Innocent Bystander

An Evening With Groucho in San Francisco...

I was in San Francisco last week for business and coincidentally so was Groucho Marx.

Okay, okay. Groucho's dead and gone 32 years now, but the next best thing to seeing him live and in his prime is Frank Ferrante's An Evening With Groucho live show. I first saw him do it down San Diego way (Escondido to be precise) in 2005. You can read about that show here. But you can see Frank as Groucho each of the 2,000 times he's performed the show and I'd be willing to bet you'd never see the same show twice.

Part scripted biographical sketch, part Groucho songfest, part--the BEST part--total adlib audience participation orgy of laughter, AEWG is quite simply one of the most amazing things I've ever seen in a theater. I've read a lot about Groucho and his brothers and the one thing missing from any of their filmed performances is that elusive butterfly of spur of the moment FUN: the Marxes were famous for going off-script in all their live shows, from Vaudeville to Broadway to television, and on any given night you'd see something hilarious for the very first time. You Bet Your Life tried to capture that on TV, allowing contestants to interact in such a way as they played straight man--and woman--to the one, the only Groucho, but let's face it, it was TV in the '50s. The funniest parts couldn't be shown.

I think Ferrante perfectly captures what it must have been like to sit in a 1920s Broadway theater and watch Groucho and company go about their daily business. The Jewish Community Center theater in San Francisco is a fairly small place, and Frank was just one short hop from the first row, a hop he took many times. He immediately honed in on a number of front row dwellers, including a woman named Betty, and an older man with a bald head and an impressive white beard. He promptly made him stand up and pointed to himself and the other guy and said, "Groucho Marx and Karl Marx."

I'd do Frank a horrible disservice trying to capture in words what he does on stage. He was having so much fun tweaking the audience on Saturday night that I don't think he finished a few of the scripted bits of the show, including the story of Chico working for a paper company. But none of that matters, really. I'd pay good money to see Ferrante just come out and throw away the script and do 90 minutes of business with just the audience. (I'd miss the songs, though, and Frank's own distaff version of Margaret Dumont, pianist Jim Furmston, who is great, also.)

For those of you in the Southern California area, Frank/Groucho is appearing this Sunday, March 8, at the La Mirada Theater. Frank is touring as Groucho through the end of May. Upcoming performances include Ridgecrest, CA; Joliet, IL; Bothell, WA; and Johnstown, PA. Click here for the entire schedule, and if you go, hang out after and say hi to Frank and Jim and buy their DVD and CD...and most importantly, tell them Innocent Bystander (Gary) sent you. After he slaps your face and calls you an upstart, he'll settle down. Trust me.

An Evening with Groucho...

It was a dark and stormy night...this much I remember. The rest is a little bit fuzzy...

It was in the winter, and I'm not quite sure which year, but it was a cold, frigid evening. The wind was blowing, shaking our fragile little house, buffeting the windows. A light snow was falling, making the sidewalks slick. The words "wind chill" were being bandied about on the local TV news. I think it was a Monday. I think it was late 1972 or early 1973. There was a new album out featuring Groucho Marx, and I wanted it. And like everything else in my life--then and now--when I want something, I want it NOW.

I somehow persuaded my mom to let me walk out to Tamaqua's new record store, the House of Wax, out past the hazardous "Five Points" intersection, on Broad Street, just minutes before it closed on a Monday night (stores in Tamaqua were open to 9:00pm on Mondays and Thursdays). Somehow I knew--either due to a previous trip there or what, I don't remember--that An Evening With Groucho was out there, gathering dust in one of the record bins, waiting for me to burst in--with the cold air steaming off me--to scoop it up and run home. Remembering the House of Wax, they couldn't have had more than one copy of it, and as record stores went, it was probably pretty pricey. Up until that point my record buying habits had been restricted to The Monkees, and some crazy precursor to 8-track tapes that my grandfather got me from Sears years before, which played some kind of Sears-only tape format on some kind of Sears-only tape player, which of course died within a few years. But I digress.

