WHAT IN THE NAME OF SCOOTER MONZINGO?

Yes, what in the name of Scooter Monzingo is ESPN doing? For that matter, I could add what in the name of Jitter Fields, Happy Feller and Herkie Walls is ESPN doing?

Enough is enough.

The plethora of praise for the USC Condoms (i.e. Trojans) vs. my beloved Texas Longhorns has reached such puissant proportions that college football fans outside of Austin have not only taken notice, but have begun to hyperventilate at the horrendous hype. Mark May and minions have declared the Boys from Troy as the best college football team ever. They have dissected hypothetical (and totally bogus) match-ups against other outstanding collegiate teams of the past fifty-plus years inevitably declaring that this year's edition of Leinart, Bush et al would whoop everyone's ass. I haven't seen this much booty-licking since The Wild World of Sphincter Championships back in 1998. What's worse, it seems the insanity of it all has only just begun.

Perhaps Pete Fiutak of CollegeFootballNews.com has described ESPN's ludicrous behavior best: "Next week ESPN will do a comparative analysis of USC against a 1938 German Panzer Division, a pack of overweight housewives outside a Wal-Mart thirty seconds before the doors open on the day after Thanksgiving, and a tank of sharks with fricking laser beams attached to their fricking heads."

Personally, I'll take the overweight housewives any day. I know "mrn" would as well...

WHO ARE THE REAL LUNATICS?

Yesterday I was lucky enough to catch one of my all-time favorite movies thanks to my Dish Network subscription. KING OF HEARTS (aka LE ROI DE COEUR) is a remarkable anti-war film directed by Philippe De Broca which stars Alan Bates as a WWI Scottish infantryman sent to a French village to disarm a bomb left behind by the retreating German army.

Private Charles Plumpick is an odd selection for the highly important job since he is merely a carrier pigeon specialist with absolutely no training when it comes to defusing explosives. He does speak French, however, so his Commanding Officer "volunteers" him for this dangerous assignment. The brilliance of this insightful, surreal cult allegory rests primarily on the premise that by the time Pvt. Plumpick arrives all of the regular villagers have fled to escape the impending detonation. They not only leave their homes and shops, they also leave the gate to the insane asylum open so the inmates will be able to fend for themselves. Within hours every one of the "lunatics" has assumed a role in the village and the absurdist fun begins.

The screenplay by Daniel Boulanger is based on a short story by Maurice Bessy. It is a light-hearted romp with a surgically penetrating point of view which asks: "Who are the real lunatics?" Is it those who just hours ago were incarcerated in a mental institution or is it the English and German soldiers who slaughter one another simply because they are ordered to do so?

De Broca and company provide a clear-cut answer. One of the many profound lines of dialogue comes from one of the lunatic villagers who, in the aftermath of the horrific battle in the town square which mows down in a hail of gunfire every soldier and officer from both armies, quips: "Don't you think these actors are going a bit too far for a game?"

As we all know, war is not a game; but it can definitely be insane.

Other highlights include the lilting, yet highly evocative musical score by Georges Delerue and the casting of Genevieve Bujold in one of her first major screen appearances. She captures your heart...and I defy anyone to take their eyes off her when she is in a scene. Any scene, anyone -- man or woman.

Tomorrow, Thursday, December 29, Turner Classics will air another absolute must-see motion picture, Stanley Kubrick's PATHS OF GLORY starring Kirk Douglas, Adolphe Menjou, George Macready and Ralph Meeker. This is a another stunning antiwar film which will also remain in your heart and in your mind for a long, long time. Set your clocks to 5:30 p.m. Central time.

THE BAYING OF PIGS

They've done it again.

This week another egregious ruling was made by our favorite governmental agency. For reasons that verge on being unfathomable, those wily wildebeests at the United States Treasury Department have banned Cuba from participating in the upcoming World Baseball Classic.

For those of you unfamiliar with the WBC, it is an exciting new event for baseball fans worldwide. Sixteen national teams will compete in this international tournament comprised of many of the biggest marquee names in the game, each playing for their home country. Among the 400 all-stars committed to play are Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, Tadahito Iguchi, Omar Vizquel, Vinny Castilla and Alfonso Soriano.

Missing from the fray, however, will be the island nation of Cuba where their "field of dreams" is perhaps only second to our own. This is an outrage and a black mark in the world of sport as well as in the world of international diplomacy.

Many baseball fans have called the New York Yankees "The Evil Empire", especially those residing in Beantown. I say there is a more insidious evil among us -- it is the IRS and their brethren at the Treasury Department who have decided to stick their nose where it doesn't belong. In fact, the legitimacy of this fascist decision is so irrational I must assume Adolf Schickelgruber is spinning in his grave.

Even Yogi Berra is speechless... What must Cookie Rojas think???

(Yes, that's none other than Fidel Castro on the mound in Havana's Field of Dreams)

AMERICA'S NEWEST ROLL MODELS!

As a young lad growing up in the Texas Hill Country berg of New Braunfels I recall experiencing a seemingly never-ending series of "lusts". Boy-oh-boy, was this ever a confusing and difficult time -- how I made it to college without having gone blind I'll never know.

By far the most enduring and intense lust of all was directed for months on end toward Annette Funicello. She was clearly the hottest of the "Mouseketeers" -- that doll-like face, the striking raven-black hair, the protruding sweater -- no doubt about it, Annette was the girl of my dreams. Literally......

You see, for three consecutive nights I dreamt that Annette was going to move in next door to my house and we would thus become far more than simple "friends." Yes, indeedy -- and it certainly did not help having once been told that if you ever have the same recurring dream three nights in a row that was unmistakable proof that the dream would definitely come true.

I hesitate to count the number of times I ran to the window after hearing a truck stop somewhere on Willow Avenue fully believing that it would be a Mayflower moving van delivering to me the girl of my most cherished dreams. Alas, days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. I dare say this Pavlovian Response endured for damn near a full year.

"Your dreams will come through." Yea, right, and any dumb schmuck can become President of these semi-United States.

I should have known better -- nothing exciting ever happens in New Braunfels, Texas. Nothing...

What made things easier was my discovery of a totally different kind of female. Thanks to the wonderful world of ROLLER DERBY, my family's Black & White Philco once a week became a conduit for new, intense desires thanks to two decidedly sinful and more experienced gals -- the Amazon-like "Blonde Bomber," Joanie Weston -- and the sleeker, snaky Ann Calvello. May God help me. May the WONDERFUL WORLD OF ROLLER DERBY long prevail over the WIMPY WORLD OF DISNEY.

Whereas my desire to be with Annette was a puppy love in the purest and most honorable sense, ROLLER DERBY introduced me to a different kind of longing, one that was both quite confusing and quite intense. And for that "enlightenment" I continue to this day feeling thankful that I saw on the boob tube Ms. Weston and Ms. Calvello as they wickedly dueled one another for their respective teams -- the Bay Area Bombers and the Midwest Pioneers.

For those of you still reading this I will now get to the point of these historical ramblings: Be advised that the likes of Joanie Weston and Ann Calvello are baaack! Yes, on Monday, January 2nd, A&E will premiere ROLLERGIRLS, and while the game has changed (there are no longer men on the teams -- who cares?), the basic premise has not. Starring some pretty nasty nubiles nicknamed Punky Bruiser, Miss Conduct, Venis Envy and Jailbait, among a bevy of others, I can once again longingly return to those enlightened days of yesteryear when I dreamt of becoming a jammer...

BONER GROANER

Forgive me, but I am still nauseous after watching this wretched excuse for a feature film. Accordingly, this review will be very, very short.

