shows was always great fun. I miss her so much already. ... To Mark, what can I possibly say? Obviously, it's not wise to dwell on the fact that she's gone, better to appreciate how incredibly lucky you both were to have shared so much together for so long. The love you two shared was always obvious and inspiring."

Thanks, Jimbo.