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A South Korean baseball player wore frozen cabbage leaves in his cap during a game to keep his head cool. (Cabbage is the main ingredient in the popular Korean dish, kimchi.) If this catches on in the States, we soon may be reading about the Kimchicago Cubs.
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Vanna White, who became famous for turning over letters on "Wheel of Fortune," is getting a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame. It's believed that the real Hollywood stars immortalized on the Walk are turning over in their graves.
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A new study reveals that people are more likely to achieve orgasm when they leave their socks on. Kind of gives new meaning to the word, "football."
*
Sesame Street is producing a line of adult loungewear and fashion accessories. What's next? "Bert and Ernie's"MetrosexuALphabet Soup?"
*
Disney executives consulted feng shui experts before opening their Hong Kong park. The results: Donald Duck and Winnie the Pooh wear hip-huggers. The Three Little Pigs are known as "Moo Shu Pork." And Buzz Lightyear travels only as far as infinity.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
An Appreciation, of Sorts
Y
When you don't have a father anymore, those ads that feature handsome, prematurely grey-haired men shilling ties and shirts and cufflinks while toting an adorable blonde moppet in each arm really can be annoying. Not that I ever paid attention to them, even when my father was alive, because he wasn't a shirt-and-tie-and-cufflink kind of guy. It wasn't easy to find a Father's Day present for him. He didn't read anything except the newspaper. His sport was limited to trudging up four flights of stairs, every day for sixty years. He didn't own a car. He didn't drink fine wines or smoke foreign cigars. So I was pretty much limited to buying him handkerchiefs, 'cause he did blow his nose, and socks, 'cause he did wear shoes, and bathrobes, because he did bathe, except for the last three years of his life, when that chore became my responsibility.
For the past year, I've been trying to remember the things I loved about my father. It's been difficult, because in the last few years of his life, when he decided to stop living, he made my life hell on earth. I won't go into detail, because this is not a memoir. I hate memoirs. The first one I read was Angela's Ashes. I couldn't believe how someone could expose to the world (and profit from) the failings of his parents; an alcoholic father and a mother so ill-prepared for motherhood that she should have been sterilized instead of popping out babes as if on schedule.
That bestseller spawned an avalanche of crappy books about people who were famous for 15 seconds; a phenomenon with no apparent end. So this isn't a memoir, which, as I believe I said, I hate. I just want to recognize my father on Father's Day, because I can't send him a card or buy him a lottery ticket any more. He used to like when I did that. He always was so hopeful that he would win. Once, he won $863, which, to him, after decades of tearing up stubs, was like winning a million bucks. We went up to the lottery office in World Trade Center, where he proceeded to make a scene because I didn't have a black pen in my pocketbook. It had to be black, and I carried only green. I begged a woman to lend me hers, just to shut him up. Kind of took the thrill out of the occasion.
He possessed a volcanic temper and a sparkling sense of humor, either of which could materialize with no apparent impetus. This was his legacy to me. He didn't say funny things as much as he said things funny. Once, he told me a story about two fellows he knew, who he referred to as "what's-his-name and the other one." In thirty seconds, I knew who he was talking about. We got each other. I'll never have a relationship like that again.
Tomorrow, I'm going to watch a video of "The Bank Dick." It was one of his favorites. He loved Fields and the brothers Marx and Gleason and the great old character actors of sixty years ago; a time when people could act and movies were interesting. I'm going to prop his picture up in front of the television, so he can watch the movie with me. Crazy? – perhaps. But if I didn't believe that he's in the room with me, or that I'll ever see him again, I couldn't keep going. So, Happy Father's Day, Dad. Love from your sweetheart. Y
When you don't have a father anymore, those ads that feature handsome, prematurely grey-haired men shilling ties and shirts and cufflinks while toting an adorable blonde moppet in each arm really can be annoying. Not that I ever paid attention to them, even when my father was alive, because he wasn't a shirt-and-tie-and-cufflink kind of guy. It wasn't easy to find a Father's Day present for him. He didn't read anything except the newspaper. His sport was limited to trudging up four flights of stairs, every day for sixty years. He didn't own a car. He didn't drink fine wines or smoke foreign cigars. So I was pretty much limited to buying him handkerchiefs, 'cause he did blow his nose, and socks, 'cause he did wear shoes, and bathrobes, because he did bathe, except for the last three years of his life, when that chore became my responsibility.