I made the not-so-long--but seemingly endless--walk out to the record store, through the biting cold and the falling snow. I was one of the few people out walking, and I was the only person in the store. I remember grabbing the one copy they had and taking it to the clerk, a snide teenager only a few years older than me, who had a reputation for impregnating a classmate who went to my church. "Why do you want this?" he asked. I was tempted to ask him why he schtupped whatshername, but I didn't. I took my prize, wrapped up in a plain brown paper bag and placed it inside my heavy winter coat to protect it from the elements. I walked home--against the wind--and slowly thawed my facial muscles why I listened to the soft, plaintive strains of Groucho's voice. On a record player. While playing a record. You remember records, don't you?

This was the third Groucho to me..."old Groucho." There was "movie Groucho" and "TV Groucho." They're both self-explanatory. And then there was this guy. In the early 70s, a whirlwind of dubious nature by the name of Erin Fleming blew into Groucho's life of quiet retirement. Erin did both good and horribly bad things for and to Groucho. One of the good things was she got Groucho up and out and involved in show biz again, with concert appearances, trips to colleges showing his old movies, guest slots on TV talk and variety shows, and book deals. And one of the bad things was she got Groucho up and out and involved in show biz again, because let's face it, Groucho wasn't always Groucho at these events. He was, quite frankly, old Groucho. At times, really old Groucho.

An Evening With Groucho was a 2-record set culled from a couple of Groucho's live appearances at Carnegie Hall in New York City. And as a rare courtesy (because as Groucho might have said, I'm rarely courteous), you can listen to the first record in its entirety by clicking on the player I've embedded below. It'll play all the way through once you hit the play arrow, but if you want to skip to the next track, click on the little right-facing double arrow on the left side of the bar. (I couldn't find a similar archive of the second record in the set...sorry, but if you want to download the whole album--both records--as MP3 files for your iPod, click here.) It runs about 40 minutes.

That's Marvin Hamlisch accompanying Groucho on the piano. Dick Cavett introduces him, and very soon, Erin Fleming shows up to sing some of the Margaret Dumont parts on the songs. It's a little painful to listen to...you can hear Groucho's age in his voice the minute he starts singing "Hello, I Must Be Going." Some of his reminiscences seem a little dotty, but once he gets into it, he really starts to sound like the one, the only, Groucho. I can't think of a better way to honor his memory on this, the anniversary of the day he died (31 years ago in 1977), than to present this little treat to you. An Evening With Groucho, to my knowledge, never made a reappearance on CD or is available on iTunes.

Groucho made a profound impression on my life. His irreverent outlook on things, his soft, melodious voice, his easy deflating of the pompous, over-wrought, and those desperately needing to be deflated, was always a breath of fresh air in my life. We're lucky to have things like his movies, TV shows, and even this small and slightly melancholy album, where he sits and talks and sings, a quiet old man on a stage, speaking to an eager audience hanging on his every word (and hoping desperately he won't keel over and die). Groucho left behind a lot for us to examine and enjoy, but we need far more Groucho in our lives these days, and sadly, he's not here to give it to us.

The Professor explains...the Iowa Caucus

Periodically in 2008, we will be calling on our friend and mentor, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff, to comment on the Presidential election. Today he discusses the Iowa Caucus, the first major barometer of the Presidential climate of the country.

So, Professor Wagstaff: The iowa Caucus...bona fide barometer or just plain slow-news-day media hype?

Don't bother me. I'm busy thinking of how many dirty puns I can make with the word "Caucus."

Now, Professor, we hope you'll keep this clean...after all we do cater to a family audience...

Oh, you do, do you? And what kind of spread do you put out with this alleged catering? Do you have smores? See, that's what's wrong with the world today. Everybody wants smore.

Professor, please. Iowa?