Quite simply, I believe the dicks responsible for the production and distribution of THE 40 YEAR OLD VIRGIN should all be castrated by way of a rusty old grapefruit spoon. The most egregious of the bunch surely include Art Director Tom Reta, Production Designer Jackson De Govia, Editor Brent White and Judd Apatow who directed and shares story credit. (I use the term "directed" advisedly).

I must now bid adieu as I'm headed for the kitchen drawer where we keep our eating utinsels; then it is on to Hollywoody...

KINKY FRIEDMAN -- "WHY THE HELL NOT?"

Why the Hell not, indeed.

I cannot say for certainty that I will vote for Kinky Friedman to be the next Governor of the Lone Star State, but I wholeheartedly welcome him into the race.

Current Governor Rick Perry was a "Yell Leader" at Texas A&M for Christ sake and his imbecilic administration should have come as no surprise to anyone with an IQ over the average goose-stepping, zit-faced Aggie Kiddie Corps member. Yes, I'm singing "Hullabaloo Kinky Kink..." as I write this.

The other most widely known, declared candidate, Texas Comptroller of Public Accounts Carole Keeton Strayhorn (the self-proclaimed "one tough Grandma"), presents an interesting alternative. I like her attitude and anything would be better than Ricky-roo. But, according to The Wit and Wisdom of Kinky, "Politics is the only field where the more experience you have, the worse you get." Amen, brother.

Here are two other quotes by Kinky regarding the current state of affairs regarding today's politicos:

"The professionals gave us the Titanic, amateurs gave us the Ark."
"What the politicians are missing is a sense of humor, a sense of reality and common sense."

Amen and hallelujah.

Kinky has claimed he was "born in a manager, died in the saddle and came back as a horny toad." I truly believe this Montecristo puffing, independent thinking, self-proclaimed "horny toad" will be a breath of fresh air in the upcoming gubernatorial race. Come to think of it, I love that word -- "gubernatorial." In the past, most of these races have mandated the voting public to have to choose between one "guber" vs. another. With Kinky in the running, I think that will change.

Yep, pardners, Texas Independence Day may very well be established on 11.7.2006 (the day after the election).

MR. & MRS. SMITH -- A Haiku Review

MR. & MRS. SMITH

Brad's the pits. Script fails.
More plot holes than bullet holes.
Beware Jolie's lips.

This big screen orgasm should have been titled MR. & MRS. SMITH & WESSON given the the bullet count and the array of rapid-fire weaponry deployed during the interminably long third act. Still, some will find the film worthy of a Blockbuster rental if just to see Angelina Jolie's big, juicy lips. Freak shows like this are mostly a thing of the past, but thanks to wide-screen aspect ratios and letterbox DVDs one cannot help but revel at those rosy reds. Personally, I find them abhorrent -- kinda like one giant crimson-painted caulfilower stacked above another. Yep, they are that large, that lumpy and that creepy. Makes me glad to know that I'm not a trailer hitch...

HAUGHTY COULTER

This just in from the esteemed "Needtovent Paparizzi Team" -- yes, it is a totally unretouched telephoto shot of Ann Coulter being driven to the Fox News Studios prior to having her on-camera make-up applied. Of course, we at "Needtovent" endeavor to be just as "fair and balanced" as the next guy, so we have also posted a picture of Ms. Coulter after the make-up artists have worked their magic. Much better -- in fact, I'm told that this horsy face poster has found its way into more than one stable at Ruidoso Downs.

And to think that she once actually said, and I quote: "I am emboldened by my looks to say things Republican men wouldn't."

Maybe she was misquoted. Maybe she really said "embalmed" instead of "emboldened" -- now that makes more sense...

2005 NASCAR Awards Banquet -- TV Ad Nauseam

The 25th NASCAR Awards Banquet (now sponsored by NEXTEL) is an annual event held each year in the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. It is supposed to be an upbeat celebration of the past year's stock car racing accomplishments, culminating in the presentation of the NEXTEL Cup Award to the top driver based on points earned throughout the season. This year's black-tie event started this past Friday, December 2nd and today is Thursday, December 8th. I'm told it has finally concluded.

Being a long-time NASCAR fan I tried to watch these proceedings once again. In the past I have done so in part to see just how attractive the wives and girl friends of the drivers, crew chiefs and car owners are -- it is a relatively harmless fetish, just one of many that I have acquired over the years. In the past I have also tuned in to discover which of these drivers are capable of reading a teleprompter and which might have the best sense of humor. I found that I could devote an hour or two to this endeavor since my life at 6001 Creekwood Pass is generally slow-paced and relatively uneventful.

There is, however, a limit -- even for me. Once this year's proceedings exceeded the time it takes Halley's Comet to circumnavigate the solar system I realized that enough is enough. I'd rather eat the same Banquet TV Dinner for a week than spend another nanosecond watching this boring banquet on TV.

Perhaps most annoying are the endless sponsorship plugs mouthed by everyone with access to the podium. These verbal ads have become interminable -- bringing a new meaning to the word ad nauseam. And there's even more to come thanks to the recent announcement of a NASCAR/Harlequin Enterprises partnership. Yep, Wal-Mart stores everywhere will soon be inundated with romance novels featuring fictional NEXTEL Cup drivers. First out, in pole position, is IN THE GROOVE, by Pamela Britton. Apparently it is the story of a former teacher named Sarah Tingle (yes, Tingle -- and you thought Dick Trickle was a funny name) who is forced to take a job driving a team bus. Hey, at least she's not pulling a train.

"IF WE DON'T DO IT, WHO WILL?"

Last night CBS aired my absolute favorite Holiday Season television special -- "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

This truly remarkable program was first broadcast on Thursday, December 9, 1965. Forty years later, this uniquely simple, heartfelt production has become the longest-running animated television special in history.

There are two especially remarkable things about "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

One, of course, is the sprightly and poignant jazz riffs by composer Vince Guaraldi -- a smooth trio composition (piano, bass and drums) which form a perfectly balanced accompaniment for Charley Brown's kid-sized universe. Simply put, the music has become an established musical trademark which continues to provide smiles and smiles of recognition worldwide. Perhaps Jon Hendricks, the poet laureate of jazz, described Vince's music best: "Vince is what you call a piano player. That's different from a pianist. A pianist can play anything you can put in front of him. A piano player can play anything BEFORE you can put it in front of him." Unfortunately, Vince Guaraldi passed away on February 6, 1976, at the age of 47.

The other truly remarkable thing is that actual children were used for the voices of all the favorite Peanuts characters (excluding Snoopy whose voice was that of Director Bill Melendez). In fact, many of these children were so young they delivered their lines phonetically, not even understanding what it was they were saying.

While it may be true the kids delivering the dialogue may not have understood what it was they were saying, rest assured that PEANUTS creator Charles M. Schulz fully grasped exactly what was being said. You see, towards the end Linus reveals to Charlie Brown the true meaning of Christmas by quoting Luke 2:8-14 from the King James translation of the Bible. Mr. Schulz was met with considerable reluctance regarding the insertion of such an overtly religious, Biblical reference. When confronted about this and facing considerable pressure to give in, Schulz reportedly won everyone over by saying, "If we don't do it, who will?" Who will, indeed? And that, friends and neighbors, is another reason why this television special is truly "special."

IT (STILL) DOES NOT MAKE SENSE

As my previous posting indicated, I am a huge fan of SOUTH PARK. Not every episode hits the mark, but those that do tend to leave an indelible impression.

