Reeling: "Comes a Horseman" (1978)

We enjoyed "Comes a Horseman," a World War II era western I chose to revisit after 30+ years and share with The Sweetie^®.

This is the tale of a ruthless cattle rancher / oil-baron-in-waiting (Jason Robards), matching wits and determination against underdog cowpokes (Jane Fonda, James Caan).

The film is entertaining, engrossing, and inadvertently puzzling. Our minds are engulfed in the mystery surrounding the numerous similarities of this screenplay to the television series "Dallas," which debuted in 1978, too. Neither production appears to be officially related to the other in strict plotting or behind-the-cameras lineage or source material, but one can't miss the coincidences, among them:

• Robards' villain is named Jacob Ewing, phonetically close to Dallas patriarch Jock Ewing. Introducing Robards alternately as J.W. Ewing, as he is, can't help but suggest Jock's given name, John Ross Ewing, Sr. or J.R. Ewing.


• Fonda's character is Ella, Ewing's desirable land owner prize. The "Dallas'" counterpart is Ellie, Ewing's desirable land owner prize.


• Crusty Relatives: "Comes a Horseman" has beloved "Dodger." TV has beloved "Digger."


• Actor Jim Davis, Jacob Ewing's evil henchman, was subsequently cast as Jock Ewing -- whom, I might add, looks EXACTLY the same!

What are the chances of that happening?

Bass, Herrmann, Hitchcock, and Me

I loves me some superior movie main title sequences. I've written before of my devotion to the design artistry of Saul Bass ("It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World," "Walk on the Wild Side," "Around the World in Eighty Days"). He changed how movies handled the obligatory credits during the 1950s and '60s by making his celluloid minutes not only handsome lists of names, but also an integral part of the thematic tones of the whole production. His influence continues to shape the films we see in theatres today.

At the creative and popularity heights of Alfred Hitchcock, Bass came on board to front three of the suspense director's most revered motion pictures: "Vertigo" (1958), "North by Northwest" (1959), and "Psycho" (1960). Those men had the good fortune to be musically orchestrated by film composer Bernard Herrmann ("Citizen Kane," "The Day the Earth Stood Still," "The Man Who Knew Too Much"), yielding the three masterful sequences below.

Watch, listen, and enjoy -- then, read a true anecdote which happened to me earlier this day.

Saul Bass Title Sequences for Alfred Hitchcock via Vimeo.
While playing this main titles video on my computer, I heard a fly buzzing in the bathroom. It was befuddled by the window glass. The "North by Northwest" theme neared conclusion when I stepped onto the commode seat to help the panicked insect escape. I raised the pane and removed the screen, as the "Psycho" score pulsated through the room. Providing guidance, I maneuvered the trapped creature through the new opening and out into the external fresh air.

At that moment, something crossed my mind. I recalled a bit of film dialogue from "Psycho" matron Mrs. Bates:

They're probably watching me. Well, let them. Let them see what kind of a person I am. I'm not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching... They'll see. They'll see and they'll know, and they'll say, "Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly..."

Just Sittin' Around Waitin' for The Rapture

And, maybe, a Pepsi. 

There's bad news / good news, depending on how you look at it, plus good news.

The bad news / good news: The world will end today.

The good news: I've got season tickets to "Hair" for tomorrow.

Did me some Twitter...

Packing wax lips, Tic Tacs, and Hula Hoop for The Rapture... Also, Trivial Pursuit: Earth Edition...

Frank, I've got your DVDs ready to mail, but waiting to go to the post office until Monday. Don't wanna waste any money on stamps, you know, in case.

Collecting the used kitty litter and driving it to the dump this afternoon. The Crapture.

I'm told the fun hits at 6 p.m. Eastern. Is that Daylight Saving Time and/or Soul Saving Time?

I'm skeered. I figure my wife goes to Heaven and I'm in Hell. The 7:15 "Pirates of the Caribbean 4." God, help me.

Worried I'll be separated from my cats. Who will take care of me? I have no grooming skills.

Best of wishes to you,

Your Pal,

Mike
At the Help Desk

P.S. Meanwhile, at Twitter...

With The Rapture coming, I'd like to close with a little song...

There R chix just ripe 4 some kissin'
& I mean 2 kiss me a few!
Then those chix don't know what they're missin',
I got a lot of living 2 do!

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: 'The Green Slime' Music Video

I assure you, "The Green Slime" was as befuddling, ridiculous, and cheap in 1969 as it is today in the future with Lady Gaga and Snooki.

I believe YouTube commenter DupekChopra aptly captures the vibe:

This had the potential to be good. Instead it was bad....

And luscaslayer:

The 21st Century sucks - I wanna be wearing a space suit, killing aliens with my [laser], like they promised - instead, all we got was the *@!%&# internets. :(

"The Green Slime" Music Video via YouTube

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: '2747 Toothpicks in My Beard'

Well, maybe, if I had food in my beard....