I should please Iowa? I should say not. I spent a week in Iowa one night. Believe me, I spent many a night trying to please Iowa, one farmer's daughter at a time.

Oh, I think I see a disturbing trend developing here. Maybe we should just talk about the individual candidates...

What do you mean "we?" I'll do the talking around here. Go ahead, hit me.

Um...okay...Hillary Clinton?

You'd hit me with Hillary Clinton? You cad. You cur. Which reminds me, have you ever had Cad-curry eggs? The Easter Bunny brings them to me every year.

I...

I'm only 3 and a half years old!

Can we talk about the candidates, please, sir?

The candidates? Of course! Don't let me stop you! Fire when ready, Gridley! Or is that fire when gridley, Ready? I always get those two mixed up. Now go right ahead. The quicker you start talking, the faster I get out of here. Well, go on, what's stopping you? Cat got your tongue? Or is that tongue got your cat? Hey, I bet you're going to lecture me about family catering again, aren't you? Where shall we begin?

The Democrats? Hillary Clinton?

I think it's a safe to say Hillary Clinton will not have the same problems her husband had in office.

Really?

Yes. That woman will never get a blowjob in the Oval Office. Or anywhere else in the building for that matter.

Oh, jeez...

Is he running, too? I'm sure he'll get the evangelical vote.

Barack Obama?

Gesundheit!

No, I mean the candidate...

I think you have a nasty cold there. You should get that looked at. In fact, you should get it looked at right now. Go on. Get out of here.

Let's move on to the Republicans...

You're forgetting Dennis Kucinich...

Oh, you like Dennis Kucinich?

No, I like Dennis Kucinich's wife. Now there's a woman I could get behind. In fact, I could get behind her so much, I'd be in front of her. She has my vote.

She's not running.

Well, she'll take off once she meets me.

Can we move onto Mike Huckabee?

He was my favorite Mark Twain character...

No, not Huckleberry, Huckabee!

Does he come in blueberry? Huckleberries give me gas...

No...the candidate. HUCKABEE!

You're getting awful excited about this Huckabee hound.

Sigh...how about Fred Thompson?

I like Fred Thompson's wife! Now there's a woman I could get behind...

Okay, stop. I think we're done.

No, we're not done. Not until the fat lady votes. Look, you want to know all about the Iowa Caucus, right?

Yes.

It's simple. Every four years, people realize Iowa still exists. So all the candidates go there and pretend they care. Just to have some small, insular group of people tell them one of them on each side is number one in their hearts and minds. But truth be told, the Iowa Caucus matters about as much as my Minnie the Moocher record collection. And Minnie could at least sing.

So, you're saying...

A lot can happen in 11 months. Once when I was on the road I left my wife at home and came back and she had a baby. How that happened, I'll never know. I was just looking for a womb with a view. It's one of the great mysteries of life. And so is politics. I think I said it best when I sang...

"If you think this country's bad off now, just wait 'til I get through with it!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case. In fact, I rested my case right over there and now it's gone. What's become of my briefcase, you baboon? I had all my briefs in that case. Both pairs. In fact, I'm feeling a little flimsy down there, right now...

Thank you, Professor!

Good news for Marx Bros. fans!

The art book publisher, Taschen, has released a new Marx Brothers book, titled (get ready!) Movie Icons: Marx Bros. (how's that for truth in advertising?). This elegant little paperback (almost 200 pages!) features numerous Marxian photos and art, some that I haven't seen before. Best of all it's only ten bucks, which would be 100,000 Rufles in Freedonian currency. You can order one for yourself--or you most beloved Marx fan--by clicking here.