Yesterday our Supreme Commander-In-Chief released a 35-page rationalization for our continued invasion and occupation titled "National Strategy for Victory in Iraq." It reminded me of the "Chewbacca Defense," a now-famous, all-too-often-used tactic which had its debut in Episode 27 during the second season of my favorite animated television series.

For those of you who missed this airing or who may be unfamiliar with this expression made famous by SOUTH PARK creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker, let me explain. The "Chewbacca Defense' is a satirical term for any legal strategy or propaganda strategy that seeks to overwhelm its audience with nonsensical arguments as a way of both confusing those standing in judgement and as a way of drowning out legitimate opposing points of view. It is thus a kind of logical fallacy similar to argumentum ad nauseam. It could also be described as a "straw man" argument.

The episode I am referring to brilliantly satirized attorney Johnnie Cochran's closing argument defending O. J. Simpson in his murder trial. Here's a sample of what I mean:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this (pointing to a picture of Chewbacca) is Chewbacca. Chewbacca is a Wookie! But Chewbacca lives on planet Endor. Now, think about that. THAT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE! Why would a Wookie -- an eight foot tall Wookie -- want to live on Endor with a bunch of two foot Ewoks? That does not make sense!

But more important, you have to ask yourself, what does this have to do with this case? Nothing. Ladies and gentlemen, it has nothing to do with this case! IT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE!

...Ladies and gentlemen, I am not making any sense. None of this makes sense!

And so you have to remember, when you're in that jury room deliberating and conjugating the Emancipation Proclamation... Does it make sense? No! Ladies and gentlemen of this supposed jury, it does not make sense. If Chewbacca lived on Endor, you must acquit! The defense rests."

You gotta love the SOUTH PARK satire, and if the "Chewbacca Defense" worked for O. J., it just might work for "W"...

HALLELUJAH!!!

I have a secret.

This posting on my blog will reveal a hidden truth that only Lynda and a dearly departed Basset Hound named Guinness have understood until now.

O.K. here goes, for whatever it is worth.

I do not live in the Texas Hill Country. I do not reside in Spring Branch or Comal County or even in Congressional District 21 as a blue voter registration card in my wallet seems to indicate. No, no and hell no.

I actually live in South Park.

Please understand that I am not referring to the physical town of the same name, but, rather, to the expanded universe of the television series which is where I absorb all of my spiritual and temporal knowledge. I know, I know...most people turn to CNN or FOX News or The New York Times or My Weekly Reader or even to the Mormon Church, God forbid. Not me.

And for all these past years I have agonized over why, at the end of each enlightening episode, Trey Parker and Matt Stone have used a clip of a Braniff Airlines 727 in the closing credits. To me, the mysteries of the universe and the heavens held no candle to this particular enigma, and so it is with unbridled glee that just a few minutes ago I stumbled upon the answer at Wikipedia -- "the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit." The heavy burden has been removed, the knowldege is upon me and I am a happy man, a happy man, indeed.

Photo Of The Week

PONTIUS WAS A "PILOT" ALSO...

REDFORD'S RETCHING RESIDUALS

As all six of my loyal readers know, I have a tendency to "vent" about a wide variety of things -- especially things that are ill-conceived and pretentious. That's why, in my mind at least, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME remains Hollywood's most detestable motion picture ever and that's why United has resurrected itself once again to being my all-time most despised airline.

First there is the issue of service -- even Aero Peru beats them out by a wide margin. As for on-time performance -- I'd rather fly Balkan Air. And, of course, there is DIA. If one is looking for Hell on Earth, then one need go no farther than to fly into or out of DIA. Thank you, United, for fostering that abominable nightmare onto the traveling public. I tell you this, if Rosa Parks had been on a United plane instead of a city bus, there still wouldn't be a civil rights movement in this country.

And now the ultimate affront -- a series of new animated TV commercials that are so sappy the entire state of Vermont must be jealous. They are known as "Rose", "Lightbulb", "Interview" and "A Life". Compounding the cloying storylines that are so trite even Barney would be embarrassed is the fact that all four are agonizingly augmented by the annoying strains of "Rhapsody in Blue" and the "my career is surely in the toilet" voice-over narration by Robert Redford.

Want to torture Al Qaeda? Or Aljazeera? Or Al Franken? Simple, just make them watch these commercials and uncontrollable, gut-wrenching spasms will follow. No wonder United Airlines has air sick bags...

THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES

"Wandering aound our America has changed me more than I thought. I am not me any more. At least I'm not the same me I was." -- Ernesto Guevara de la Serna

Welcome to EASY RIDER SOUTH.

The year is 1952. Two young men embark on a journey of discovery; it is a journey of over 10,000 miles -- from Argentina to Chile to Peru and beyond. Adapted from books written by both participants, Ernesto 'Che' Guevara and Alberto Granado, THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES is a beautifully photographed film with excellent production values throughout. Winner of the Oscar for Best Original Song and nominated for Best Screenplay Based On Material Previously Published or Produced, DIARIES went on to garner 24 other international awards and received an additional 34 major international award nominations. Clearly this is a film worthy of your time and mine.

In the final analysis, however, the film fails to fully explain the future revolutionary success of Che Guevara and for that I feel a bit disappointed. Historically, there is no disputing this man's passion or his brilliance, but the waters of Lake Titicaca are far clearer than the character arc developed by Director Walter Salles. This is a shame -- THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES could have been even better...

BENITO ALITO

IS IT JUST ME????

THE RACONTEUR RAMBLER -- Be Prepared To NASH Your Teeth

Today I pay a backhand tribute to the Nash Rambler, surely one of the least revered cars of the 1950's and 1960's. I do this because this "raconteur rambler" has decided to post a variety of thoughts that are most likely as ill-conceived as anything ever designed by American Motors.

-- What on earth were Wal-Mart, Target and a variety of other major retailers thinking when they decided to avoid the words "Merry Christmas" during this Holiday Season? Are they crazy? This is unbelievable, it is asinine and I predict it will be negatively felt at the cash register this December. What a downright stupid decision -- and this from someone who doesn't believe Jesus Christ is his savior any more than Neville Chamberlain...

-- Every day I tune in for at least a few minutes to both CNN and Fox News. I do so in the pathetic hope that we have finally captured Osama Bin Laden. I should know better; we were never even able to catch Pancho Villa...

-- A question recently asked by a comedian: What does a beaver have between her legs? I don't profess to know the answer, but I bet it is the same thing Hillary and Condoleeza have and I bet it isn't pink on the inside...

-- Another question: What happened to Aaron Brown? He was one of the very few broadcast journalists that I actually liked...

-- As for global warming, I don't profess to know the truth. I do believe that the earth goes through periodic climatic changes and I also believe that our collective emmissions may be having an effect. I'm glad I don't have any children so this issue between Big Bucks and Little Buckaroos is of diminished consequences to me. As a result, I can concentrate on other important mysteries of the universe like the Curse of the Goat at Wrigley...

-- I see where Michael Jackson is now in Bahrain. I must assume that the Boston Arch Diocese didn't have an opening...

PSYCHO

In the not-what-you-think-department, this photo is actually Valerie Plame and her recent reaction to hearing the name "Scooter" Libby for the umpteenth time in the past few weeks.

Last night I screamed also as I made a horrible mistake and channel surfed what can only be called "PSYCHO TV" -- no, I'm not referring to the classic film directed by Alfred Hitchcock, but rather ninety or so minutes of prime time cable news. Now that, my friends, is something truly scary and psychotic. Much of the coverage was about that little twerp named "Scooter" who -- and I'm not kidding here -- is limping along on crutches for God's sake. They say he has an injured ankle; I guess that's what happens when you put your damn foot in your mouth. "Scooter" my ass...

