Icy Cold Banana Malteds

Some weeks before I dreamed of McNeil doing a duet with Paul Simon, McNeil dreamed about me. And here, I'll just cut-and-paste a portion of McNeil's email: "I forgot to mention that last night I was dreaming and I and some others (who I don't remember) were standing in a kitchen chatting and the phone rang. A land line. Your voice was on the other end apologizing because you didn't know how you would be able to make it to Las Vegas. After the call everyone was...okay, but no one was planning to go to Las Vegas, so...then a bunch of other stuff happens in some dream sequences, and then back to the kitchen and the phone rings again. You're more apologetic than ever - because you just can't seem to finagle that trip to Vegas everyone wants to take. Again, no one knows what you're talking about. But we politely say, 'Oh, gee, okay.' And hang up. I have no idea what that's about. I guess the point is that you're not even showing up in my dreams anymore, Pendarvis. You're phoning it in. Like Bob Hope in I'll Take Sweden." The subject line of McNeil's email indicated, probably correctly, that I am too lazy even to show up in his dreams. I'm not sure it's worth it to mount a defense of I'LL TAKE SWEDEN. I'm tempted but it seems like a lot of work (see my laziness, above). Also, as I was typing this, I received another email from McNeil, which immediately took precedence, reminding me, as it did, of when we were in our twenties (or younger?) and wrote a movie together in which Greenland was firing off ICBMs, which, in their case, meant Icy Cold Banana Malteds. That was McNeil's joke! I can't take credit for it. I'm not even sure he remembers that detail, as it was not mentioned in the email. So maybe I could have stolen his joke after all. But that's just not my way. Anyhow, McNeil is claiming that we are "prophets" now that "our script is about to play out." I don't necessarily agree that we are prophets, though. I think that's really something for our worshipers to decide.

McNeil's Li'l Sausage Bits

Welcome once more to "McNeil's Li'l Bogie Bits," where McNeil reads a 700-page Humphrey Bogart bio and I pass the savings on to you! As you may recall, we were on the fence about whether the casting of Dooley Wilson in CASABLANCA was a legitimate bogie bit. As McNeil put it, Wilson "was not their first or even second choice, but....that's how sausage is made. I'm not sure that's how sausage is made." Which reminds me of a whimsical quotation from a whimsical narrator in my beloved bestseller (it's neither beloved nor a bestseller) MOVIE STARS: "There is a reason no one wants to know 'how the sausage is made.' How the sausage is made is terrible." And here you may note the most significant difference between my "blog" writing and my "real" writing: on the "blog," that second sentence would have ended in an exclamation point. And, honestly, in most of my "real" writing too. I wonder why I didn't do it! But we are getting far away from McNeil's li'l bits. McNeil says that Lena Horne was considered for the role of Sam! He also contends, rather boldly, that CASABLANCA would have been "twice as good" if Lena Horne had played the role. And I do say that such an observation indeed qualifies as a bogie bit. Another bogie bit is of a sad nature, as it depicts Mayo Methot, in a drunken rage, getting herself wedged tightly behind a sofa somehow. But let's get back to sausage. By a weird coincidence, I was listening to an opera when I received the first bogie bit alluded to above. That's not the coincidence. So, in a while, I was like, "What the hell is this opera about? I don't speak whatever language this is!" And I looked up the plot on the "internet," and this guy in the opera gets in trouble for eating a sausage on the moon! I guess you think I am making that up. But I will tell you the name of the opera - THE EXCURSIONS OF MR. BROUCEK - so you can look it up for your damn self. So I was like, "Sausage!" And, believe it or not, it was, by another coincidence, the second opera I had listened to THAT WEEK about somebody going to the moon. (The other one was Il mondo della luna by Baldassare Galuppi... and I can almost swear that Haydn wrote an opera with a similar title and subject matter, but now I am just showing off my knowledge of moon operas.) This is getting long, but I have more to tell. I just hope the lousy AT&T "internet" doesn't stop working before I'm done. We're getting something better installed on Monday! Leslie came over to watch INLAND EMPIRE the other night and we couldn't finish because the AT&T "internet" crapped out. So we turned off the lights and put on these plastic toy rings that have colored lights shooting out of them and Dr. Theresa requested Kraftwerk, so we danced around to that for a while, and then switched to a playlist by Kate Tsang. But the main point is that... you know all those books I am reading all the time in various circumstances? Now I've had to add a book that I put next to my laptop in my home office for whenever the "internet" goes kerplunk and I'm just sitting there with a stupid look on my face and nothing to distract me from the terrible abyss. There are books littered all over the place around here, it's a sad mess. Oh! So... one of the most recent books I had downstairs, on the side table near my favorite chair, was DAISY MILLER by Henry James, which somehow I had never read before. And in it, a character quotes from MANFRED, the poetic drama by Lord Byron, and I liked the quotation, so I dug out the old SELECTED POEMS of Byron and started reading MANFRED. And I hadn't made it too far, just to lines 196 and 197 of the first scene of the first act, and what did I see but "When the falling stars are shooting,/And the answer'd owls are hooting"? And you know what that means. Well, as long as I'm here, I'll mention a message I received yesterday from DJ Gnosis, who said he had gotten a news alert about his own old "blog," and when he checked it out, he saw that a "web" site called - I think - casino.org had discovered a 2008 "post" of mine, and a contemporaneous "post" by DJ Gnosis commenting on it, about the time I "posted" the first-ever photographic evidence on the "internet" of the existence of the Foster Brooks robot that used to live in Las Vegas until it was dismantled and sold for scrap metal, as we all must be eventually. Quoted in the article? Foster Brooks's own daughter! I would "link" to the article, but, being in the midst of a nightmarish effort to scrub old zombie "links" from the "blog," I am no longer much inclined to "link" to outside sources. Nothing against casino.org! Anyway, this on the heels of my 45-year-old letter inspiring McNeil to watch HARRY AND WALTER GO TO NEW YORK. Given enough time and patience, such meaningless things can happen.

