I have an irrational appreciation for actors, known mostly as "That One Guy", who work a lot and are so very good in nearly every part. Some that come immediately to mind:
Gary Cole
Jason Bateman
Bruce Greenwood
Miguel Ferrer
Michael Hitchcock
Brad Pitt
John Michael Higgins
The Newspaper Guy From Spiderman, And Juno
David Koechner
Richard Something Something (older guy, seems sad all the time)
Bob Balaban
Jeff Tambor
Justin Theroux
Tom Cruise
David Paymer
We knew them when (they were still "That One Guy" [some still are]):
Paul Rudd
Tom Wilkinson (personal favorite)
Alec Baldwin
I've seen maybe 3 episodes of Malcolm In The Middle. Good show. But Brian is the sort that you just know right away about, especially when you hear yourself say, Oh, yeah, the one armed guy from Saving Private Ryanwith maybe 2 scenes.
I like Jason Bateman on there because of Starsky And Hutch and Pepper Brooks.
Though I'm a drunken pothead, in counseling we talked about heroin and crack and meth. The counselor said that though all are devastatingly addictive, meth seemed the hardest to come off. In a weird way it helps to see others hit bottom, but only if it's on TV or in memoirs. Though I suspect it's going to be years and years before I'll ever be able to watch Leaving Las Vegas again.
Full disclosure: I've heard so many interviews from cast and writers and creators and directors of the show, it was only a matter of time before I ordered Season 1. Curiously, it was Bob Garfield of On The Media going on and on about the show during a story about a Slate writer who said it was pop culturally self-defeating to watch an entire series in 3 days. I kind of agree. When I watched Deadwood for the first time, I made myself stop after 2 episodes every saturday afternoon, sober, oddly enough.
And I've never seen The Sopranos. Frankly, the show scares me. Or just the thought of it.
(And lest we forget: Tom Cruise is the greatest actor of all time.)
Monday, July 16, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Guthrie 100th Spawns NPRmageddon: 5.97 Billion Left Behind
As if Arlo still around weren't bad enough.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Tough Room
I don't know how many of all y'all have spent much time in The Deep South ("American by birth, Southern by the grace of God, retarded by the heat and humidity."), but white people love to see other white people being treated poorly by blacks, especially if those "other people" are northerners. It's a sort of "We tried to tell you so!" teachable moment regarding what happens when you give "those people" "a say".
The punch line turns out is that whoever orchestrated this bombing at the NAACP is right. And because stereotypes exist for a reason, it allows the Romney folks to say, "Well, sure, this guy may well indeed be the president and all, for the most part. But he's still black, which means we can pretty much say anything we want about him."
The punch line turns out is that whoever orchestrated this bombing at the NAACP is right. And because stereotypes exist for a reason, it allows the Romney folks to say, "Well, sure, this guy may well indeed be the president and all, for the most part. But he's still black, which means we can pretty much say anything we want about him."
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Breakfast At Wimbledon: The End Of An Era
Somehow I've never managed not to watch at least the Championship no matter where I was no matter how I was. Well, thanks to greed, probably, this will be the first year, minus an act of god, or My Mom And Dad, I will miss the men's final. ESPN3 does not seem to want to talk to my verizon bot, so tomorrow morning I'll try to listen to it on the radio.
I was trying to think of the most fun I had watching Wimbledon that didn't include watching it with my dad, because that wouldn't be fair. I have concluded with not much thought that it would have to be Eastman School Of Music, summer of 1985, Boris Becker.
This fiasco has not improved my mood, so I may have to listen, again, to the "Fiascos" podcast from TAL.
1. Serena Williams is a thug who hates tennis.
2. If the purse is to be equal amongst men and women, then does it follow that the women should be required to compete for best of 3 sets as well?
I was trying to think of the most fun I had watching Wimbledon that didn't include watching it with my dad, because that wouldn't be fair. I have concluded with not much thought that it would have to be Eastman School Of Music, summer of 1985, Boris Becker.
This fiasco has not improved my mood, so I may have to listen, again, to the "Fiascos" podcast from TAL.
1. Serena Williams is a thug who hates tennis.
2. If the purse is to be equal amongst men and women, then does it follow that the women should be required to compete for best of 3 sets as well?
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Fire Crackers!
25 years ago, I was back home in Ohio for the summer after my first year in New York City. When July 4 rolled around, this stray dog, a pit bull mutt, wandered on to the property and didn't seem to have any intention of leaving. She was terrified of the fireworks all day and that night, so my little nephews named her "Crackers".