And speaking of twerps, how about that fella named Alan Colmes? Try watching SOUTH PARK sometime and see if he isn't a dead ringer for Mr. Mackey -- O.K.? Talk about the all-time "News Eunich". Pitted against blowhard Hannity, this lame excuse of a reporter is more overmatched than Poland in 1938.

Hey, I'm only getting started.

On another channel we are subjected to Anderson Cooper -- a "Drug Store" honkey if ever there was one. In case you are unfamiliar with this term, let me give a few examples: Kobe Bryant and Archie Bell and his damn Drells -- these represent the poster children for "Drug Store" niggers. Or Paul Reubenfeld (aka Pee-Wee Herman) -- a "Drug Store" kike with a circumcision problem. Like pooper-scooper Cooper they, too, are total sell-outs. See what I mean? (Let me add that living in the Texas Hill Country I'm literally surrounded by "Drug Store" cowboys -- it ain't a pretty sight).

Last, but by no means least, I now turn to what may be the most nightmarish of them all -- Greta Van Sustern, the on-camera hag whose face brings a new perspective to "Fair and Balanced." May all stroke victims take heart. One thing I will say about Greta, however, is that she sure likes to stick with a story regardless of its merits. I am referring to her nightly, incessant, continuous coverage of Natalee Holloway, the perky party girl who went to Aruba and got exactly what she wanted (except for the killing, perhaps).

BOSTON LEGAL -- A Guilty Pleasure...

Last night's episode of BOSTON LEGAL was perhaps the most thought-provoking and the most entertaining in the remarkable two-year history of what I believe is the single best hour on American television.

The primary storyline in "Witches of Mass Destruction" targeted the War in Iraq with a poignant plea for the citizens of this nation to abandon the entrenched polar positions of both political parties and encouraged, instead, a healthy dialogue aimed at both reason and understanding. Of course, leave it to pompous Denny Crane (portrayed by the irrepressible William Shatner) to say it best: "We Republicans never waiver -- no matter how wrong we are!" At the same time, erudite and arrogant Alan Shore (played by the brilliant James Spader) openly admits to being a flip-flopper in the past but whose mindset is now just as entrenched, albeit on the opposite side of this divisive issue.

What's truly amazing is that these two over-the-top, outrageous fictional characters are able to so eloquently express themselves and their points of view with passion, with clarity and within a matter of mere minutes. If only windbags like Rush-a-Dope Limbaugh and I'm-Not-Yet-Dead-Ted Kennedy could do the same.

Credit Creator/Writer David E. Kelly; when he is on his game no one is better. In BOSTON LEGAL Mr. Kelly has consistently delivered a prime time show that puts all others to shame. Clearly no TV drama is better cast, especially now with the addition of Candice Bergen as one of the firm's partners, Shirley Schmidt. The production values are top notch all the way around and the editing is as crisp as the bacon at the Stage Door Deli. Simply put: BOSTON LEGAL is "must-see TV."

Alas, I wish I could say the same for COMMANDER IN CHIEF, the Geena Davis as President program that serves as the lead-in for BOSTON LEGAL. Some have said this show is designed to help pave the way for a woman presidential candidate in 2008. Well, Hillary and Condoleeza and whoever else better hope the writing improves and the show begins to reach its potential, because right now my only sustaining realization, especially since the most recent episode, is that Big Lips Sink Ships...

HOLY CARNAUBA -- Bring Out The Drop Cloth...

Ten minutes into HOUSE OF WAX Paris Hilton's character reveals that she is late for her period. By the time we have any action whatsoever she could have easily given birth. Talk about a s-l-o-w start to a movie -- watching the first half of this film is like being subjected to Chinese Water Torture. Drip...drip...drip...

This HOUSE OF WAX is the seventy-eighth remake of 2005. Like 99% of the others, it doesn't hold a candle to any of the earlier versions. In fact, the 1953 edition starring Vincent Price, Frank Lovejoy and Phyllis Kirk was a true classic. Not only was it the very first 3D motion picture produced by a major studio, many believe that it represents Mr. Price's best screen performance.

The best that the Warner Bros. marketing department could come up for this effort was: "On May 6th...See Paris Die!" That's tepid endorsement, indeed. But here's the real killer (and I don't mean the twin waxaholics played by Brian Van Holt) --- there's NO TITTIES! What in hell was First-Time Director Jaume Collet-Serra thinking? Doesn't he know one of the most important must haves within the guts and gore genre is to show a boob or two? For shame...

Elisha Cuthbert's performance as Carly Jones is the best thing in the movie and the ending scenes almost wax poetic. That's too little and too late. Like an alter boy within the Boston diocese, this is one candlelight service you best stay away from.

SANTA'S SLAY -- Ho, Ho, Hum

Yes boys and girls it is that time of year again -- the first new Christmas movie of 2005 premiered on Spike TV at 8:00 p.m., Tuesday, October 25. I use the word "movie" loosly as this cinematic effort is so pathetically appalling it consists, at best, of a series of filmed images slapped together with about as much inspiration as I get when I see the latest image of Jesus Christ on a tortilla (another seasonal event, especially down here in Tex-Mex Country).

SANTA'S SLAY is insipid. SANTA'S SLAY is inept. SANTA'S SLAY is inbred. You read that correctly -- I said "inbred" since this is the only conceivable explanation why those with the money and the power gave Mr. David Steinman the green light to write and direct. I didn't know Jews were into inbreeding, but this is surely proof positive. To spare further embarrassment this man must be summarily circumscised from the rolls of working writers and directors living in LA-LA Land and/or Lapland.

But not all is a waste. At Christmas time one should always look for a silver lining so let it be said that SANTA'S SLAY has one redeeming scene which takes place right off the bat when Santa, menacingly portrayed by ex-WWE wrestler Bill Goldbeg, comes down a suburban chimney and slays Fran Drescher. I guess I've been a good boy -- one of my Christmas wishes has, indeed, come true.

THE DECLINE AND FALL OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION -- Part II

I call your attention to just two lines of dialogue in George A. Romero's latest Zombie Zeitgeist -- LAND OF THE DEAD.

Mike: They're pretending to be alive...
Riley: Isn't that what we're doing? Pretending to be alive?

Make no mistake, Romero is a filmmaker who consistently manipulates a message with his mayhem. Ruthlessreviews.com was perhaps the most succinct of all previous reviewers in revealing this trait. In NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, for example, we were presented a pitiless commentary on the sixties' self-immolation on the fields of Vietnam and the streets of the American South. DAWN OF THE DEAD was a savage attack on America's Me Generation which transformed far too many of us into a nation of mindless consumers. And now, in LAND OF THE DEAD, we are forced to examine ourselsves as an increasingly fractured, paranoid culture that more than ever seeks the erection of barriers (metaphorical, actual and linguistic) to keep under control our perceived enemies -- whether they be terrorists, Mexicans, secularists or simply the poor.

Romero's not too distant future finds the wealthy elite living together in a barricaded country club-like high-rise called "Fiddler's Green" whose logo looks eerily like Enron's. Although the residents no longer have a golf course to go to, this Callaway clad community goes about their daily lives ignoring and isolating themselves from what used to be the middle class and those beneath. Yes, wealth and privilege provide the illusion that the outside problems can never penetrate the expensive and expansive security they have implimented. These Neocons are alive medically; they are not alive spiritually.