This brings the total to four Marx Bros./Groucho books that have been published in the Fall/Winter of 2007. The other three are new editions of Charlotte Chandler's weak Groucho bio, Hello, I Must Be Going, The Groucho Letters, and the execrable Coffee With Groucho, by the annoyingly prolific and borderline-unreadable biographer Simon Louvish, who has written books on the Marxes, Laurel and Hardy, Mae West, W. C. Fields, and the Keystone Comedies studio. I've picked up each and every one of them in bookstores and decided I couldn't read any of them. As Groucho once said, "Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." You'll be thankful for the darkness inside your dog if you decide to read Coffee With Groucho. It's a nice book to look at, but you wouldn't want to read it.

When you add in the 2007 publications of The Music of the Marx Brothers, and Bill Marx's Son of Harpo Speaks!, this year resulted in a mini-Marxian renaissance in the book world. But the Taschen book, another in their continuing "Movie Icons" series, is wonderful, and worth every cent of those ten bucks...heck, it's even worth the 100,000 Rufles!

A Thanksgiving Repast...er, Repost...

It is both a day of thanks and a day to settle in and eat until you're sick and argue with your loved ones. While we're taking time to honor that timeworn tradition, we'd like to wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving and share with you, once again, this old roasted chestnut about the holiday. Enjoy your day and watch out for Black Friday!

It has been way too long since we've checked in with our friend and mentor, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff. As you may or may not know, we rely on the Professor to sometimes stop by and help us better understand this wide, wonderful world we live in. Today, in honor of the Thanksgiving holiday, we've invited him to speak on the history of this warm, friendly, family event. Professor?

Oh, so it's you again. What do you want now?

We'd like you to tell us about Thanksgiving, please?

Thanksgiving PLEAS? You mean I have to beg for turkey? The idea. Turkey used to beg for me. Well, at least Constantinople did. That reminds me...whatever happened to Constantinople?

Um...it became Istanbul.

Oh, so it changed its name. How dare it! This is an outrage. Call my attorney! Call my mother! Call my wife! Oh, and if you call my wife, ask her how's tricks.

Tricks?

Yes, our dog, Tricks. And if you come over to visit, watch where you step. There are Tricks' tricks everywhere. Now then, baboon, where were we?

Thanksgiving.

Ah, yes! Thanksgiving! That festive time of year when we kill the fattened turkey, sit down and chew the fat with friends and family. I HATE Thanksgiving.

Why?

First off, you've never seen my family eat. It's a free-for-all at that table. My Uncle Julius, may he never rest in peace, lost not only an arm while diving for turkey, but a cufflink, a pinky ring, and two tickets to see Minnie the Moocher in the comic opera "Oh Solo Meow," which was the precursor to Cats. And if you ever saw that show, you'd start pre-cursing the minute it was mentioned.

Secondly, there's the Pilgrims. Let's examine the Pilgrims for a moment. Okay, we're done. The important thing to remember about the Pilgrims is that they had buckles EVERYWHERE. On their shoes, on their belts, on their hats...no wonder they were repressed. With all those buckles no one ever took off their clothes.

And thirdly, it's the moving bill. I mean, think of it. To bring all those Pilgrims over from merry old England on the Mayflower must have cost a pretty penny. I'm sure the minute that big yellow and green ship pulled up to the Pilgrim family front door, and that rash of burly movers climbed out...well, have you ever seen a rash of burly movers? Let's just say those uniforms really chafe. It's NOT pretty, nosiree Bob.

Your name is Bob, isn't it?

Um...no.

Then why am I talking to you? Go away. Save me some turkey.

HONK!

And a piece of pumpkin pie.

HONK! HONK!

Make that two pieces of pumpkin pie. You may go now. And don't forget the whipped cream.

Coffee with Groucho by Simon Louvish

Never underestimate the power of the impulse buy. There I was yesterday in Warwick's in beautiful La Jolla, buying a couple of books--one for me, the other as a gift for a friend--when I saw it. A lovely little book laying on the cash register counter. Coffee with Groucho was its title, and it beckoned to me. "Introduction by Frank Ferrante," it said. Frank Ferrante?! I'm in.

