Death doesn't take a Holiday

Gary Coleman is dead.  Which makes the prospect of a Different Strokes movie all the more unlikely.  Okay, I know there was already a Different Strokes flick starring Dana Plato; however, I meant a non-porno whose storyline is at least vaguely related to the show.  Sure, remake movies rarely include original cast members, except for cameo appearances, but actors are notoriously superstitious beasts and there aren't many that would want to tempt fate by associating themselves with this cursed franchise.  Well, Todd Bridges is still hanging on.  He's not even behind bars anymore.  And he, after all, is the only one who can finally answer the question, "What'choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"  Perhaps Todd, Conrad Bain and Charlotte Rae could get together for a reunion show anyway.  Play it real.  Kimberly has killed herself and Arnold has died of stupidity.  Bains and Rae are as old as dirt, so you'd better hurry.  Of course, they'll both probably outlive Bridges in the end.  He's due to go off the deep end soon.

As I write this, I hear of another passing on a whole different scale: Dennis Hopper, one of my favorites ever to grace the silver screen.  To paraphrase his Apocalypse Now photojournalist: "I'm a small man, a small man; he's a great man ... his mind is clear but his soul is mad."  I couldn't put it better.

So as Gary and Dennis stand waiting at the pearly gates (or perhaps a somewhat warmer variant), they must be having an interesting conversation.  Perhaps Art Linkletter has joined them.

Now, on a completely unrelated topic, I'll close with the parting words from more than one of the A-Team episodes I caught on the Centric Network's marathon today.  "Why do they do it?"  "For the Jazz, man.  For the Jazz."   Indeed.  Pure poetry.

Life during Wartime

It's hard to laugh at a world spinning out of control but if you don't, you're in for one helluva serious life. Wired on too many Cherry Coke Zeros and Weight Watcher Giant Latte Ice Cream bars, I sit and contemplate the news of the day. And chuckle. Gary Coleman is dying, Art Linkletter is dead, Lindsay Lohan can't drink, and there is still no film adaptation of Barney Miller in the works.  Oh, and some oil is leaking somewhere (presumably, Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck and Co. will be heading in to save the day after Waterworldly Kevin Costner was shot down in his efforts at being superhero). 

Meanwhile, a new romantic comedy is being inspired by miss Half Baked Alaska and new next door neighbor Joe McGinniss (Tina Fey and Jonah Hill?).  He's renting the house across the way in Wasilla in order to get material for a new tell-all book on the noted bookworm and tea bagger.  In response, she just erected a 14 foot tall fence on the property line separating their two abodes.  Love is soon to follow, I'm sure.

But despite this turmoil, all is right with the world.  I know this because there are re-runs of Miami Vice and Soul Train on the tube (thanks BET and MTV, for the newly re-branded Centric Network).   Miami Vice ... mmmh ... ya know, perhaps it's a good thing that there is no Barney Miller movie.

Samberg rules

Andy Samberg's digital short Great Day was, I thought, the one and only highlight of the latest episode of SNL. 



While looking up Great Day on You Tube, I came across another great Samberg short ...

Pink Panther of the Apocalypse

Lord Jesus Christ was hit by a car this week. Makes me want to pack it up and stay inside.

Between the taser-tottin' sport-cops gettin' all trigger-happy on the baseball diamonds of America, and the Inspector Clouseau wing of Al Qaeda on the prowl, rigging SUVs with M-80s and fertilizer like a poor man's Tim McVeigh, it feels as though the good guys and bad guys alike might zap me through their exuberant conformance to the rules on one hand or some nefarious incompetence stumbling over accidental "success" on the other.

Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, I'm in no way equating the police with terrorists. In fact, I'm all for tasing drunken or just-plain-goofy morons and the fruitcakes who break the rules should be sentenced to spend the rest of the season in the ballpark parking lot in a taser-based "dunk" tank so that tailgating fans can take turns shocking the shithead until he drops into the water (and then it's back onto the blank for you so another lucky fan can have a go).  Nor I'm comparing those who would kill and maim innocents to Peter Sellers' lovably bumbling French detective, except to note that Clouseau and the would-be Times Square car-bomber seem to share a flair for the idiotic.

Even dumb shits get lucky every once in a while, though, so it's probably best to stay put under the bed and wait it out, listening for the galloping hoof beats of the impending Apocalypse, hoping to make the guest list. Assuming the end-of-days aren't canceled because some wing nut mowed down the son of god in their Canyonero.  Wouldn't be the same sort of party without Him.  Sort of like starting a Soc/Greaser rumble without Dallas Winston.   Meanwhile, I'll try my best to stay gold ...