For the past year, I've been trying to remember the things I loved about my father. It's been difficult, because in the last few years of his life, when he decided to stop living, he made my life hell on earth. I won't go into detail, because this is not a memoir. I hate memoirs. The first one I read was Angela's Ashes. I couldn't believe how someone could expose to the world (and profit from) the failings of his parents; an alcoholic father and a mother so ill-prepared for motherhood that she should have been sterilized instead of popping out babes as if on schedule.
That bestseller spawned an avalanche of crappy books about people who were famous for 15 seconds; a phenomenon with no apparent end. So this isn't a memoir, which, as I believe I said, I hate. I just want to recognize my father on Father's Day, because I can't send him a card or buy him a lottery ticket any more. He used to like when I did that. He always was so hopeful that he would win. Once, he won $863, which, to him, after decades of tearing up stubs, was like winning a million bucks. We went up to the lottery office in World Trade Center, where he proceeded to make a scene because I didn't have a black pen in my pocketbook. It had to be black, and I carried only green. I begged a woman to lend me hers, just to shut him up. Kind of took the thrill out of the occasion.
He possessed a volcanic temper and a sparkling sense of humor, either of which could materialize with no apparent impetus. This was his legacy to me. He didn't say funny things as much as he said things funny. Once, he told me a story about two fellows he knew, who he referred to as "what's-his-name and the other one." In thirty seconds, I knew who he was talking about. We got each other. I'll never have a relationship like that again.
Tomorrow, I'm going to watch a video of "The Bank Dick." It was one of his favorites. He loved Fields and the brothers Marx and Gleason and the great old character actors of sixty years ago; a time when people could act and movies were interesting. I'm going to prop his picture up in front of the television, so he can watch the movie with me. Crazy? – perhaps. But if I didn't believe that he's in the room with me, or that I'll ever see him again, I couldn't keep going. So, Happy Father's Day, Dad. Love from your sweetheart. Y
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Does This Look Punny to You?
*
There's a proposal afoot to sell advertising space on pro basketballers' uniforms. What kind of Jazz is that? There aren't enough Hawks on the court already? Someone should have Piston this idea from the get-go. It's sure to stir up a Hornet's nest. Commissioner David Stern will take the Heat for this. I don't know about you, but I think the idea is total Bulls-hit.
*
A couple married on top of Mount Everest. Their vows included a promise to "love, honor, and resuscitate."
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McDonald's is now featuring a fit, athletic Ronald McDonald in its ads. He's probably eating at Subway.
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In Japan, house cats peed on their owner's fax machine, which shorted out and set the house on fire. Poor pussies; you're in trouble now. (Get it?)
*
In Nigeria, police arrested a cow who killed one man and injured several others. The cow probably will be tried in moot court.
*
Madonna is planning a Kaballah-themed hotel in London. Possible name: Ka-Bally's.
There's a proposal afoot to sell advertising space on pro basketballers' uniforms. What kind of Jazz is that? There aren't enough Hawks on the court already? Someone should have Piston this idea from the get-go. It's sure to stir up a Hornet's nest. Commissioner David Stern will take the Heat for this. I don't know about you, but I think the idea is total Bulls-hit.
*
A couple married on top of Mount Everest. Their vows included a promise to "love, honor, and resuscitate."
*
McDonald's is now featuring a fit, athletic Ronald McDonald in its ads. He's probably eating at Subway.
*
In Japan, house cats peed on their owner's fax machine, which shorted out and set the house on fire. Poor pussies; you're in trouble now. (Get it?)
*
In Nigeria, police arrested a cow who killed one man and injured several others. The cow probably will be tried in moot court.
*
Madonna is planning a Kaballah-themed hotel in London. Possible name: Ka-Bally's.
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