Not Quite Enough Marbles

So all these guys are sitting on one side a long table in masks talking to each other and the door opens and they all turn and look at the camera at the same time - that's pretty scary! I feel like I've seen this startling effect copied in later movies. I couldn't find the exact moment on the internet, but this came right afterward. It's from LA MAIN DU DIABLE (a much more apt title than the English version: CARNIVAL OF SINNERS), the latest entry in our annual Halloween film festival. Kind of a fairytale. Jacques Tourneur's dad directed it! I want to know why he was back in France directing this at about the same time his son was in America directing CAT PEOPLE - what a family! - so I'll grab that Chris Fujiwara bio of the younger Tourneur and get back to you later. So! I was walking back home from Square Books the other day when Melissa Ginsburg accosted me from the passenger window of a pickup truck! And Chris Offutt was driving. And they wanted to know whether I wanted a ride, which was funny because I was next door to my house, which they well knew, so they were being hilarious. And they pulled into the neighbor's driveway and I leaned in the window of the truck and we had a talk. And it turned out by coincidence that the newly and impulsively purchased book I had under my arm is one of Chris's favorites! Chris said he read it all as fast as he could and can't wait until enough time passes so he can read it again. It's the "Hollywood Trilogy" of Don Carpenter, three novels in one volume. I was telling Bill Boyle about it and he already knew everything because he's a big fan, too. They were out of print for a while, and Bill was tracking down the separate volumes at the library. So I just started reading the first one and to my surprise it's pretty much about Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, and it's narrated by Jerry Lewis. I exaggerate! The decade is wrong, for one thing. And I've only read a couple dozen pages. But one partner in the comedy duo is a crooner, and the crooner hates to rehearse and is always late, and the crooner likes comic books, and his teammate's schtick is to act like he has "not quite enough marbles rolling around in my attic," and they're embarrassed by the low-budget movies the studio forces them to make and are much more at home in their loose and highly improvisational nightclub act, which they have moved to Las Vegas... all these things apply to Martin and Lewis, though there is also a lot about these characters that does not apply to Martin and Lewis, but I'm going to ignore those parts.