As for the masses, we find them clustering at the foot of the Tower seemingly content to scrabble for crumbs and immersed in the mindless activities provided to them as an opiate against enlightenment. If you keep telling ex-soccer moms, NASCAR fans and Wal-Mart shoppers just how good they have it, they will eventually believe the mantra. And so all is "safe" and relatively secure until the zombies arrive.

Political and social commentary notwithstanding, LAND OF THE DEAD remains first and foremost a zombie flick -- a category of cinema that was by no means invented by Mr. Romero, but one that he has excelled at thus developing a well deserved cult following. Budgeted at a mere $15 million, one cannot help but marvel at the production values. This man knows his business as does Michael Doherty whose razor-sharp editing deserves special mention.

If you can stomach the guts and gore, then LAND OF THE DEAD is definitley worth seeing. If, however, you want to experience a truly classic and frightening zombie film, then I strongly suggest I WALKED WITH A ZOMBIE. You can read my review at www.needtovent.com. This 1943 black & white classic directed by Jacques Tourneur and produced by Val Lewton remains the benchmark for the genre.

"FURTHER EVIDENCE OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION"

Thank You MOVIEGUIDE!

Without the watchful eye of Dr. Ted Baehr and the Christian Film & Television Commission you and I might somehow be unaware of the global, momentous influence seemingly impotent Deuce Bigelow has over the state of our union and that of fellow round eyes worldwide. I guess we can forget Katrina, Kim Il Sung and Karl Rove -- the KKK du jour. Yes sir, it's Deuce Bigelow that will bring us all down thanks to, and I am quoting here, the "very strong pagan worldview which includes forty-six obcentities (including a couple "f" words), a man eating French fries that have fallen into a clean toilet and generally debased behavior with students pulling a crude, mean prank on a fellow student they hate." Yep, that'll do it...

Thank God we have a watchful eye in Teddy Baehr and his minions protecting us and OUR CHILDREN from the satanic evil of the sinful studios. Once again those precious little rug rats serve as the excuse for every effort at increased censorship and legislative morality that bombards us today in greater numbers than Ploesti. It is on their collective behalf, Dr. Baehr, that I salute you and your Christian Schutzstaffel. Put another way -- Heil, mein Movieguide!

Numero Uno?

The University of Texas at Austin vows to be "Number One" in dozens of categories. In some instances there is truth to the assertion -- many athletic teams come to mind as does a beautiful, build-it-at-any-cost campus that is rivaled by very few colleges.

Alas, academics is another story entirely.

Going to the University of Texas for a great education is like going to Hooter's for a great meal. In any given year there are almost as many sheepskins emanating from Bevo U. as New Zealand. Big isn't necessarily better. Big is just big -- but do I care? NO...

You see, I like going to Hooters and I thoroughly loved going to UT. What I found was a world-class party school and so in this second installment of NOWOTNY'S PARTY HEARTY COLLEGE CAMPUS GUIDLINE it is a privilege, indeed, to award my alma mater a "Suds to Semen Ratio" of 3.4 -- yes, this is a remarkable score that probably will not be topped by any other Division One Football Institution. Pardner, this is no BS and no BCS. The Texas coeds are the cutest this side of TCU and they require far less maintenance than their counterparts at Ole Miss. Night life is phenominal in and around Austin and close to three hundred days of sun afford nude undergraduates at Hippie Hollow a far more endearing collegiate tradition than any Aggie bonfire or Touchdown Jesus pep rally.

Hook 'em...I know I did.

THE GREATEST GAME EVER PLAYED -- You Can't Be Serious...

Those of you who know me know that there are two things in life that I absolutely cannot stomach --- Born Again Anythings and Pretentious Hollywood Movies. It is the latter of these two that I will direct my attention towards today.

You see, the clowns at Disney are at it again. This time Goofy and the Gang have released THE GREATEST GAME EVER PLAYED -- a historical feature which Mr. Cranky declares is "looser with the facts than former FEMA director Michael Brown under oath." In trying to keep up with what may very well be the single most pretentious movie title in the history of global cinema, screenwriter Mark Frost and director Bill Paxton have elected to bring this mulligan to a climax by having amateur American golfer Francis Ouimet defeat British champion Harry Vardon in the 1913 U.S. Open by one glorious stroke on the 18th hole. In actuality, Ouimet won by five (5) stokes. FIVE STROKES! That's more strokes than Hans Blix would find in a nursing home in a year. Numerous other historical inaccuracies are par for this course, but that's nowhere near what annoys me the most.

Can there be anyone anywhere in the world who actually believes that THE GREATEST GAME EVER PLAYED was on a God-damn golf course? Are you shittin' me? Disney's shittin' me -- that's for sure. The annals of truly GREAT GAMES abound in dozens of sports -- football, baseball, hockey, basketball, soccer... Hell, there's fifty-nine water polo matches in recorded history that are GREATER than a five-stroke win on a golf course, probably more. Gimme a break...

Oh yes, one more thing. In an effort to keep audience fannies in their seats these filmmaking hackers have elected to photograph gobs of golf balls from unique, never-before-seen angles. Golf balls to the left of us...golf balls to the right of us...golf balls in close-up flying through the air...golf balls straying into the rough...golf balls plopping into the cup. Well excuse me, but if I want to see a small white thing with dimples dancing all over the damn screen I'll go to a Shirely Temple film. I bet Tiger would agree...

NOWOTNY'S PARTY HEARTY COLLEGE CAMPUS GUIDELINE

Welcome to the Premiere Installment of NOWOTNY'S PARTY HEARTY COLLEGE CAMPUS GUIDELINE. For those of you with a son or daughter contemplating enrolling in a Four-Year School Of Higher Education this GUIDELINE is designed to provide pertinent, up-to-date information regarding the "fun quotient" of selected colleges painstakingly researched by yours truly.

Yes, US NEWS AND WORLD REPORT and FORBES, among other established, widely-available magazines, publish annually their rankings which focus on academics and tuition costs, etc. This service is provided for those of you who still believe in the enduring myth that the college experience is an important educational undertaking that has significant implications in your darling's future adult life. Get a grip, folks, because like it or not 90-plus percent of these hallowed halls of learning are simply "degree mills" which, at best, prepare their alumni to ultimately become real estate agents...or worse.

So, why go to all that expense and time and effort? To have the time of your life, baby, so read on and enjoy ---

Our Premiere Installment will focus on Texas Tech University, aka TTU, since the football team loves to run up the score as much as the frat boys. Be advised, if you have a lovely daughter and she enrolls here she will be ridden more often than the school's official mascot -- the horse that carries the semi-famous Red Raider. TTU is a Parthenon of Party Schools in great part because there simply isn't much else to do other than to drive out to the county line for beer and bourbon. (The civic leaders, under the stern influence of Born-Again Baptists, keep the town and campus dry thereby creating weekend traffic jams of biblical proportions). Anyway, sooner or later your son or daughter will be placed on sco-pro but don't worry -- the courses are so easy that it won't take too much effort to ultimately pass the minimum number of hours required for TTU's worthless sheepskin in a five to six year span.

So, hats off to Texas Tech and Bangin' Bertha (the "Victory Bell" which signals yet another score on campus as well as on the gridiron).

Comparisons, Comparisons...

I can remember not too long ago when "The Big Question" making the rounds at the office water cooler was: Xena or Buffy? An interesting dilemma, at least for us males and, perhaps, the lesbians that walk among us. Yes, Lynda, I will fully admit to vacillating (pun intended) on this one almost daily.

