At The Movies

With apologies to Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert.

 

Image by rosi capurso from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet." 

                                                                                          -Orson Welles

Dear Grandstickies and Gentlereaders,

We moved across the semi-mighty Monongahela river from D'bluff to the SouSidah Pittsburgh in the summer of 1961.

At the time it was possible to see a double feature, at least one cartoon, and previews — no commercials — for 35¢ at the SouSide's Arcade movie theater if you were under 12. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons the Arcade would be bulging with kids. 

If I could scrape two quarters together I could also buy a snack. I saw a lot of the movies released in the early 60s. The Arcade, now long gone, specialized in first-run schlock and second-run mainstream movies. I thoroughly enjoyed both categories. 

Godzilla! Godzilla! 

Access to cable TV, which, believe it or not, dates to 1948, was rare but the theater owners knew what was coming. They organized campaigns to "stop pay TV" in its tracks. Imagine having to pay to watch TV, that's what commercials were for! You paid to see movies, movies unlikely to turn up on your local 3 or 4 broadcast TV stations till years later.

{And yet nowadays ya have to pay your local cable monopoly to watch shows saturated with commercials.}

Well, Dana, I guess that's the price you pay for not having to deal with set-top antennas decorated with wads of aluminum foil.

{Huh?}

For the record, endless fundraising by PBS stations was a thing from early on, but commercials that are not commercials, "underwriting spots," were not. Also, commercials that were admittedly commercials were limited in number and didn't take up nearly 20 minutes of every hour of viewing on the commercial stations. 

{I see what you did there.}

As the years rolled by, going to the movies got more and more expensive, there were more and more of them, but less and less of them were worth the time/money. 

I hadn't gone to the movies in quite some time when my late wife talked me into going to see Forrest Gump at one of those theaters where you can enjoy the sound of other movies playing in miniature theaters bordering the one you were sitting in. To this day it's my favorite movie of all time. 

But at the time I was unaware that being subjected to a commercial before being allowed to watch the movie I had paid to see — after having to arrange financing in order to buy some popcorn flavored with melted margarine — had become the norm while I had been busy living my life. 

So of course I did the only rational thing a man of principle could do under the circumstances. 

I started complaining to my wife in a deliberately loud voice, as though my hearing aid had shorted out. I was cleverly attempting to prompt my fellow Citizens of the Republic to start complaining in equally loud voices. 

Up the revolution!

Instead, they looked alarmed and began whispering to each other, looking around for the nearest exit. And this was prior to 9/11 and before mass shooting incidents initiated by addled whack jobs off their meds running merrily amok became commonplace.    

Obviously, I was unaware of a minor shift that had occurred in the zeitgeist. That's what happens when you don't keep up with the newsletter.

My wife didn't get upset, she just started giggling and looked at me in surprise. I'm not normally the one who leaps upon the barricade to inspire my fellow revolutionaries.

Fortunately, the police weren't called. As far as I know, no one even complained to the manager, probably because I quickly surrendered. That's one way to tell the difference between a full-blown wack job and a mere cowardly crank by the way. 

However, I like to think that I inspired a dinner table conversation or two. 

"Hey, I went to the movies today and saw a really cool movie called Forest Gump. The popcorn tasted like it was topped with melted margarine but the movie was the best one I've seen in a while, the only one I've seen in a while actually... She talked me into going.

And there was some free entertainment before the movie even started. Some whack job that was so loud he sounded like his hearing aid had shorted out started bitching about a commercial they ran. Pretty funny. I complained to the manager who gave me a free $10 soft pretzel to go away."

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share this column or access my golden(?) oldies. You too can be a patron of the arts! Click here.    

Feel free to love, hate, or troll me on my Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays; other things other days. Cranky don't tweet, but in light of recent events, I'm considering it... Go Elon, go!

Little Men With Little Feet

Image by Mohamed Hassan from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"I am not a woman, so I don't have bad days." -Vladimir Putin

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

My late wife's grandmother, whom I never met (I've been told this is not necessarily a bad thing) because she was my late wife's, late grandmother by the time I came along...