I Used to Know That Guy

I was killing some time in Square Books the other day. I picked up a book called THE DISASTER ARTIST, co-written by my friend Tom Bissell. It's about a famously crazy movie called THE ROOM, which I've never seen. So I didn't think I would "get" the book. But I sat there and read the first chapter or so while a woman stood nearby in the poetry section having a loud, angry conversation on her cell phone about her no-good cousin. If Richard had been around he would have snatched that cell phone right out of her hand! Or something subtler. And the woman knew it! She yelled into her phone, "I'M VIOLATING ONE OF THIS STORE'S CARDINAL RULES!" But anyway, I was irritated by her because I was getting caught up in the story and she was making it hard to concentrate. So anyway, I bought the book! It turns out to be incredibly enjoyable even if you're like me and know almost nothing about THE ROOM. And today I was leafing through the glossy part in the middle with all the photos and I RECOGNIZED SOMEONE FROM MY OWN PAST. He was D.P. on THE ROOM - and still holds that title in the section I am reading - though it seems to have been a nightmarish experience and he doesn't appear to be credited in the final film. I suppose I'll find out why as I keep reading. Anyway, his name is Raphael, and we affectionately called him Raphy, and remember when Ward McCarthy and I went to Las Vegas to cover an Elvis impersonator convention? He shot all that stuff! He was quiet and wry and pleasant and did a good job. We tried to work with him as much as possible. Well, it was a nice surprise seeing his picture.

Embarrassment of the Hat Dog

Yes, uh-huh, why not, let's continue our examination of the Olsen twins music video of which I was subjected to repeat viewings on a huge wall of monitors as I stood in a line at a Las Vegas check-in counter in 1994. First, we'll review what we have learned so far. 1) I described the video from painful memory. 2) I found the actual video on the "internet," and learned that my memory had failed me in several respects. For example, the dog was not wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat. And now I receive an email from my friend Ward, who was in that line with me in 1994. Ward writes: "It's so weird. I thought your earlier description of the video was dead on, especially about the dog. In my mind he was wearing not only a Sherlock Holmes hat, but also a cape and I could've sworn he had a big pipe in his mouth, too. When they finally do have the hat on the dog near the end of the video it's so pathetic. You can tell the director probably told the wardrobe person to get a Sherlock Holmes hat, but they couldn't find one so they just cut up a couple of cheap black caps and sewed them together. You can tell the dog is completely embarrassed." (See also.) So in conclusion, the dog WAS wearing a makeshift Sherlock Holmes hat after all, something I failed to notice in my reexamination, or maybe I didn't make it to the end of the video. I hope this clears everything up. And now goodbye forever.

My Heartfelt Apologies to the Olsen Twins

I found the video that was repeated over and over and over and over as Ward and I waited in a long, slow line to check into the MGM Grand in 1994. Please "click" here to see it. Turns out my memory is not so good. Allow me to correct some misstatements from the previous "post": 1) At no point (I think) do the Olsen twins employ "huge magnifying glasses," though one of them looks through a microscope. 2) The dog in the video is a beagle, not a bloodhound as I erroneously reported. 3) Said beagle is not wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat. He IS, however, doing double takes in the exact manner I indicated. But this is not the time to pat myself on the back. 4) The Olsen twins are proclaiming themselves to be "Super duper snoopers," NOT "Super DOOPER pooper TROOPERS." I hedged my bets on that one a little bit by calling it a paraphrase, but there is no excuse for such misrepresentation. 5) The piece does not employ the traditional rhythms of the march, as I may have implied. Still, I haven't seen it since 1994, so I think it did a formidable job of burning itself into my brain. Nevertheless, the "blog" regrets the errors. I hope it is not impolite to wonder how the bass player felt when he was required to lay down such a funky line at about 11 seconds in.

Foster Brooks Robot Gives My Life Meaning

I am sure you recall the robot version of Foster Brooks and how justifiably proud I was to be the first person ever to present a photograph of the Foster Brooks robot on the "internet." Well, my friend Ward McCarthy has found someone's home movies of the MGM Grand Hotel from 1995, and about halfway in you will get a big sample of the Foster Brooks robot, who is even more disturbing than I recalled, with his one rubbery dead hand and his other hand fitfully twitching at the punch lines of his off-color remarks. He is not to be confused with the Frank Morgan robot (!) who appears earlier in the clip. Ward and I stayed in the MGM Grand in 1994 when we were covering the Elvis Impersonator Convention, so this clip brings back a lot of memories - awful, awful memories. For example, see that huge wall of video screens behind the check-in counter? When Ward and I were standing in line interminably, they kept repeating a music video of the Olsen twins (at the time still tiny children) dancing around with huge magnifying glasses, pretending to be detectives, and there were lots of shots of a bloodhound in a Sherlock Holmes hat (or so I recall) doing editorially enhanced double takes and the lyrics of the song were something like "Super DOOPER pooper TROOPERS!" I paraphrase. But the rhythms of their hellish march went on and on forever, kind of like this "post." Because I will now state that the youtube video of the Foster Brooks robot was "posted" in late 2009, and therefore I am STILL the champion of presenting photographic evidence of the Foster Brooks robot earlier than anyone else on the "internet." In conclusion, I noted on the youtube sidebar of "related videos" that there was a clip of Foster Brooks performing at the dedication of Gerald Ford's presidential library - say what! His whole act was pretending to be drunk, and even without Mrs. Ford's well-publicized alcoholism, and her heroic efforts at raising awareness and helping people with substance abuse problems, Foster Brooks seems like a weird choice for ANYBODY's presidential library dedication. I watched about 20 seconds of it, just enough to confirm that he's pretending to be drunk. Yep.

