I got a call from my Uncle Morty yesterday. (Morty wants you to know that's NOT his real name, and that he's imaginary.)
“Have any of you Media geniuses realized the real reason why his opening act shouldn't have played the Hussein Name Game at the McCain rally?”
“You talking about Mr. Red Meat, the radio assclown who kept trying to associate Barrack Obama with a certain deceased dictator?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why should McCain have stopped the guy before he did that to an honorable opponent?”
“Because it was a dirty, underhanded, sleazy political trick,” I said.
“No, I'm serious,” Morty said.
“I give up, why?”
“Because of the radio guy's name,” Morty said.
“I don't get it.”
“See, McCain is a Capitol Hill politician and a war-hero former Navy pilot with a whiff of political scandal in his past. He's famous for spending time in involuntary confinement. And the guy who introduced him is named Cunningham,” Morty said.
“So what?”
“So, connect the dots. 'Capitol Hill. War-hero. Former Navy pilot. Political corruption. Incarceration. Cunningham.' Name associate and you get another war-hero former Navy pilot, known for political corruption and he's famous for spending time in involuntary confinement. HIS name is Cunningham, too. Duke Cunningham.”
“But Duke Cunningham's sins have nothing to do with John McCain.”
“And Saddam Hussein's sins have nothing to do with Barrack Obama.”
“Good point. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Why does Hillary think the Media wants Obama to defeat her?” Morty continued. “Doesn't she know they know she's a package deal with Bill? And doesn't she know they remember her husband and how covering him put a lot of Media kids through college?
"And what about the funny guys? Why on God's Earth would Dave, Jon, Keith, Conan, or Jay want a President Obama? A smart, scandal-free, anti-war President who speaks English is the last thing they need. Bill Clinton's chilliwacker and George Bush's tongue have been comedy gold for years. Obama would be comedy dross.”
Uncle Morty was dropped on his head once as a child, and several times again as an adult.
“A final question,” Morty continued. “Twenty debates and the last one got the highest rating ever. So will they renew the series?”
They'd love to. Morty makes a good point. If the all-news networks could, they'd want them to run indefinitely. Tim Russert and Wolf Blitzer have become the political Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul and “American Idol” has become the template for the candidate's debates. Seriously, laugh about it, shout about it--when you've got to choose, every way you look at this you lose.
“You're darn tootin', Mrs. Robinson,” Morty said and hung up.
I gotta put him on my Do Not Call list.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, Bloody Monday
I’ve lost the will-to-live. (The REAL will-to-live, not Dr. Will Teauliff of "2000-Year-Old Man" fame.)
Mine flew out the window Monday when local late news plunged me and thousands of other Angelinos into a state of despair with tales of death and destruction, multiple multiple murders, cheating veterinarians, killer combers, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria--and that’s not even including political coverage.
Everyone’s lede was a brand new multiple murder—superseding the weekend’s multiple murder, the one that took five lives near the Nixon Library. (THAT multiple murder has been ruled a murder-suicide, so it should be a week before conspiracy freaks can connect it to the ex-President.)
This night’s multiple murder was of two kids and an adult (anchor toss), or, perhaps, two adults and a child (live shot, same station). All agreed the police had the suspect in custody. One station showed video of a victim’s hubby who—a reporter said—was just now learning of his wife’s death. The camera leered after the weeping man as someone tried to shield his face with the only thing handy, two water bottles.
That story segued nicely into the night’s next made-for-Prozac event. Someone had stabbed two patrons in a local multiplex. No one seriously injured, no one in custody, but by golly, we have hysterical MOS’s.
One interviewee said, “It just goes to show…you can’t drop your kids off and expect them to be okay.” That’s right, ma’am. LA is the new Baghdad.
Another opined, “It makes me think twice when I go into the theater.” It’s always a good idea to get your thinking out of the way BEFORE you enter the theater these days—especially if “Witless Protection” is playing.
Our homes aren’t safe; you can’t escape at the movies—how about visiting a nice California beach? Nope. High surf advisory, people being swept off piers willy-nilly by rogue waves—one man still missing. We got LIVE shots, people.
Well, at least there are our beloved pets to comfort us, right? Not so fast, Bunky. Fido is at risk from unscrupulous doggie docs. Six minutes was devoted to a hidden camera story about vets running up $600 surgery tabs on perfectly healthy pooches. Pretty good piece, but six minutes?
Meanwhile, a reporter at another station ladled on the Cutesypoo for another dog story. Puns flew about like flea powder—which is okay if the story isn’t about a dog awaiting execution. Would the dog—accused of biting someone—be put down? Or would “the judge throw him a bone” there on “doggie death row.” I think she worked in “let sleeping dogs lie,” too.
All this is enough to make you yearn for the good old days, right? Not so fast. TV news has a prick for that particular balloon, too. We learned some guy was just arrested in Saipan for a murder he allegedly committed in LA—27 years ago. As Fark would put it—nice police work, Lou.
Not all was grim. One station used handout video for a piece on “wind-suit sky diving.” There was a package on the return of once-banned Absinthe to the drinking scene. I’m not complaining. Strong liquor is critical to surviving Sweeps.