So I added it to my stack of "now we are three" books and went on my merry way. But once I got home? Not so merry. I noticed the book was written by Simon Louvish. Nothing against Mr. Louvish, I'm sure his work is just fine, thank you very much, but I have steadfastly resisted reading any of his Hollywood history books, including his Marx Bros. one, Monkey Business. I leafed through it when it first came out, and found absolutely nothing there that made me want to read it (and of the twenty books listed in the bibliography Louvish includes in this book, I've read nineteen of them--all except his--so I certainly have a predilection to read every Marx Bros. book I can find). He's also written tomes on Laurel and Hardy, W.C. Fields, Mae West and the Keystone Studios. Every book I've looked at by him turned me off. There's something about Louvish's writing style that just doesn't set well with me.

And that, sadly, really carries through here. The conceit of this book--and it's part of a new series of "Coffee with..." books--is what if Groucho came back from the dead for a couple of hours and the author interviewed him. What we have here is Louvish not only writing ABOUT Groucho, but pretending to be him. Yes, I know...click on the Groucho link to the right and you'll find me guilty of the same sin. Hopefully, at least SOMETIMES, I'm funny. But what Louvish does here is use some famous Groucho lines and incorporates them into his "interview." The whole thing is canned and unfunny, and if there's anything left of Groucho at this point, it's most certainly trying to come back for those two hours, if only to beat the living daylights out of Louvish. (Why they didn't just have Ferrante write the whole thing is beyond me. He's been doing Groucho for over twenty years now.)

Other books in the series include "Coffee with..." The Buddha, Hemingway, Marilyn Monroe, Michelangelo, Mozart, Plato and Oscar Wilde. It must have been a crowded coffee shop. Even with all those dead personages staying dead, I doubt there would be enough space to fit all those authors pretending to be the people they're interviewing, and the undoubtedly over-inflated egos each and every one brought to the table.

Hello, I must be gone...

Thirty years ago this week, I could have cared less about the death of Elvis Presley on his bathroom floor. I was watching my own personal American Idol, Groucho Marx, finally succumb to a death that was a long time coming. Groucho, health permitting, was still being pushed onto the stage and television screen almost up to the time of his death by his "companion," Erin Fleming. It wasn't a pretty sight (you can read my own comics-take on it here), and the Groucho we all knew and loved had ceased to be known--but still definitely loved--a while before his body left this mortal coil. Elvis dying on the crapper was sad; Groucho dying without one famous last phrase was tragic.

It was indeed thirty years ago today--August 19, 1977--that the man who starred in every entertainment technological advance of the 20th century left us. Julius Henry Marx, born 1890, started in vaudeville, leapt to the legitimate Broadway stage, graduated to movies, flirted with radio, wrote book and magazine articles (and a play), and jump-started his career with television. You can have Groucho on your iPod, if you so desire--I know he's on mine, and has adorned my shelves on LPs, cassettes, CDs, VHS tapes and now DVDs. (Happily, all the Marx Bros. movies are out on DVD. Sadly, we're still waiting for definitive editions on all of them with commensurate special features worthy of their legacy.)

Groucho died and the world was still mourning Elvis, so he missed his due. In those days, pre-Nightline and Larry King (thank God), giant showbiz legends passing spawned the "instant special," a half-hour network news show cobbled together quickly celebrating the career of whomever died. Groucho finally got one, as I remember, with Dick Cavett hosting, surprisingly on ABC. It wasn't surprising that Cavett hosted, or that it was on ABC for that very reason--rather, Groucho had spent most of his TV career on NBC with You Bet Your Life.