Well, the new "Big Question" for us to ponder is: Anna or Danica? I'll be interested to hear what the loyal readers of this blog have to say. As for me, I merely want to point out that while Danica has yet to win a CART race, she has already performed at a higher level than her Russian-born counterpart. Danica's sport consists of high speed danger at some of the most grueling race tracks in North America. She is competing against the big boys. She is more than holding her own -- especially in qualifying trim.

Anna grunts with the best of them, but other than an occasional victory over an unseeded French woman, she is pretty much a "bust". "Point, Game, Match" -- Danica wins.

My Fair MAYDAY

As some of you know, I was born and raised in New Braunfels, Texas. At the time New Braunfels was a small community which had successfully maintained its very strong German heritage. Over the years my hometown has grown exponentially, as has its signature annual celebration -- WURSTFEST.

The original Wurstfest was held in 1961, and it was dedicated to celebrating the time-honored German tradition of Octoberfest -- cold beer and, of course, wunderbar wurst. (As in knockwurst and bratwurst). What was once a simple two-day event has now exploded to a ten-day gala attracting over 155,000 people each year who consume 42 tons of sausage and who down enough beer to float the Bismark. It's good times for uber alles.

With this background in mind, I am thinking today about forming a new film festival which I would tentatively name WORSTFEST. The idea would be to identify and vilify the absolute worst filmmaking worldwide. Lord knows there are enough projects to choose from each year and 2005 is certainly no exception.

This year's winner would undoubtedly be MAYDAY, the CBS primetime movie that aired last night. In fact, I am afraid my Worstfest idea will never come to fruitition since I absolutely cannot conceive of a worse film than this (feature or movie-of-the-week). I know the year isn't over, but that matters little. MAYDAY is so wretchedly written, so dismally directed, so pathetically photographed, so abysmally acted and so phlegmatically produced it makes AIRPLANE! seem like a hard hitting, in-depth, factual documentary.

For example, do you know the best way to survive a complete decompression within the body of a commercial airliner at 65,000 feet? Yes, that's the altitude specified on several occasions. Well, according to Director/Co-Writer T. J. Scott the answer is to lock yourself in a bathroom unless, of course, you are petting your dogs in the cargo hold of a trans-pacific jetliner before the "weekend pilot" now at the controls engages the afterburners. Yes, the number of implausabilities within the MAYDAY screenplay rival the turnstile count at last year's Wurstfest.

I couldn't help but notice that one of Producer Judy Cairo's previous TV movies was VANISHED WITHOUT A TRACE. At first I thought both she and Mr. Scott should suffer that very same fate. In giving more thought, however, to this "three-bagger" (as in the minimum number of airsick bags one needs to sit through the 88-minute running time), I now would simply like this devoid duo to be perennially stuck in a TSA screening line. It's a totally appropriate punishment and one that would ensure they NEVER, EVER work again.

In closing, allow me to add that I have been told that nothing in this world is without at least one iota of merit (although MAYDAY comes perilously close to being the exception). So, as a public service I have chosen a photo of Kelly Hu to accompany this review. Ms. Hu plays the lovely flight attendant and was the only thing worth looking at during the shaky-cam excess of MAYDAY. And you thought THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT was nauseating...

The Way Flying Should Always Be...

While on our recent Alaska cruise I was lucky enough to book a truly fabulous sightseeing flight out of Ketchikan with Michelle Masden, the pilot/owner of Island Wings. Tagging along were Lynda, her dad, my brother-in-law and another couple -- all will verify that the scenery along our flight in and around Misty Fjords was truly spectacular. This is a not-to-be-missed adventure if you are ever in the area.

Michelle flies what must be the most pristine, well-maintained Dehavilland Beaver anywhere, her piloting skills are unmatched and get this -- there's no security line to go through prior to boarding, no TSA yahoo telling you to take off your shoes and every seat has its own window. Admittedly, Michelle is unable to award frequent flier miles and you'll have to take along your own peanuts -- but that's o.k. You will not find a more enjoyable flying experience anywhere.

HOLY GUACAMOLE -- A DAY WITHOUT A MEXICAN

"If you want to make the invisible visible, take it away."

That's pretty much the premise behind the fascinating and illuminating independent feature film -- A DAY WITHOUT A MEXICAN. Writer/Director Sergio Arau gives us a glimpse of just what would happen if somehow every Hispanic in the state of California would suddenly and miraculously disappear. My God -- who would mow the lawns and blow the leaves and pick up the trash and pour the concrete and paint the houses and work the agricultural fields and tend to any number of other low-paying, unglamorous needs on behalf of the remaining gringos? Who, indeed? More importantly, the devestating economic impact on the state's overall economy shows clearly that one should be careful for what one wishes for.

This unique look at the economic and the quality-of-life aspects provided by the huge population from south of the border is a breath of fresh air from the steady stream of pap and crap being released by the major studios in LA-LA Land. And while Mr. Arau misfires frequently in his narrative and he delivers a film that is a full thirty minutes too long, I salute him for his efforts. And so I lift my glass of Tecate high and I dream -- yes, I dream of what life would be like if we could enjoy A DAY WITHOUT A MORMON. (I'll gladly risk any conceivable negative consequences -- as if there could be any whatsoever).

NIP/TUCK -- Occasionally Gross/Always Engrossing

For those of you who haven't yet tuned into one of the very best dramas in television history, let me first simply state that NIP/TUCK isn't about some depraved Japanese fellow yelling an obscenity. I say this because some Puritanical eunuchs do find this terrific show on F/X to be both depraved and obscene. So be it...

For the rest of us, this season's premiere once again establishes NIP/TUCK to be on the very cutting edge of edginess. Yes, the sun still shines brightly on South Beach, but this engrossing hourlong drama gets darker and darker with each episode. The amazing thing is that just when you are almost forced away from the screen by visuals that no other television program would even consider airing, the writing takes a turn and there's warmth and pathos and more depth in compassionately exposing the human condition than anything else the boob tube has brought before. And speaking of boobs -- there's plenty of mighty fine ones to savor along with some of the steamiest sex to be found on basic cable.

Kudos to Creator, Writer and Executive Producer Ryan Murphy for pushing more envelopes than the US Postal Service. Blessed with a truly fabulous cast, Julian McMahon as Dr. Christian Troy, Dylan Walsh as Dr. Sean McNamara and Joely Richardson as Julia McNamara, you owe it to yourselves to Tivo this trio comprising the most flawed and flawless main characters to be seen anywhere and at any time.

MY NAME IS EARL -- Viva Le Karma???

It was with considerable anticipation that I tuned into the premiere episode of MY NAME IS EARL -- the much ballyhooed sitcom which declares that "Karma is a funny thing." While Karma may be funny, EARL isn't despite a promising premise and a significant promotional investment by the fabled Peacock Network. With its ratings mired in third place among the original Big Three, NBC sorely needs a hit. Alas, NBC (the initials now stand for "Nothing But Crap") will need a miracle if this show is to last more than one season.

The highlight of the initial episode, believe it or not, was the brief appearance of a decidedly rare 1981 Le Car. I actually met the advertising executive who came up with the name for this sad little import. Fred Thompson was the fellow responsible and at the time I questioned whether naming a French automobile "Le Car" was brilliant in its simplicity or insipid as hell -- the demise of Renault in the US marketplace soon followed and I had my answer.

