At the height of the initial blast of Beatlemania, a mostly forgotten six-minute musical documentary was paired with an unrelated film, "Flight From Ashiya." For many Americans during the spring of 1964, "The Beatles Come to Town" was the lure to the movie theatre, not the standard issue WWII action feature, starring Yul Brynner and Richard Widmark.
The boys' release, according to The Internet Movie Database, is a "Pathe News Technicolor short showing The Beatles in concert at the ABC Cinema in Manchester, Lancashire on 11/20/63."
I remember sitting in the front row of Atlanta's Emory Theatre, sandwiched between school chums on a happy Friday night in April. It was a much anticipated event to see the mod mop tops upon the big screen and in color!
First, however, and sadly, we had to endure the 100 prop-engine-lagged minutes of "Flight From Ashiya." The delay was interminable for a bunch of unruly 12-year-olds wired on fizzy drinks and Milk Duds.
(There may have been contraband Bazooka gum, also. What happens in my mouth stays in my mouth.*)
We soon found ourselves devising an alternative plot during the war movie to survive the inconvenience of watching it. The adlibbed rewrite was pretty good, too, and provided hysterical ongoing commentary.
In our version, desperate soldiers were flying around Europe, racing the clock and catastrophe, searching for a men's room. There was a lot of nerve-racking suspense -- and explosive giggles.
Anyway, we couldn't have cared less about the picture. We were waiting for The Beatles' to come "here" to sustain us, as we faced the long months 'til August and the arrival of "A Hard Day's Night."
What a time.
A fabmost bit of all right.
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Last time, you'll remember, Morty insulted a hummingbird.
If his hijinks brought joy into the heart of at least one feline, maybe one person, a shut-in, perhaps, then his work will not have been in vain -- for he's a nice cat.
He can't meow that about some dogs....
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He's especially annoyed by hummingbirds. I heard him meowing, "Hey, learn the words, moron! Get a teleprompter! A cue card chick! A hymnal! Something!"
The cat's been listening to the Rickles CDs again.
I was not pleased to see the Disney machine's continued commercialization of the Hannah Montana wig.
Not only were there Hannah Montana Cleansing Body Bars, but the new product also commandeered valuable shelf space, banishing my beloved The Fat Guy From "Borat" Cleansing Body Bars from the store.
I went home empty handed to squeeze out lingering Oil of Goulet Body Wash Plus Crème Ribbons and relax in a tepid Ann B. Davis Bubbly Bath with a bobbing Jerry Mathers Rubber Beaver.
We made the long trek to the Home of Waffle House, Atlanta, Georgia, to see Jim Gaffigan. As part of The Sexy Tour, Jim spoke on many topics, including these favorites: Hot Pockets, Waffle House (yesss!), and bacon.
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And to top off our special night, on the drive home, we went to Waffle House Wendy's.
Actual Messages I Wrote, Forgot, Then Found While Cleaning Out My Email Folders
08/09/06
I believe from the bottom of my heart that the child besmirches the good name of Stinky.
03/09/06
Haven't read the Thwacker book, but it's here in my room. On an impulse, I purchased Phyllis Diller's bio, "Like a Lampshade in a Whorehouse." The promise of Fang in a bordello -- well, I'm sure you understand...
01/25/07
I go out. Who would miss going to the exciting Dump?
I have to stay home all of the time, of course, until I can make enough new garbage so I can go revisit the Dump.
Out of the blue, brother Bob wrote to inform me he would survive much longer than me chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor. The unspoken sibling ridicule and implied smirk were palpable.
He says he would lounge and linger for 63 seconds, compared to 28, my estimated time of departure.
I'm cuter.
Of course, Bob would fare longer. He'd make me sleep on the bottom bunk under the threat of noogies and the pitter patter of raptor.
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Domino stunts make me nervous. Having to do all of that delicate set-up work would drive me crazy and cause an emergency ejection out of my skin. I can't even stack a sandwich without a sedative.
I've abandoned PB&J and eat P'nut Butter and Benzodiazepines.
Like any good parent, I worry about Morty's associations. Peer pressure amongst kids is almost too much to combat in the 21st century, especially when complemented by the power and reach of the Internet.
I found this pair of how-to videos on Morty's iPOD and, frankly, I'm disturbed. "Gigi Kills the Toothbrush" and "Pussy vs. Printer" will give the boy violent ideas. I may have to send him to his box.
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Our Labor Day weekend was centered around a retro dusk-to-dawn show at a drive-in movie theatre. The program: "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure," "Blazing Saddles," "This Is Spinal Tap," "Kentucky Fried Movie," and "The Cheerleaders" (a last minute replacement for "Up in Smoke"). We had some laughs, some naps, and met some new skeeters.
I was reminded of the great promotional gimmick Warner Bros. employed for "Blazing Saddles" back in 1974. At select drive-ins throughout the United States, advance sneak previews of the film were scheduled with free admission offered to everybody arriving on horseback.
One of my regrets in life is I didn't attend the event. The sight of popcorn-chomping patrons on Paliminos parallel parked alongside speaker poles beneath the giant movie screen is an image I can only dream about, which I did the other night, saddled inside a Pinto.
Actual Messages I Wrote, Forgot, Then Found While Cleaning Out My Email Folders
08/22/08
Bob, take a cold bath and contemplate your Elvis chenilles.
07/16/08
Golly. Your very own recording in jet-setter vinyl -- and it's a 33 1/3! Basic black is so chi-chi.
"Miss Arlene Francis Presents Music Appreciation for the Home," a must for any sock ball. I have The Zombies' cover version.
Be sure to get your tux cleaned and top hat blocked, so you may listen in full high fidelity. For heightened enchantment, wear your monocle, maybe a cravat. Have your servant dust the dust cover and make that marvelous spinach dip the girls all adore. Order in extra Bugles!
03/13/06
What I Learned: Get yourself a gigantic tractor and run it into things. THAT'S comedy!
To tell you the truth, there are some days I do not care to take the time to write in this journal. It's a hefty inconvenient hassle to word stuff, do all of that creating and crafting and such.
Today is exactly one of those days. I don't want to do it and I won't do it.
And if you don't like it, may your prostate doctor be a closet ventriloquist.
May over-sized wet-nosed hound dogs sniff your ever-present essence of chalupas.
May your favorite soup kitchen/laundromat ladle up a big bowl of Vegetables and Trousers.
May a brooding, disoriented hip hopper hop on your hip.
May the ghost in black of Johnny Cash narrate your medication regimen and beg for swag or a hit on Reese Witherspoon.
May The Brady Bunch force-feed you Marshamallows! Marshamallows! Marshamallows!
May Carlsbad Caverns go good just to ruin your visit.
May you never know the difference between stalactites and stalagmites and bullet bras.
May a plucky chipmunk burrow through your garden burrito.
May roving-eyed symphony musicians in unsightly stained cummerbunds gang-Debussy your date.
Not only were there Hannah Montana Cleansing Body Bars, but the new product also commandeered valuable shelf space, banishing my beloved The Fat Guy From "Borat" Cleansing Body Bars from the store.
I went home empty handed to squeeze out lingering Oil of Goulet Body Wash Plus Crème Ribbons and relax in a tepid Ann B. Davis Bubbly Bath with a bobbing Jerry Mathers Rubber Beaver.
Like any good parent, I worry about Morty's associations. Peer pressure amongst kids is almost too much to combat in the 21st century, especially when complemented by the power and reach of the Internet.