They Came to Burgle Carnegie Hall

They were showing a movie called THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS on TCM last night and I was tickled because it made me think of my favorite fake movie title from THE SIMPSONS, which also furnishes the title of this "post." But I got into THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS 30 minutes late because first I had to watch George Saunders on THE COLBERT REPORT. So when I switched over to THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS, some dude was saying to Elke Sommer, "Honey, there's nothing harder to get into than another man's robe," and it was said with such dull authority that it depressed me, one of those lines that only wants to sound like it means something but it maybe probably doesn't mean anything and it doesn't care. It would rather sound tough than be tough. Right away the movie seemed too solemn and proud of itself, or proud of its supposed hipness, or something, and I didn't watch the rest, no, you couldn't even call it repressive desublimation, whatever was going on there. There was a sour feeling. What's wrong with me? I'm basing all this on one line, I didn't give THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS a fair shake! Last time I saw George Saunders, less than a week ago, he recommended Kerouac's VISIONS OF GERARD, which by coincidence I had just recently purchased at Square Books, so I'm reading it now and here's a fragment I enjoyed: "people may count themselves higher than pigs, and walk proudly down country roads; geniuses may look out of windows and count themselves higher than louts..." (He's on the side of the pigs and louts.) Also "teaching" ON THE ROAD and I forgot that near the end they have a big party in a castle! "and Charity creeping around upstairs in her nightgown with a flashlight."

Dazzling Kimono of Doom

I know you want to be kept informed about our annual Halloween film festival so I will tell you a few things about X: THE MAN WITH THE X-RAY EYES. 1) Before the credits even start there is an eye attached to a stalk kind of wiggling around in a jar of pink fluid, and you will think of Samuel Beckett's novel THE UNNAMABLE. 2) Then the credits appear over a black-and-purple swirling hypno-wheel. Dr. Theresa approved. 3) Suddenly, about halfway through, I guess, it takes an unexpected turn in the general direction of NIGHTMARE ALLEY, with Don Rickles doing a good job as a shady carny seeking to exploit THE MAN WITH THE X-RAY EYES! Don Rickles removes Ray Milland from his carnival-appropriate kimono of dazzling yellow silk and sets him up as a phony "healer." Matters of faith and determinism are addressed! 4) Speaking of which, it all ends on a mystical note, not unlike THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN (if nowhere near that level), following its premise through to its cosmic conclusion. THE MAN WITH THE X-RAY EYES sees through everything, he SEES INTO THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE, but I won't spoil it for you. 5) I forgot to mention a RAIN MAN-like side trip to Las Vegas. "This movie is all over the place," Dr. Theresa remarked at that point, but she didn't mean it in a bad way.