MEET MATT MILLER -- Raconteur and Tour Guide

Despite the cardinal sin of blocking my light -- something EVERYONE in the motion picture industry acknowledges to be an almost unforgiveable faux pas -- the fellow to my left is quite possibly the very best tour guide in all the world. (O.K., maybe I'm overstating things a wee bit, so lets just say he's the best darn tour guide North of the 49th Parallel). Thank you, Matt, for a terrific trip...

(In case you are wondering, this photo was gaken on a gorgeous day in Glacier Bay. The aforementioned passenger whales -- see my posting dated September 18th -- were still waddling around the Lido Buffet).

CRASH

I wonder how many of you have received e-mails regarding Hurricane Katrina which declare, in essence, the following sentiment:

"I don't give a shit about those lazy, no good for nothing, worthless damn niggers in New Orleans. If they were too stupid to get out of town, then they got what they deserve. More importantly, the rebuilding and the relief efforts are costing me money! And for what -- so they can all go back on welfare and get more handouts?"

Sad, but true -- I've received a half dozen of these in the past week or so from a number of different folks all known to me personally. Quite frankly, I'm sickened by this deep-rooted rage and so it is with this in mind that I now turn my comments to a truly remarkable film, one that is perhaps THE BEST Hollywood movie ever about race and about life in another contemporary, ethnically diverse city -- in this case Los Angeles. Rather than going into details, I simply and humbly request that if you haven't seen CRASH, please do so. Superbly directed by Paul Haggis (the screenwriter for MILLION DOLLAR BABY) and comprising a stellar cast, this is a must-see movie.

IT'S OSTENTATIOUS -- NOT AUSTIN

Robert Rodriguez is the Director of SIN CITY. The University of Texas is in SYCOPHANT CITY -- not Austin. How else can you explain Mr. Rodriguez being the recipient of the Outstanding Young Texas Ex Award when he never graduated? Yes, he attended classes as did Walter Cronkite (given every university accolade one can image even though he, too, never earned a sheepskin from the esteemed 40 Acres). Talk about grasping at straws in trying to acquire some semblance of "excellence" on behalf of the School of Communication. Reminds me of the time Ozzy Osbourne was in San Antonio and he pissed on the Alamo. Yes, Ozzie was once briefly in the area and he did leave a mark, so if you follow UT's reasoning I guess he should have been given the key to the city...

57TH ANNUAL PRIMETIME CIRCLE JERK

Random Thoughts Regarding Last Night's Emmy Award Telecast:

1. While I hate to give Ellen DeGeneres the bird (or two for that matter), I must state that her performance as host was about as exciting as her dildo with dead batteries.

2. Patricia Arquette's Emmy award shows that pigs can, indeed, fly -- or at least get on stage in front of millions looking like a potential mate for KERMIT THE FROG.

3. Tony Shalhoub's win for "Best Comedy Actor" proves that not everybody loves Raymand. This was yet another deserving win for MONK and all of us with obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

4. The most lame segments among many were the stupid "Emmy Idol" songs. Not that anyone in the entire universe cares, but Shatner got shafted.

5. Did you notice that there weren't any women comedy writers to be seen anywhere? What gives? Are Ivy League Jews the only people networks are willing to hire? No wonder most current sitcoms suck...

THUMBING A RIDE.......

For those of you wondering why there haven't been any new postings lately let me simply say that Lynda and I needed to escape the hellish Texas heat and so we headed for Alaska. And guess what -- we were able to thumb a ride on a Holland America cruise ship.

The trip was phenominal -- great weather every day, smooth sailing all the way and a number of whale sightings -- although I must admit that most of these took place by the pool on the Lido Deck of the m.s. Volendam and not in the waters of the Inner Passage. Boy, some white people sure don't seem to age very well.

Horned Frogs Pluck The Magic Twanger

What a terrific way to start the college football season! Bob Stoops and his Premature Ejaculators (aka "Sooners") take it on the chin in Norman in one of the biggest gridiron surprises in recent history. To make matters worse, it has been revelaed that the local Save-Mart ran out of Blistex making for a truly "upsetting" day for Master Stoops and his normally juicy lips.

It's "Throw Up" Not "Throw Back"

Who the hell decided to have the University of Wisconsin football team wear "throw back" uniforms in their opener against Bowling Green? I usually enjoy teams that pay homage to a previous era, but when your helmet is as stupid as this it just isn't a good idea. As many of you know, the U of W is ranked as a top ten party school year in and year out. That, to me, is a far more interesting and important statistic than any middling academic ranking such cumulative SAT scores or the number of Fulbright Scholars on campus. I'd seriosuly think about sending my kids there if I had any. GO BADGERS -- but please go back to your current helmets asap...

Before closing, I must mention Clemson's stunning 25-24 victory over TEXAS A&M -- a truly classic upset that went down to the final two seconds in historic Death Valley. Pooooooor Aggies...

THE TIE THAT BINDS Strangles On Its Own Bad Taste

Biological parents battle adopting parents for the custody
of a disturbed young girl. No, its not the Hatfields vs. the
McCoys...but rather the Cliftons vying with the Netherwoods
(one guess as to who's the bad folks) in this bloody mess of
a movie.

Seems that John and Leann Netherwood (played
by Keith Carradine and Daryl Hannah) survive by breaking and
entering wealthy homes, Polaroiding their victims and, more
often than not, killing the victims for a few additional photo
opportunities. During one of these house calls L.A.'s finest
arrive just in time to wing John as he and Leann run to safety.
Their quick action, however, leads to the capture of daughter Janie
(effectively portrayed by newcomer Julia Devin) whose been
innocently chasing fireflies in the backyard.

At the station Janie's rag doll is placed into a baggie
(presumably for evidence), and it is then that we first learn
of Janie's deep-rooted psychological problems. She goes
ballastic rescuing the doll from suffocation and it
takes the Rodney King sextet to subdue her.

Enter the second tag team which will contend for Janie's
affections and afflictions. Vincent Spano plays housing
contractor Russell Clifton whose spec trophy home has the
financing pulled halfway through the building process. His
wife, Dana (Moria Kelly), shares John Netherwood's interest
in photography. She's a professional who specializes in
food shots and is now the only source of income for the Clifton
family. While Russell wrestles with Chapter 11 woes Dana woos
him into an adoption agency so they will have yet another
mouth to feed. Not the best of ideas, but certainly par for the
course given the lame story Mr. Auerbach has concocted.


Understandably nervous at this undertaking, John delivers the
most suitable line in the film when he looks at all the darling
little munchkins seeking rescue and he declares: "We have met
the clowns and they are us!" Clowns, indeed.

Dana falls instantly for little Janie and, despite a hair-do
reminiscent of the third runner-up in a Miss Bulgaria beauty
contest, precious Janie falls for Dana. With cuddly affection
that would embarrass both the Cleavers and the Huxtables, little
Janie seems to tolerate her new parents well enough. Her new
doll, the tattered Mr. Flip Flop is, however, her best friend
and she confides in the bunny that John and Leann are surely
on their way because "they own me."

Sure 'nuff. With more bull-headed determination than even
the Bush Administration exhibits in its policy towards war in
Iraq, John and Leann go through a series of victims
to find their daughter. Among those who temporarily get in
the way are the carrot-topped cop who had the temerity to shoot
John in the opening scene and the noble Hispanic welfare worker
whose demise is blatantly telegraphed the moment she first
appears. The bloody and climactic finale takes place in the partially
completed spec home out in the middle of nowhere. No walls,
virtually no roof, and with no police protection requested,
this makes for one of the stupidest refuges in cinema history.