"Hors d'oeuvres, sweetie?"



"2747 Toothpicks in My Beard" via YouTube

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: 'Pink Armadillo Attack!'

Wines are sweet, but either too red or too white for this connoisseur's tastes, so my wine of choice is Pepto-Bismol.

Image by QuinnDombrowski via Flickr

Sometimes I drink way too much of the elixir and sometimes I'm surprised to see my drunken stupors materialize in the cinema. I must babble.

Ah, here's one. I remember this trippin', man, from that righteous college weekend during Sprink breag.

I still have not a clue as to what it means and the aftershock cold sweats are making me soppy....



"Pink Armadillo Attack!" via YouTube

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: 'Baby Gets Scared When Mom Blows Her Nose'

This time, the subject of the video becomes slackjaw dumbstruck, in addition to me watching the strange behavior.



"Baby Gets Scared When Mom Blows Her Nose" via YouTube
I know a man who reacted like this to pretty much anything I ever said or did -- except the laughing part. It can be a bit disconcerting.

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: 'Chester the Incredible Peeing Dog'

The Greatest Shower on Earth. 

"Chester the Incredible Peeing Dog" from "America's Funniest Home Videos" via Metacafe

My hat and protective tarp are off to Chester and his morning routine. All I can say is I can't wait to hurry-up go sleep. 

Thanks to Tim Butzon. Wash your hands, Tim.

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: Astrud Gilberto: 'Bim Bom'

Tall and tan and young and lip-synching.

The guy in the tux walks my cummerbund.



"Astrud Gilberto: Bim Bom" (1966) via YouTube
(via PCL LinkDump)

I Got Nuthin'

Whipper, the Mutant Parakeet via YouTube

100 Things About Me #151

Staring Is the Pits

At the olive bar, I feel uneasy when the pimentoes follow me around the room.


100 Things: #1 | Previous | Next

Mountain Greenery

This morning, on a whim, I found myself undertaking a lengthy automobile excursion through the lovely springtime vistas adorning our mammoth hills. Many miles down the highway, I realized I was near my brother-in-law's place. I dropped by for a visit, but Bryan was not to be found.

He's blessed with some beautiful wilderness acreage, far away from the nearest community. My orbs swept a wide view from his porch, halting abruptly, intrigued by what they saw under the blazing sun. There was something new, a freshly plowed and planted field carved out of the forest.


"This is the biggest garden I have ever seen," I said to myself, as I took a long, meandering walk through the newborn sprouts. "I should have packed a lunch."

I couldn't decide what was growing underneath me. I knelt down for closer inspection.

"Some sort of beans or peas, I can't say," I said to myself because I was alone and speaking it out loud would have been something I couldn't allow myself to do. Sanity 101.

"These are the oddest little pods, very odd. I should have packed a lunch."

I couldn't put my finger on what was puzzling me, but I knew with the recent rains, those pods were going to be robust and soon.

I drove home with an uneasy feeling. Inexplicably, for the first time in months, I had the urge to listen to my iPod. I fetched it from the glove compartment, while exhaling a vigorous yawn. The music was nice. Olivia Newton-John whispered a lullaby.

Arriving back at the house, I changed out of my good t-shirt into something less formal. It was time for an afternoon nap, but suddenly I was curious, wondering what was on the tube. I knelt down for the second time this day, punched the power button, and waited for an image to fade onto the screen.


Who wants coffee?

Slackjaw Dumbstruck: 'Toking' With Lawrence Welk

From "The Lawrence Welk Show," circa 1970, man.

Fire up a spliff, as Gail and Dale groove on "a modern spiritual."


Amen and exhale.

_{Can't see the video? Try here. (Via "Boing Boing")}

100 Things About Me #119

The Wolf Mike

A doctor regulates my blood pressure with the drug Minoxidil. (That was my pill bottle on display in the post "Got My Fingers Crossed for Twins!")

The Minoxidil is working quite well for me, too. My heart is pounding away less erratically. It's mostly calm, except for the occasional violent upswing, where ebullient strangers never fail to fall in behind to join my conga line.

This medicine, I'm told, was developed for blood pressure control, but has an

interesting side effect, causing unusual hair growth in many patients. So much so, a hair restorer product, Rogaine, was developed around the ingredients.

Sure enough, even though I've been blessed with the patented, luxuriously tousled surfer boy hair you've seen and coveted from afar, I have indeed experienced new growth on the top of my head. My mane is definitely thicker and darker in spots.

Stylist Karen has been so impressed, I'm now paying a thicker and darker fee to her for each scalping.

I do get a price break, if I plunger Karen's 'poo sink after each washing of the often remarked upon patented, luxuriously tousled surfer boy hairs.