Enthusiastic Vampire Sadness

You will be so pleased to hear that our annual Halloween film festival is underway. So far Dr. Theresa and I have watched two TV movies from the creative team of Dan Curtis and Richard Matheson - almost by coincidence. We had already watched TRILOGY OF TERROR when we met Jimmy at the City Grocery Bar. He returned the dvd of THE NIGHT STALKER we had loaned him some time back. A fan of the series derived from the TV movie, he had never seen that pilot film. "The ending was sad!" Jimmy shouted in despair. "He was trying to act tough but he was sad." Jimmy's enthusiasm and heartbreak made us want to watch it again! So we did. In the movie, an old Las Vegas city father puts forth the fascinating theory that the vampire is "high on pot." He is one of those old city fathers of the type you know so well: he doesn't want to tell the citizens that there is a vampire in their midst because it might hurt tourism. But did he ever stop and think that a vampire might HELP tourism? I recognized him. It took me a minute to place him. The old city father was none other than the dad from CURSE OF THE CAT PEOPLE! "I think you're right," said Dr. Theresa. She was so proud of me! What a night. A great thing about THE NIGHT STALKER is watching Darren McGavin drive around Las Vegas circa 1972 (pictured). I saw marquees for Johnny Carson, Paul Anka and Joey Heatherton. You may rightly ask, "What's up with all the vampirism lately, Pendarvis?" It is true that I am by nature a werewolf man - so much more sympathetic! - and have exhibited little interest in vampires in the past. I don't know. I guess it's the season.

The Pipe-Smoking Scientist Next Door

Well, the Paul Anka voyeurism movie was all right! A grim little slice of suburban rot. As I am certain you will recall, I wondered how it would stand up to BEAT GIRL. It had none of BEAT GIRL's madcap delirium. The Paul Anka voyeurism movie was unrelievedly, oppressively, suffocatingly gloomy. Unlike Beat Girl, Paul Anka doesn't have any pals. He goes out at night and some dudes surround him and promise to set him up with a "divorcée" - but they're just teasing Paul Anka! "You'll be climbing the walls yelling 'Mama! Mama! Mama!'" they remark. Speaking of which, there are two cops: an old-school cop and his young partner who has taken courses in psychology, which the older cop never tires of mocking. When the young cop says that the neighborhood peeping tom (Paul Anka, natch!) "wants to be caught" because he is "making himself known," the older cop sneers and makes a wisecrack, something like, "Freud goes to the police academy." Almost immediately thereafter, the old cop polishes his gun while talking about his mother! "She never had a dirty thought in her life," he insists. Should I note here that there will be Paul Anka voyeurism movie spoilers? I am reminded of Freud fan Megan Abbott's remark in an interview I did with her long ago: "every act of immorality is a secret cry for correction." What else happens? Well, Jack Cassidy ties his ascot effortlessly while smoking a cigarette! And after those guys taunt him, Paul Anka wanders off to four more bars of the fairly skimpy theme song, including the line (I think) "I walk alone in the city." Paul Anka is somewhat Travis Bickle-ish here. Or Bicklish, like ticklish. He goes to a newsstand and looks at magazines with titles like INTIMATE and REAL SECRETS, then he jumps on a trampoline in slow motion with his shirt unbuttoned! Jack Cassidy's neglected wife is seduced by the wise, pipe-smoking scientist next door. "Like chocolate cake?" is his opening line. Soon she is saying, "I never knew kisses could be so tender!" But it's okay because Jack Cassidy has run off to Las Vegas with Paul Anka's mom, who just dropped the hose in the yard and left it going while she made out with Jack Cassidy in his convertible right there in broad daylight in front of the cops, who are on stakeout. But that's okay because HER unemployed husband has passed out on the couch. The amazing denouement occurs during a Fourth of July lawn party that devolves into swimming-pool-based debauchery, and from thence into a bloodthirsty mob! The old cop gets drunk on whiskey and ginger ale and starts firing his gun indiscriminately as Paul Anka (whose mother, we learn, has taught him to cha-cha!) scampers over the rooftops in his horrifying mask (pictured!).

Flying Saucers Everywhere

You thought I was kidding about the UFOs, didn't you? First check this previous incontrovertible evidence. Now dig this! They even pop up in my book club book. For some reason that I can't quite wrap my head around, Joe E. Lewis writes his biographer a long letter that is entirely composed of one-liners. "The newspapers are still making a fuss about Communists and flying saucers," he writes. Then he makes some wisecracks about Communists and flying saucers. You know, stuff like, "If you want to see flying saucers, just pinch a waitress." That's his letter to his biographer! Here, by way of contrast, is how his biographer writes: "The biographer is a hunter, and the spoor led me to Las Vegas." And: "The gardens were peaceful and sweet-scented in the moonlight." Also: "Within him the coil of fear unwound." Anyway, I finished the book. So, did I go back to CHRISTIANITY: THE FIRST THREE THOUSAND YEARS and pick up where I left off at page 623? Ha ha ha! You're hilarious. No, before retiring, I read the first chapter of I OWE RUSSIA $1200 by Bob Hope. Then, when I turned the page to Chapter Two, there was an illustration of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby in SPACESUITS! Coincidence? Well, yes. In today's New York Times, there is a sad and touching article about the son of crooner Billy Eckstine. He (the son) has become a street person whose "life's calling," he says, is "photographing alien spacecraft above Manhattan." I don't mean to make light of his predicament in any way. But I was already writing this "post," so I thought I ought to mention it. (The illustration is what popped up when I did a "Google Image Search" for "bing crosby bob hope astronauts." Who am I to argue?)