{There's something really, really wrong with you, you know that, right?}

...is famous for, among other things, advising that one should avoid short men with small feet. She thought that men of diminutive dimensions could not be trusted. 

I have no firm opinion to offer as to whether or not encountering a little man with little feet is necessarily indicative of anything, but I have personally known several short gentlemen in my life that, if given the chance, I'd cross the street to avoid encountering. 

In my defense, I don't automatically assume that short men, anyone actually, should be avoided based on their physical appearance with the exception of anyone carrying a machete or a machine gun while hanging out at the mall. 

I take 'em as I find 'em. I pride myself on attempting to maintain an open mind at all times. I'm willing to interact with anyone, for at least a minute or two, before going to DEFCON 1. 

Also, I don't think that most problematic short men are overcompensating for their height, I think they're more likely to be burdened by a shoulder chip that is the result of having been physically bullied by men and psychologically bullied by women as they were coming up.

I once met Dick Goddard "an American television meteorologist, cartoonist, and animal activist." He was the creator of the Cleveland area's world-famous Wollybear (caterpillar) Festival. You may have never heard of him but he's (regionally) famous enough to have his own Wikipedia entry.   

{What's that got to do with anything?}

Well, he is, or was (he's now the late Dick Goddard) a very small man with very small feet who was perfectly proportioned from head to toe. This was rather shocking to me because when my late wife and I watched him "do" the weather on Cleveland's channel 8 there was no way to discern his diminutiveness.

{I still don't see what...} 

Well, he was as nice in person as he appeared to be on TV. Also, maintaining a reputation as an all-around nice guy in a blue-collar metro area like Cleveland, Ohio — a city wherein a river used to regularly catch on fire that's now knee-deep in rust — would be tough to fake.   

This brings us to the Pooteen.

{Who? It does?}

I speak of Vladamir Putin, Dana. Who, it turns out, is a relatively little fella.

He's not even all that short, being either 5'-6" or 5'-7", depending on who ya believe. That's about the same size as America's favorite fighter pilot, Tome Cruise. But I recently saw a picture in which the Pooteen and some of his minions are celebrating annexing a chunk of Ukraine. He looks like he would've been the last kid picked when the other kids were choosing up sides to play basketball.  

I don't know his shoe size but I can't help but wonder if Mrs. Pooteen's little Vladdy, who began his working life as a KGB agent and rose through the ranks to become a world-famous brutal and corrupt dicktater, was picked on by the boys and rejected by girls back in the day:

-  From Wikipedia, "At age 12, he began to practice sambo and judo. In his free time, he enjoyed reading the works of Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Lenin."

-  He's well known for photo ops in which he appears without his shirt. 

-  He's also well known for breaking into his neighbor's houses countries, folks who would just like to be left alone to pursue happiness as they define it, and breaking things just because he can. 

- Also, he...

{The breadth and depth of your scholarship are truly impressive.}

I'm just sayin'. If it walks like a duck...

Fortunately for his fellow young communists, little Vladdy didn't start killing his enemies, real and imagined, till after he matured, at least as far as we know. 

Unfortunately for the planet Earth, little Vladdy is now aging Vladdy; H. sapiens and chimpanzees share a common ancestor; the Pooteen is the boss of a nation with 6,300 nukes, and history seems to bear out the truth of Lord Acton's observation that "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Brothers and sisters (and others), let us pray.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share this column or access my golden(?) oldies. You too can be a patron of the arts! Click here.    

Feel free to love, hate, or troll me on my Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays; other things other days. Cranky don't tweet, but in light of recent events, I'm considering it... Go Elon, go!

Based On Facts That Meet Fiction

A Random Randomnesses column. 

Image by Magic Creative from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device

"We'll try to cooperate fully with the IRS, because, as citizens, we feel a strong patriotic duty not to go to jail." -Dave Berry 

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

The title of this column is a phrase that was displayed on the screen at the beginning of a TV show I watched relatively recently. I'd give credit where credit is due but I can't remember which show it was. 

{The old gray horse's short-term memory, it ain't what he used to be.} 

Harumph, gray stallion is more like it.