Even though he's been dead thirty years now, Groucho and the Brothers Marx are still with us. And while our friend Mark Evanier points out that the floodgates of Marxian books has slowed to a trickle, I noticed yesterday in a local bookstore a little larger stream still leaking down the wall: Two new editions of Groucho books: The Groucho Letters and Charlotte Chandler's forgettable Groucho bio, Hello, I Must Be Going. (Both so new they don't seem to be showing up on Amazon for me to link to.) I'm not sure if these new editions are due to the thirtieth anniversary of Groucho's death. Movie books on the whole seem to be coming back a little, and what made this particular bookstore--Warwick's in La Jolla--seem to have a surfeit of Groucho books is how small their movie section actually is. Three books--including the newer edition of The Marx Brothers Encyclopedia--made Groucho and all things Marx outnumber any other movie topic by a ratio of three to one, which is kind of fitting, don't you think?

Death has become Groucho. In fact, I'm hoping his final words were to tell Erin Fleming he was just using it as an excuse to avoid her.

Major Marxian Mayhem Manifests in Marathon...

Screw the drunken crowds on New Years Eve...stay home where it's warm and safe and watch the Marx Brothers Marathon on TCM! It starts at 8:15pm (5:15 for us Left Coasters) with Duck Soup, followed by Horse Feathers, Monkey Business, A Night At The Opera, A Day At The Races, A Night In Casablanca and At The Circus. Yes, I own all these movies on DVD and they're on the shelf right over there and I can watch them anytime I want. But a Marx Bros. Marathon on TV is a holiday tradition near and dear to my cynical, hard, little heart. It carries me back to 1968 or so, when I first discovered them, with Duck Soup and A Night At The Opera on one of the New York City TV stations (I think it was WNEW, at the time). So raise your glass to Auld Lang Syne with Groucho, Harpo, Chico and sometimes Zeppo (at least 50% of the time tonight). Since those three strange words translate, roughly, to "days of long ago," can you think of a more perfect way to spend the evening?

The Professor explains Thanksgiving...

It has been way too long since we've checked in with our friend and mentor, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff. As you may or may not know, we rely on the Professor to sometimes stop by and help us better understand this wide, wonderful world we live in. Today, in honor of the Thanksgiving holiday, we've invited him to speak on the history of this warm, friendly, family event. Professor?

Oh, so it's you again. What do you want now?

We'd like you to tell us about Thanksgiving, please?

Thanksgiving PLEAS? You mean I have to beg for turkey? The idea. Turkey used to beg for me. Well, at least Constantinople did. That reminds me...whatever happened to Constantinople?

Um...it became Istanbul.

Oh, so it changed its name. How dare it! This is an outrage. Call my attorney! Call my mother! Call my wife! Oh, and if you call my wife, ask her how's tricks.

Tricks?

Yes, our dog, Tricks. And if you come over to visit, watch where you step. There are tricks everywhere. Now then, baboon, where were we?

Thanksgiving.

Ah, yes! Thanksgiving! That festive time of year when we kill the fattened turkey, sit down and chew the fat with friends and family. I HATE Thanksgiving.

Why?

First off, you've never seen my family eat. It's a free-for-all at that table. My Uncle Julius, may he never rest in peace, lost not only an arm while diving for turkey, but a cufflink, a pinky ring, and two tickets to see Minnie the Moocher in the comic opera "Oh Solo Meow," which was the precursor to Cats. And if you ever saw that show, you'd start pre-cursing the minute it was mentioned.

Secondly, there's the Pilgrims. Let's examine the Pilgrims for a moment. Okay, we're done. The important thing to remember about the Pilgrims is that they had buckles EVERYWHERE. On their shoes, on their belts, on their hats...no wonder they were repressed. With all those buckles no one ever took off their clothes.

And thirdly, it's the moving bill. I mean, think of it. To bring all those Pilgrims over from merry old England on the Mayflower must have cost a pretty penny. I'm sure the minute that big yellow and green ship pulled up to the Pilgrim family front door, and that rash of burly movers climbed out...well, have you ever seen a rash of burly movers? Let's just say those uniforms really chafe. It's NOT pretty, nosiree Bob.

Your name is Bob, isn't it?

Um...no.

Then why am I talking to you? Go away. Save me some turkey.