Dad did not like her, did not like her at all. We already had a dog, adopted as Sidney, a German Shepherd/Husky mix, but his name had changed over the years from Old Thunder to Charles Albert, on account of stories in the paper dad and I had read, and the last one on account of an old, old lady at the vet whose tiny dog was named Charles Albert, mom surmised, after the old lady's late husband.
Crackers was a pain. In the garbage, needy, nearly vermin, you would think. And dad didn't want her muscling in on Charles Albert's attention, even though he didn't care for attention. Dad did not want this dog. At all. We already had a dog.
But she wouldn't leave, and my parents weren't the sort to take dogs to the pound. They were the sort to adopt dogs from the pound. So they decided to keep her until someone who actually wanted this dog could be found.
I'm not having a particularly good week. Not a bad week, but not overly positive. Probably the heat and the power loss over the weekend, and the heat is still here. (Though July and August in The Ham for 13 years has pretty much inured me to anything Ohio can and will throw at me.) And I'm almost as sick of saying, "One day at a time," as I am hearing myself say it. But as smart as I like to hope everyone thinks I am, that's just what it ends up coming down to: One day. I"ve got today. It's hot, but it's a blessing.
Every 4th Of July, I think about what ever happened to that dog that didn't want to leave. And it makes me wonder. And it makes me sad.
Well, what happened to that dog was that she never did leave. And she became the most adored dog ever in the history of dog history. Often, when my dad would get up at 5:15 in the morning, while my mom was still asleep, he would coax Cracker up into the bed where he had been laying and put the covers up to her head so that my mom would wake up with this dog sound asleep with her head on the pillow as if it were the most natural, predictable thing one wouldn't even have to imagine. My mom would get so mad telling of it that she'd have to laugh.
Then there was the time they were gone for 3 days, a story for another time.
When Charles Albert died in 1993, Crackers helped us bury him in the woods and wouldn't leave the site of fresh earth for 3 hours; she just laid there, waiting for him.
One of the sweetest, saddest things I've ever seen was right after dad died the last week of March 2001. People were bringing food for our family at all hours of the day all that week. So there were cars coming up the driveway too often to count. Yet every time a car would start down the driveway, that dog would think for just a second or two that it was dad, and would lumber over to the front door only to be disappointed yet again for the two dozenth time. Then she'd mope on back to mom. Mom and I would share a look that from what I can remember was an odd combination of comfort and devastation.
Crackers died almost exactly 6 months after dad did, having lived a pretty good dog's life, having broken in mom's last stray dog, Sophie, who, it breaks my heart to think, is still waiting at the front door waiting for mom to come pick her up and take her back home.
P.S. Moonpie got to meet my mom exactly 3 times and was, as you might imagine, smitten by her immediately, and remembered her as if on cue the 2nd and 3rd times right away. I suspect there's a little Crackers in Moonpie dog. At least I like to think so.
Dad did not like her, did not like her at all. We already had a dog, adopted as Sidney, a German Shepherd/Husky mix, but his name had changed over the years from Old Thunder to Charles Albert, on account of stories in the paper dad and I had read, and the last one on account of an old, old lady at the vet whose tiny dog was named Charles Albert, mom surmised, after the old lady's late husband.
Crackers was a pain. In the garbage, needy, nearly vermin, you would think. And dad didn't want her muscling in on Charles Albert's attention, even though he didn't care for attention. Dad did not want this dog. At all. We already had a dog.
But she wouldn't leave, and my parents weren't the sort to take dogs to the pound. They were the sort to adopt dogs from the pound. So they decided to keep her until someone who actually wanted this dog could be found.
I'm not having a particularly good week. Not a bad week, but not overly positive. Probably the heat and the power loss over the weekend, and the heat is still here. (Though July and August in The Ham for 13 years has pretty much inured me to anything Ohio can and will throw at me.) And I'm almost as sick of saying, "One day at a time," as I am hearing myself say it. But as smart as I like to hope everyone thinks I am, that's just what it ends up coming down to: One day. I"ve got today. It's hot, but it's a blessing.
Every 4th Of July, I think about what ever happened to that dog that didn't want to leave. And it makes me wonder. And it makes me sad.
Well, what happened to that dog was that she never did leave. And she became the most adored dog ever in the history of dog history. Often, when my dad would get up at 5:15 in the morning, while my mom was still asleep, he would coax Cracker up into the bed where he had been laying and put the covers up to her head so that my mom would wake up with this dog sound asleep with her head on the pillow as if it were the most natural, predictable thing one wouldn't even have to imagine. My mom would get so mad telling of it that she'd have to laugh.
