Monday, March 30, 2009
Jimmy Fallon just keeps dying, ever so excruciatingly, on the television vine.
Maybe it’s time to bring back the Rick Danko look.
Try as I might, I can’t remember who sat next to me in grammar school, junior or senior high school. Why can so many others?
It’s time to explore the non-Leone entries in the Spaghetti Western cannon.
When I watch dramatic network television from the 50,60’s, or even 70’s I always note that the episode title looms large and seems invented to be as pulpy, purple or poetic as possible. Why doesn’t most contempo TV still go there?
You can and should don a jaunty or tasteful hat, and not risk ridicule, if you’re a male over-50 with a job.
If you are indeed a male over-50 with a job never, evuuuhh, use the terms chakra, synchronicity, optimize, or closure.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, I really do, but B.B. King always has and always will bore me to sleep.
I always brag to my wife that I have an exceptional sense of voice radar (a truly non-marketable skill)—I can readily identify almost any actor or actress behind the voice over within one or two listens. Last night I pinpointed Peri Gilpin and James Remar. Top that, mofos.
I truly wish I coulda shared a drink or two with one-of-a-kind Jack Elam.
Everybody kills The Stones for rocking and aging in the public eye, yet they only sing hosannas to the likes of Leonard Cohen, Van the Man Morrison, and Neil Young.
Benicio Del Toro grabs all the hipster buzz, but Josh Brolin just keeps quietly knocking ‘em against the wall and outta the park.
Don't really watch golf on any sort of regular basis, and I've spent a lifetime rooting for the sports underdog against the favorite, but when Tiger is in contention in the final round late on a sunday afternoon it's somehow become must-see TV for me.
When real life newspaper columnists resort to that tried-and-true chestnut of the random thought/list thang I know it’s a stroke job, but I have to read it anyway.