HONK!

And a piece of pumpkin pie.

HONK! HONK!

Make that two pieces of pumpkin pie. You may go now. And don't forget the whipped cream.

The Professor explains...summer movies.

It's time for another rare visit from our friend, esteemed colleague, raconteur and expert on everything, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff. Today, dear reader, Professor Wagstaff shall discuss the summer blockbuster movies.

Rack on tour? Whose rack is it? Is it coming soon to a city near me?

No...no, I meant as in storyteller.

Storyteller? Listen, I knew a woman once whose breasts arrived 3 minutes before she did. Oh, the stories I could tell...

Summer movies?

You're right, some ARE movies. Some are just stories. Now then...where were we?

Um...blockbusters.

That's right! Blockbusters. Say...doesn't that bring us right back around to that woman? Oh, movies. that's different. 'Tis the season and all that. You can go now. Here's a dollar. Go buy a clue. Better yet, give me that dollar back and stay just the way you are: clueless.

Now then, baboons, summer movies. Each summer Hollywood--you all remember Holly Wood, don't you? If she wouldn't, her sister, Ever, would--unleashes on the unsuspecting world a veritable barrage of major motion pictures packed with special effects and A-list stars. And if there's one thing I've learned in Hollywood, it's what that "A" stands for. The bigger the star, the bigger the...

Professor...family audience.

Are you still here? And I'll ask you to kindly keep my family out of this. Haven't they suffered enough?

Now then. Where was I? Ah, yes. At the corner of Hollywood and Blockbuster. This summer is no exception. It will be hot and sticky and star-filled. Some of the stars themselves will be hot and sticky. Let's look at some of them. Please keep your hands and feet inside the tram until we've come to a complete stop and if you've heard any of this before, stop me completely.

First, we have Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible III. I personally missed the first 2 Mission Impossibles. I was trying, each time, to strap my great Aunt Minnie into her corset. Talk about impossible missions! Of course, Tom Cruise does not wear a corset. That we know of. I think it's against his religion. In fact, I'M against his religion.

Next comes X-Men: The Last Stand. I love the X-Men movies because Wolverine loves a good cigar and I love a man who loves a good cigar, if you know what I mean. Hmmm...maybe I should rephrase that...no. No. In the spirit of the movie, I'm going to stick with that statement and let the chips fall where they may. Be careful where you walk. I would be so bold to say that this movie was both magnificent and neat. In fact, it was Mag-Neato. And that's an awfully long way to go for a pun that bad, but don't let that stop me.

Jack Black stars in Nacho Libre, which is either a snack or a drink, I'm not sure which. It's from the director of Napoleon Dynamite, which I'm pretty sure is a drink. Yes. It's definitely a drink. Bring your dog around and I'll buy him a drink, too.

Superman Returns? I didn't even know he was gone. When did this happen? Why wasn't I told? The nerve of this guy...he comes here, strange visitor from another planet and we welcome him with open arms. We even stayed open until 10:00, 10:15 some mornings, before knocking off for lunch and our 3-hour afternoon nap and he just up and leaves. The idea. There's my argument. Restrict immigration.

I had a Miami Vice once, but I threw it out after getting my head caught in it repeatedly. It's a long story, that involves 2 Cuban strippers, a box of Havana cigars, a bottle of rum and Baravelli, the ice man, and I can't recount it here, because I can't re-count that high. And I do mean high.

I think that just about covers everything...

Professor?

Yes? What do YOU want?

Well, what about Cars?

What about them? I thought we were discussing movies, motion pictures, the thee-A-tur. Now you want to talk cars? Tell you what, come by in the morning and we'll fix you right up with a nice little Edsel. Why I have a lot full of them out back and people are just dying to get in them. In fact, most people that remember the Edsel are already dead, and I wish you'd join them. Good-bye now. Leave your name with the woman outside and if there actually is a woman outside, give her my name, too.