By now the cliché count has reached staggering proportions (the
car that won't start during an escape attempt, the presumed
dead villain who isn't, etc.) so it is pointless to discuss
the ending -- except for one highly disturbing moment -- when
ten-year-old Janie thrusts a dagger into her biological
father's stomach ("You taught me that, Daddy.") with clinical
ease. Forget any concern you might have for "Natural Born Killers"
or "Pulp Fiction" (both of which I personally liked), it is
this irresponsible scene that makes "The Tie That Binds" the
sickest, sleaziest, most disgusting movie on the shelf of your
local Blockbuster.

REMEMBERING COO COO -- (Photo Taken Prior To The 1977 Talledega Race)

As many of you know, I have been a long-standing and intensely loyal fan of all forms of auto racing. Recently, one of my all-time favorite stock car drivers passed away.

Coo Coo Marlin was a very good driver who raced back in "the good old days" before NASCAR became "corporate." You see, drivers like Fireball Roberts, Freddie Lorenzen, Cale Yarborough, David Pearson, Bobbie Allison, Tiny Lund, Lee Roy Yarborough and "The King", Richard Petty, all came up from the ranks the hard way and from humble beginnings. They not only knew how to drive fast, they knew how to bend the rules in creative ways that still have people marveling at their mechanical knowledge as well as their competitive nature. While I only met Coo Coo once (prior to a race at "The Monster Mile" in Dover, Delaware) what I remember are two things -- his warm, genuine smile and his dirty fingernails. You see, Coo Coo was one of the drivers who still worked on his own car and served as his own crew chief. While he didn't win as much as some of his peers, he was peerless in getting as much out of his limited resources as anyone on the circuit. He will be missed...

TOO WONG FOO...A Romp On The Wild Side

"Ready or not...here comes mama!"

Sure enough, right before our very eyes, two especially
testosterone-laden Hollywood actors transform themselves into
certifiable New York drag queens in Director Beeban Kidron's
flashy "Too Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar".

None other than Wesley Snipes (who achieved well-deserved
international stardom for his dynamic performance in the high
action drama, "Passenger 57") and Patrick Swayze (the "Dirty
Dancing" hunk) play, respectively, Noxeema Jackson and Vida
Boheme in this frolicking road picture replete with delicious
dialogue and a pulsing soundtrack throughout.

Talk about high concept. And the transformation is remarkable,
indeed. Good enough for Noxeema and Vida to tie for top honors
in a highly competitive Drag Queen Pageant ("Nobody here tonight
is winning Miss Congenialty," notes Noxeema). And good enough
for an uncredited Robin Williams to be smitten at the sight
of them. "I feel like a compass pointing due North!" he giggles.

Top prize is a trip to the City of Angels for the national
finals, and Vida decides they should cash in their plane tickets
for a 1967 Cadillac and invite Chi Chi (John Leguizamo in a
remarkable gender-hopping role modeled after Rosie Perez) to
come along. Noxeema is horrified, "She might be a Sandinista
or something", but Vida prevails and the threesome hit the open road.

All goes relatively well until a red-neck Sheriff (played with
comical glee by the appropriately portly Chris Penn) makes a
move on the voluptuous Vida and discovers the hidden truth.
One punch later and Vida is back behind the wheel of the Caddy,
her traveling companions in tow. Unfortunately, the Caddy breaks
down and until a part can be shipped they are marooned in a
broken-down small town that makes Cotopaxi, Colorado look
cosmopolitan. The dreary hotel room and the dreary lives of the local
inhabitants, especially the down-trodden women, just won't do,
and so Vida et al initiate "Operation Decorator Storm", and the
make-over begins.

Engaging moments abound as Snyderville and its populace
rediscover a sense of self-esteem. One-by-one long-repressed dreams
are remembered and pursued and the cumultive effect is a heart
warming scene of the entire town dancing in the streets to the
beat of Johnny Mathis singing "Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me."
As Vida notes, "Sometimes all it takes is a fairy!"

Costume designer Marlene Stewart deserves special mention for
concocting an outrageous array of audacious clothes. Supporting
actors Arliss Howard, Blythe Danner and the always-solid
Stockard Channing earn individual kudos as well.

The marquee-unfriendly title comes from an autographed photo
of the statuesque Julie Newmar ("The only catwoman!" declares
Vida -- and I wholeheartedly agree) which hung on the wall of a
Chinese restaurant. Credit Douglas Carter Beane for a sassy,
hip screenplay chock-full of marvelous little details and
rife with references such as Moms Mabley, Sally Struthers, Tex
Avery, Emma Peel and Mary Jo Kopechne. If these names
mean anything to you, then "To Wong Foo, Thanks For
Everything, Julie Newmar" is probably your cup of tea.

It is with some irony that I first saw "To Wong Foo, Thanks
For Everything, Julie Newmar" when it was playing at the
Majestic Theater in Crested Butte, Colorado during the opening
weekend of the Third Combined Colorado Hunting Season. Just
as little Snyderville was being visited by three irrepresible drag
queens on the screen, our small burg was playing host to a different
kind of cross dresser -- the ubiquitous, red-necked, all-American
deer hunter.

Gold lamy vs. green camouflage. Pink feather boas vs. day-glow
orange gimme caps. Bloomingdale's vs. L. L. Bean. And yes,
Hum Jobs vs. Hummers.

Do clothes really make the man?

HAIR STYLES FROM HELL -- Part II

I am extremely happy to report that my fears were unwarranted -- Lynda looked just fine standing there outside the Southwest Airlines bagage claim at the San Antonio International Airport yesterday afternoon. That pesky Tulsa-based Wal-Mart Greeter notwithstanding, everything is once again hunky dory at the Nowotny household. Well, almost everything...

You see, it appears that a photo has surfaced taken of yours truly while having a bad hair day of his own -- this being on Prince Edward Island at the Anne of Green Gables complex a year or so ago. Fully realizing that this unflattering picture will soon be maiking the rounds at some of the world's most widely circulated tabloids, I have elected to beat the muck-raking paparazzi at their game and publish this unfortunate photograph here and now; heaven help me...

Hair Styles From Hell

I can think of two famous (or should I say infamous) people who always seem to have a bad hair day. I don't believe anyone will disagree with my selection of Alois Schicklgruber's son -- Adolf. As for a more contemporary choice, how about Ms. Condoleezza Rice? In fact, it appears they may share the same hair stylist -- a virtual impossibility given the span of time, but then again the similarity is frightening...

I only mention this because yesterday my wife was told something no man ever wants his wife to hear, at least not from a Wal-Mart Greeter -- especially a frickin' Wal-Mart Greeter in God-damn Tulsa, Oklahoma. I haven't slept a wink since she happened to mention this over the telephone yesterday afternoon. I won't sleep tonight either...

"Nice hair," he said. Yikes! Lynda has been gone for only three weeks working on an audit in Okie-land while I was in both Crested Butte, Colorado and then here in Hot-As-Hell Texas. It is true I haven't seen her for twenty-one days, but the question is what will I see when I pick her up at the airport tomorrow? "Nice hair," said the Tulsa Wal-Mart Greeter. "Nice hair!" Egads...what will Lynda look like? What could have happened in a mere twenty-one days? Will I recognize her? Will I want to? Stay tuned -- there's more to come.

Kucinich/Van Susteren Non-Photogenic Poll #1 -- Baseball Players

Here are your two choices for the least photogenic major league baseball player circa 1955-1970. The significance of this historic poll can not be overestimated. Befitting the magnitude of this occasion the final tabulations will be sent via Western Union to Cooperstown for enshrinement...