A Shark Recites My Epigraph

Just look what these people in Canada have done! They have made an awesome painting of the epigraph to my novel AWESOME and hung it over their bed! And a shark is saying it! This represents a staggering responsibility! No doubt these words guide their every move from the time they wake in the morning until they return to bed at night, to slumber beneath the protective glow of the wisdom I have provided. "Click" here for their account of how my epigraph inspired the painting. I would like to remind everyone that I got the epigraph from an article about Las Vegas by "Blog" Buddy Mark Childress. He is the real hero of this story!

Elvises I Have Known

Speaking of nights of 100 things, back in August of 1994, Mr. Ward and I put together something for TBS called NIGHT OF 100 ELVISES. Yes, the name was a clever "take-off" of NIGHT OF 100 STARS. We went to Las Vegas and shot a bunch of footage at an Elvis impersonator convention and edited it to complement an evening of Elvis movies. (Note to "blog" fans [Ha ha! I know you don't exist!]: this is the same trip [first described in this "link"] during which we discovered the robot version of Foster Brooks, of which the "blog" has provided the "internet's" only pictures!) I remember standing at the top of an escalator and clapping my hands together and yelling impatiently, "Elvises! Elvises!" because they wouldn't be quiet and line up properly. Mr. Ward and I met the "Cherokee Elvis," the "Diabetic Elvis," the "Swiss/Hawaiian Gospel Elvis" and many others, including a charming and petite British woman we took to calling Elfis. The only small, passing mention I can find of our majestic effort is this article (I am sure you will "click" here) from a Baltimore paper, in which you can also find out what was happening in that night's episode of MODELS INC.! So anyway it turns out that there is an annual charity event called NIGHT OF 100 ELVISES. It's for a very good cause and has been going on since December of 1994... IN BALTIMORE! Coincidence? Do the math! In a very real way, I suppose you could say that Mr. Ward and I are the real heroes of this annual charity event I just found out about. Not really! But we named it, apparently. Maybe! Oh, and I found some more glory to steal today, involving another man named Elvis, but not Elvis Costello, with whom - as I never tire of reminding everyone (speaking of stolen glory) - I once had dinner. Wait, did I just mention that again? Silly me! I was about to tell you that there's an interview with Bill Murray in the current GQ. He says some funny and interesting things, of course. He calls film critic Elvis Mitchell the "world's smartest man." I once had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Mitchell, who stated upon that occasion that he had read and enjoyed my books. And he really had! I couldn't believe it! In fact, I assumed someone was playing a trick on me at first, putting him up to it, because I had never met anyone who had read and enjoyed my books. Here's what I am trying to say: the world's smartest man has read my books. I am going to use that in my new slogan, which will be affixed by special sticker to everything I write from now on: "Good enough for the world's smartest man... why not you?" As a special bonus, "click" here for an episode guide to MODELS INC. Pictured, a dramatic scene from MODELS INC.