{I was going to say gray gelding given the state of your sex life, or the lack thereof.}

Double harumph, As it happens I'm a vcel thank you very much, Dana. Unlike incels, vcels are voluntarily celibate H. sapiens who have chosen this path for a variety of reasons. 

{My bad. I just assumed it was because in your case that...}

Could we move on, please? 

{You're the one writing this stuff.}

The phrase in question caught my attention because I also relatively recently encountered the term representationally accurate at the beginning of a different TV show — it may have been a movie — that also caught my attention. 

Both phrases are as disingenuous as the classic based on a true story but both sound way cooler. The same translation will suffice for all three.

The content you're about to consume is an allegedly more or less sorta/kinda accurate depiction that has been sliced, diced, tweaked, sexed-up, dumbed-down, and/or altered in any number of ways to make it more entertaining and hopefully more likely to make some money. It's based on a true story, is representationally accurate, and is based on facts that meet fiction.

I read... well, intensely and purposefully skim, a carefully chosen gaggle of websites dedicated to news and opinion in the course of the day to satisfy my addiction to current events and provide grist for my columnist's mill.

{Grist?}

Cool, huh? I've never written that word and I've been more or less literate for better than 60 years. Anyway, it occurs to me that the phrase based on facts that meet fiction might be a useful addition to the definition of purple journalism in my website's glossary.

Purple Journalism: Journalism as currently perpetrated by many news outlets that claim to be professional, unbiased, and factual. In reality, they are partisan, prone to sensationalism, and motivated primarily by the bottom line — and are based on facts that meet fiction. 

ln case you missed it.., The IRS is going after those rich sons o' bitches that haven't been paying their fair share of taxes. Empowered by a provision of the American Rescue Plan, passed last year by the Depublicans (the party of social justice) without a single Republicrat vote, the IRS is bringing the hammer down.

Americans that received electronic payments for goods or services provided to their fellow citizens via companies like PayPal, Venmo, etc. in 2022 will be receiving some unwelcome mail next month, an IRS form called a 1099-K.

Say you sold off your late aunt Thelma's collection of collector plates this year and used an electronic payment service to get paid. The service will be sending you a form 1099-K to helpfully remind you that this is income that must be reported to The Fedrl Gummit.

They also must report this information to the IRS.

See, the reporting threshold has dropped from $20,000 to $600. Surprise! Now all of those evil, thousandaire blackguards who have been making as much as an extra unreported $19,999 a year (or $601) via the black market will be forced to pay up.  

In case you missed it 2... Last May, the Black Lives Matter organization shared an IRS form 990 with the Associated Press news service. The form in question publicly disclosed BLM finances for the first time. I confess I missed the resulting AP report. 

According to the AP, of the $90,000,000 in donations that were received in 2020 (when all the mostly peaceful protests were on the news every day), $32,000,000 was invested in stocks, "which is expected to become an endowment to ensure the foundation’s work continues in the future, organizers say."

BLMs 2021 fiscal year ended with $42,000,000 in net assets on the books.

My favorite phrase from the AP story is, "...the tax filing shows the foundation paid nearly $970,000 to Trap Heals LLC, a company founded by Damon Turner, who fathered a child with Cullors; and $840,000 to Cullors Protection LLC, a security firm run by Paul Cullors, Patrisse’s brother."

Patrisse Cullors is one of the founders of BLM and a well-known real estate speculator. Follow the link for a, um... highly informative analysis of the BLM organization by the Daily Beast. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

THIS JUST IN! BREAKING NEWS!

{Oh c'mon!}

No, seriously, just today (12/23), Congress has postponed dropping the minimum threshold of 20,000 whopping damn dollars to $600 (In case you missed it...) for a year because we the people have been raising hell. Based on facts that meet fiction, I may or may not have had something to do with this.

Scroll down to share this column or access my golden(?) oldies. You too can be a patron of the arts! Click here.    

Feel free to love, hate, or troll me on my Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays; other things other days. Cranky don't tweet, but in light of recent events, I'm considering it... Go Elon, go!