My sheds are retrieved from her drainpipe and fashioned into carpet tiles for public housing or the occasional pro wrestler's chest merkin.

I've also witnessed the appearance of odd hairs on my ears and an added fullness in my beard. For example, look closely at this photo. Believe it or not, it was taken less than three hours after my latest barber shop clean shave with a straight razor.

I raised stubble before finishing the lollipop.

My legs, after years of wearing tight jeans, were not especially furry before Minoxidil. Now, they sport signs of revival, as do my arms. This picture of my left wrist shows where I wore my watch for more than 40 years. A few months ago, there was NO hair on that spot.

I've noticed a wild patch of hair evolving on the small of my back at the waist. Ordinarily, I would go, "Eww," but it's actually a good thing, camouflaging that increasingly unfashionable tramp stamp tattoo.

Recently, watching our beloved HDTV, I've seen disturbing vertical lines and shadows in the images. I was concerned the set needed repair, until I happened to catch a sideways glance in a mirror. My eyelashes have gone into hyperdrive, growing dense and elongated. They are twice as long than at any time in my life and account for the mysterious lines and shadows I wrongly attributed to the broadcast monitor. I have to force my eyes wide open to keep lashes out of the field of vision.


These snapshots fail to fully capture my patented, luxuriously tousled Lindsay Lohan lashes (although mine are real). We don't wish anyone to become overwhelmed.

My wife is jealous of these curly pelts on my lids, but she did enjoy a quick flutter in her direction on those hot August nights.

Not everything to do with the harvest o' hair has been good, however. The Federal Aviation Administration has court-ordered me to not blink excessively outdoors. I tend to lift off and blip on the air traffic radars.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go mark the calendar for the next full moon.

Party Night.


100 Things: #1 | Previous | Next

Beery Interesting

As an aside to my observations concerning bears and hammocks, I thought it ironic, recently, to stumble across the Hamm's Beer bear. Hamm's and hammocks commingling with bears strikes me as a curious coincidence.

The animated animal first appeared on TV commercials in 1952 and was a popular celebrity suds endorser for decades, according to Wikipedia, which states:

"The Hamm's Beer bear was featured on endless array of signs, glassware, and tchotchkes such as clocks, ceramic miniatures, and ashtrays. It was so well-known and identified with Minnesota that the 'St. Paul Pioneer Press' named the bear as a runner-up on its list of '150 Influential Minnesotans of the Past 150 Years' in 2000. By that time, however, parent Miller Brewing had discontinued it over concerns it might be interpreted as marketing beer to children...."

I have no memory of the Hamm's bear. From 1958 on, I was passed out in an after-school stupor.

Hopssicles.


^{Note: Videos won't play? Try double clicking on the images to access them directly from YouTube.}

Spider-Mike!

Where Did I Put My Clown Shoes? And Step on It!

Here's one of those strange real-life coincidences which never fail to puzzle me when they occur.

Saturday evening, I typed my previous post, "Spider-Man 3: Kickin' It Old Skool," saving the document to publish the next morning. In the entry, I mentioned another party spraying Raid pest killer on a spider, an act I don't ever recall undertaking.

A few hours passed. I flipped the ceiling light switch on in our downstairs bathroom, only to discover a humongous spider standing in the sink and dominating the room, the house, my very existence, to say the least.

I am not exaggerating when I report that the breadth of the animal's legs spanned four to five inches, while at rest. It was fearsome -- the largest, scariest spider I've seen outside of a zoo or that deadly "Wild Wild West" movie.

Seconds later, I found myself spraying Raid on the beast.

I remain quite disturbed by the encounter, but household-invading critters are to be expected in a woodsy, rural locale.

That reminds me, it's Tax Assessor Season. (Note to Self: Restock gator moat.)

I have no idea what kind of spider I faced, but my first thought gasped "tarantula!" I eliminated that possibility when I recognized our spider was not furry, although mighty intimidating, nevertheless.

It was buff, black, wearing chukka boots (four pairs) and a Harley Davidson jacket with the collar up, no helmet. That's all I know.

And the Scotch is about gone.

I could've used some.

The Miracle of the Benny

"The Miracle of the Socks" and "The Miracle of the Birdie" were certainly unusual incidents, and this next coincidence is equally, if not more, improbable. It involves a little-known, seldom-shown half-century-old episode of "The Jack Benny Program," one of the longest-running radio and television comedy series.

To introduce the classic clip featuring "The Landrews Sisters," a spoof of the popular Andrews Sisters singing trio, here's a background note found at YouTube, written by fromthesidelines.

This was from Jack's "New Talent" show of December 31, 1956. The routine goes all the way back to Benny's stage appearances in the '30s, and he frequently revived this "bit" on radio and TV in later years {the last time he did, they were called "The Smothers Sisters"!}. Iris Adrian played the "cynical" one ... Muriel Landers [is the soloist].