Then there was the time they were gone for 3 days, a story for another time.
When Charles Albert died in 1993, Crackers helped us bury him in the woods and wouldn't leave the site of fresh earth for 3 hours; she just laid there, waiting for him.
One of the sweetest, saddest things I've ever seen was right after dad died the last week of March 2001. People were bringing food for our family at all hours of the day all that week. So there were cars coming up the driveway too often to count. Yet every time a car would start down the driveway, that dog would think for just a second or two that it was dad, and would lumber over to the front door only to be disappointed yet again for the two dozenth time. Then she'd mope on back to mom. Mom and I would share a look that from what I can remember was an odd combination of comfort and devastation.
Crackers died almost exactly 6 months after dad did, having lived a pretty good dog's life, having broken in mom's last stray dog, Sophie, who, it breaks my heart to think, is still waiting at the front door waiting for mom to come pick her up and take her back home.
P.S. Moonpie got to meet my mom exactly 3 times and was, as you might imagine, smitten by her immediately, and remembered her as if on cue the 2nd and 3rd times right away. I suspect there's a little Crackers in Moonpie dog. At least I like to think so.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Heroic Icon, Or Iconic Hero? Anderson Cooper Notes
Anderson Cooper 360??? 180?!?!?!? Try 540!!!
Anderson bravely blows lid off story everyone already knew and really didn't care about and now cares even less about.
"We prefer our gays to be more stylish and less self-absorbed. And that they can actually read."
It's his pioneering new style of Don't Ask Don't Tell journalism that really gets our nipples hard.
Fox News Reports It May Now Believe That Real America Is Actually Gay, Making Real Americans Gay, Making Most Republican Legislators Real Americans, Again, Check Mate
Newsman breaks news by making news by being news that isn't news thereby breaking news even more.
Or:
"... [F]act is, why simply report the news when you can be it, no matter how lame and predictable..."
Mini Cooper-Cruise Power Marriage In The Works?
Anderson Cooper comes out of closet, goes back in, comes back out with even uglier shirt.
Gay Vanderbilt Queer Heir (Queir) Raises Stakes And Eyebrows In Attention Whore Game
"... [F]act is, I'm gay. [But don't worry, I'm still very not smart.]"
Today Leads With Bleeding Ann Curry, Follows With Howie Mandel, Parallel Parking Jap Thug, talking ball of yarn as possible Romney running mate
"His fudge packs a real punch."
&c., and so forth, and the like...
Speaking of which, Deadwood, Season 2, Episode 8, "Childish Things". 'nuff said.
Anderson bravely blows lid off story everyone already knew and really didn't care about and now cares even less about.
"We prefer our gays to be more stylish and less self-absorbed. And that they can actually read."
It's his pioneering new style of Don't Ask Don't Tell journalism that really gets our nipples hard.
Fox News Reports It May Now Believe That Real America Is Actually Gay, Making Real Americans Gay, Making Most Republican Legislators Real Americans, Again, Check Mate
Newsman breaks news by making news by being news that isn't news thereby breaking news even more.
Or:
"... [F]act is, why simply report the news when you can be it, no matter how lame and predictable..."
Mini Cooper-Cruise Power Marriage In The Works?
Anderson Cooper comes out of closet, goes back in, comes back out with even uglier shirt.
Gay Vanderbilt Queer Heir (Queir) Raises Stakes And Eyebrows In Attention Whore Game
"... [F]act is, I'm gay. [But don't worry, I'm still very not smart.]"
Today Leads With Bleeding Ann Curry, Follows With Howie Mandel, Parallel Parking Jap Thug, talking ball of yarn as possible Romney running mate
"His fudge packs a real punch."
&c., and so forth, and the like...
Speaking of which, Deadwood, Season 2, Episode 8, "Childish Things". 'nuff said.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
"I feel like I just lost my best friend: AMERICA."
Stephen Colbert didn't say that.
Jon Stewart didn't say that.
I didn't even say that, sort of.
"I feel like I just lost two great friends: America and Justice Roberts," wrote GOP Rep. Jack Kingston on Congress's main public outreach platform, Twitter.
But I did, to my shame, actually ROFLMAO. Be assured absolutely no lesbians or omelettes were injured during "the incident", that we know of.
Jon Stewart didn't say that.
I didn't even say that, sort of.
"I feel like I just lost two great friends: America and Justice Roberts," wrote GOP Rep. Jack Kingston on Congress's main public outreach platform, Twitter.
But I did, to my shame, actually ROFLMAO. Be assured absolutely no lesbians or omelettes were injured during "the incident", that we know of.
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