Foster Brooks Robot Induces Feelings of Despair in Delicate Little Specimen

NOTE TO "BLOG" NEWCOMERS: The "blog" is a happy place! Looking back over this "post" before pressing the "publish" button, I think perhaps it does not seem "happy"! Do not let that sour you on the "blog." In fact, if you are new to the "blog," just skip this one! Thanks! Happy! Late last night - don't ask me why! - I started fondly reminiscing about the Foster Brooks robot that Mr. Ward and I once admired at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. I believe the year was 1994. The robot clanked its mouth up and down in a lackadaisical fashion, hardly bothering to match up with the scratchy phonograph recording of a live Foster Brooks show. The robot was sitting at a little table, as if enjoying an aperitif in a cafe. So the laugh track seemed out of place. So did the robot, I guess. Well, children, I am here to inform you that there are NO - that's ZERO - "Google Images" of the Foster Brooks robot! And there are only five references to the phrase "Foster Brooks Robot" on the entire "internet"! (There are six now! Take that, you forgetful youth of America!) Here is one of them. ("Click" on it, please.) The Foster Brooks robot is like the Nedra Harrison of robots! Neglected by our culture! Why does the lack of Foster Brooks robot information depress me? Probably because it's my 45th birthday. (So can everybody please stop calling me a "young writer" now? Thanks in advance!) Boo hoo hoo! Poor me. What a sniveling wretch! Listen up, you little twerps. Foster Brooks was a comedian who pretended to be a drunkard. That was his whole act. If Andy Kaufman had done it, I suppose it would have been performance art. Yes, I know, you don't know who Andy Kaufman is, either. FINE! If I wanted to make myself feel better, I could "Google Search" for "animatronic Foster Brooks" or something. But maybe I don't want to feel better!

A Surprising Marquee!

Caught part of a Don Rickles documentary this afternoon. It contained a fleeting glimpse of a Las Vegas marquee, which read: "Johnny Carson, with special guest January Jones." My mind boggled, as you may well imagine. January Jones, as scholars of the "blog" will realize, is our favorite name for an actor, and she appears on "blog" "fave" show MAD MEN. But certainly she is too young to have been Johnny Carson's special guest in a show on the Las Vegas strip, way, way back when he was doing such things. This is what my mathematics told me! A little research uncovered the fact that there was a PREVIOUS January Jones, who appeared in just two movies in the mid 1960s... one of which (hold onto your hats!) was McNeil's bete noire, DON'T WORRY, WE'LL THINK OF A TITLE. What I do with my time - is it called "living"? Somebody let me know. Thanks in advance!

Phil's Velvet Confession

Our old friend Phil has been following our running tally of velvet suit sightings with particular interest, it seems. He writes: "What if I were to tell you that I own a velvet sportcoat -- and that I actually wear it on occasion (most recently: Las Vegas, a Tyler Perry screening party, etc)? Would that sort of count as a 'sighting,' or something more pathetic?" If by "pathetic," you mean "awesome," then sure, Phil, sure! And here's a Phil extra: He provides a "link" to Harold Bloom talking about "blog" hero Sonny Rollins. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you can always count on Phil! (Pictured, Tyler Perry.)

Meet Me In Las Vegas

I only caught glimpses of the film MEET ME IN LAS VEGAS on TCM today, because I was getting ready to go have my picture made with Sheri Joseph. When I left the house, Cyd Charisse (pictured) was pantomiming beating up a lady in underpants as Sammy Davis, Jr. (off-screen for the entire song) offered a rendition of the old love-and-murder ballad "Frankie and Johnny" with the words updated into hipster lingo ("Everyone was juiced, as you may have deduced" providing one of the milder examples). I should take a moment to express a certain sentiment again in regard to TCM: DEAR ROBERT OSBORNE, PLEASE LET ME BE A "GUEST PROGRAMMER" ON YOUR NETWORK!!! I WILL DO A REALLY GOOD JOB! I WILL SIT IN A CHAIR AND BEHAVE! Okay. Ms. Joseph happened to mention to me today that she tried to "click" on the review that compares me to David Sedaris, and was led back only to my own "blog," which does not quote the review on that point. That's because the review of my book only appears in the print edition of ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY. For some reason it's not on the "web" version. But I promise it compares me to David Sedaris! Go thumb through a copy at your local bookstore and see if I'm not telling the truth. But please don't drop any of those subscription cards on the floor. Someone else will have to come along and clean up your mess! It's the one with Michael Moore on the cover, rather than some starlet or another, so I imagine there will be plenty of copies left.

Awesome

As I mentioned quite recently, the novel I just sold is called AWESOME. Well, thanks to Mark Childress I have my epigraph. In his recent article about Las Vegas, he quotes the stage patter of a certain star. Just think of how it will look on the front page of my book: "I think we've really been feeling awesome for four years." -- Celine Dion

Coincidence No. 1

I've been asked to judge a fiction contest, and one of the other judges is an editor at a small press called FC2. Guess what? They published a novel about Webern, and the author lives in Georgia, just like me. What are the odds? Seriously, I want somebody from Las Vegas to email me and tell me what the odds are.