I stumbled upon the obscure video Sunday evening. I forwarded it to a fellow Jack Benny aficionado, Frank Thompson.

Here comes the supernatural part.

Shortly, Frank emailed back from the other side of the continent.

How weird is this? Every Sunday night one of the PBS stations here shows a local, rather cheaply made show called "I Remember Television." They'll show either a one hour drama or variety show or two half hour shows from the 50s.

I watched the Landrews Sisters clip you sent me, walked straight to the TV and that very episode of Jack Benny came on. By the way, it's a riot throughout, with a great appearance from Jayne Mansfield (I just noticed she was busty) and a terrific bit with Mel Blanc. The Landrews Sisters bit is probably twice as long as what's on YouTube ("Are you really sisters?" "I am -- I don't know about them.")

Anyway, odd, huh?

I'll say! It was a solid odd weekend. The day before, the famous Don Ho died in the midst of the infamous Don "Ho" Imus career demise.

The Miracle of the Birdie

Within hours of going public with "The Miracle of the Socks," the bizarre personal experience my foot shared with a spousal foot, friends revealed other tales of the weird.

Stan Malone, in a remembrance at Cinema Treasures, writes of his paranormal encounter, dating back four decades.

"I only had the pleasure of attending a show at the Piedmont [Drive-in Theatre in Atlanta] one time.... Although the purpose of the trip was to see 'Born Free,' it was the co-feature that made the night memorable. It was the first, and only time in a theatre, that I saw 'Bye Bye Birdie,' although I have watched and enjoyed it many times since. If I watch it enough I may discover why Ann-Margret calls the title character by the proper name of 'Birdie' in the movie itself, while in the opening and closing songs she sings his name 'BurHEE.'"

As it so happens, I've rewound and replayed those portions of "Bye Bye Birdie" on several occasions to reassure myself she gushes "BurHEE."

She does.

That is a puzzler.

Nevertheless, we must now move forward undaunted to the strange coincidence facing scrutiny.

Stan told me, during my recent investigative probes, outreach, and prayers of fellowship in regards to this matter, that neither he nor his companions had any pre-movie awareness of the phenomenon known as Ann-Margret. They learned of the actress' existence when her face and name flashed across the big screen.

"The fact that I attended this showing with my cousins, one of whom is named Anne, and the other Margaret, only made the show more memorable."

Yipe!


Next: The Miracle of the Benny

Our House Socks

Only three days ago, I wrote about "The Miracle of the Socks," a true occurrence involving mysterious, wayward footwear. It was an odd event to say the least, but now there has been another incident in our tiny cabin, deep in the woods.

This morning began like any other day. Donna slipped into the bedroom, quietly smooched me good-bye, and headed out the door of this home of eight blissful years, off to work.

A few minutes passed before I managed to propel myself from the mattress and start my dawn with the obligatory, ceremonial stubbing of my toe on the dresser.

That was standard operating procedure. The new mystery of which I speak lurked at the top of the stairs.


As I rounded the upper step, my eyes beheld a befuddling sight. Throughout the house, there were socks draped everywhere. Socks on the counters. Socks on the chairs, drawer handles, doorknobs, the stove, and, yes, my beloved TiVo, already set for tonight's "How I Met Your Mother" and an all-new "The New Adventures of Old Christine" on CBS. Later, Dave's got Kelly Ripa!


Nearing the coffee pot, I mustered the courage to touch a white crew sock which may have once contained and coddled my tippy toes and their wide array of Ace Bandages and wound creams.

The sock was moist, cold. I recoiled and blanched.

What was this scene? Who are these socks? What is their story?

I've heard of phantasms or some such, yet I prayed there had been a problem with the clothes dryer. I hadn't received a memo.

Perhaps Donna had set the booties out to evaporate after a wash -- as simple as that?

I don't know. I don't know where the laundry room is or I would check.

Meanwhile, I'm scared. I am very afraid.

The Miracle of the Socks

Easter Stockings

Every word that follows is true. Nothing has been changed, except I weigh 40 pounds less.

Easter morning was unusual. As I stirred from a deep sleep, I realized my right foot was in the nude.

My sock had removed itself inexplicably during the night. Throughout an entire 40-pounds-less life, I do not recall another nocturnal sock absconder.

I was amazed, frankly. I wiggled my left foot. It nestled warm and snuggy in tubular white cotton.

But that right foot was naked. I moved it out from under the bedcovers to be certain, waving toes six-through-10 high above a cat.

"Yep, naked," I mumbled.

"What?" Donna whispered softly.

"It's odd," I said. "I had one sock fall off in the night."

"Me, too," said Donna, raising her pink show-and-tell toes, nicely arranged on the left foot!

We were a perfect pair.