But no more drinks for whoever ordered up the banner and anchor-read claiming, “we’re getting breaking news from Miami, now.” All hysteria aside, the breaking news had broken a half-day earlier. I spose it’s possible some kind of tear in the space/time continuum delayed that word from reaching LA til then. After all, Miami IS near the Bermuda Triangle.
Mine flew out the window Monday when local late news plunged me and thousands of other Angelinos into a state of despair with tales of death and destruction, multiple multiple murders, cheating veterinarians, killer combers, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria--and that’s not even including political coverage.
Everyone’s lede was a brand new multiple murder—superseding the weekend’s multiple murder, the one that took five lives near the Nixon Library. (THAT multiple murder has been ruled a murder-suicide, so it should be a week before conspiracy freaks can connect it to the ex-President.)
This night’s multiple murder was of two kids and an adult (anchor toss), or, perhaps, two adults and a child (live shot, same station). All agreed the police had the suspect in custody. One station showed video of a victim’s hubby who—a reporter said—was just now learning of his wife’s death. The camera leered after the weeping man as someone tried to shield his face with the only thing handy, two water bottles.
That story segued nicely into the night’s next made-for-Prozac event. Someone had stabbed two patrons in a local multiplex. No one seriously injured, no one in custody, but by golly, we have hysterical MOS’s.
One interviewee said, “It just goes to show…you can’t drop your kids off and expect them to be okay.” That’s right, ma’am. LA is the new Baghdad.
Another opined, “It makes me think twice when I go into the theater.” It’s always a good idea to get your thinking out of the way BEFORE you enter the theater these days—especially if “Witless Protection” is playing.
Our homes aren’t safe; you can’t escape at the movies—how about visiting a nice California beach? Nope. High surf advisory, people being swept off piers willy-nilly by rogue waves—one man still missing. We got LIVE shots, people.
Well, at least there are our beloved pets to comfort us, right? Not so fast, Bunky. Fido is at risk from unscrupulous doggie docs. Six minutes was devoted to a hidden camera story about vets running up $600 surgery tabs on perfectly healthy pooches. Pretty good piece, but six minutes?
Meanwhile, a reporter at another station ladled on the Cutesypoo for another dog story. Puns flew about like flea powder—which is okay if the story isn’t about a dog awaiting execution. Would the dog—accused of biting someone—be put down? Or would “the judge throw him a bone” there on “doggie death row.” I think she worked in “let sleeping dogs lie,” too.
All this is enough to make you yearn for the good old days, right? Not so fast. TV news has a prick for that particular balloon, too. We learned some guy was just arrested in Saipan for a murder he allegedly committed in LA—27 years ago. As Fark would put it—nice police work, Lou.
Not all was grim. One station used handout video for a piece on “wind-suit sky diving.” There was a package on the return of once-banned Absinthe to the drinking scene. I’m not complaining. Strong liquor is critical to surviving Sweeps.
But no more drinks for whoever ordered up the banner and anchor-read claiming, “we’re getting breaking news from Miami, now.” All hysteria aside, the breaking news had broken a half-day earlier. I spose it’s possible some kind of tear in the space/time continuum delayed that word from reaching LA til then. After all, Miami IS near the Bermuda Triangle.
Why the Long Face, Oscar?
Why the long face, Oscar?
Seven years of Bush will depress anyone, and Hollywood is a grim place these days. Also, the film industry is under the misimpression that comedy is easy; drama is hard. Proof is the breakdown of nominees. One comedy, four looks at the grim side. Most of the actors, on the other hand, were broken down by sex. (That’s an old joke, but consider who’s repeating it.)
Seven years of Bush will depress anyone, and Hollywood is a grim place these days. Also, the film industry is under the misimpression that comedy is easy; drama is hard. Proof is the breakdown of nominees. One comedy, four looks at the grim side. Most of the actors, on the other hand, were broken down by sex. (That’s an old joke, but consider who’s repeating it.)
- You want to win an Academy Award? Stay in school and learn a foreign language. Or drop out and become a stripper.
- Best summary of the night’s nominees. “Thank God for teenage pregnancy,” said Jon Stewart, noting that “Juno” was the cheeriest movie of the best picture nominees.
- I covered the Academy Awards for many years. What I missed most about not covering the Oscars for TV. Not a damn thing.
- Lowlight #1. Nancy Kerrigan, sponsored by L’Oreal or some such was available live. My producer said “I don’t want her, she’ll just hype L’Oreal.” “Don’t worry, I can handle her,” I said. First words out of her mouth? “L’Oreal.” If I had a lead pipe, I’d have kneecapped her on the spot.
- Lowlight# 2: Watching the fire Marshall threaten to arrest me and my producer if we didn’t move our camera “NOW!” Watching producer pull out auxiliary policeman badge from wallet and try to buy time. It worked.
- Terrifying Moment Averted: I was in mid live shot when a large, looming, tuxedoed figure hoved into view, shoved at me by the same producer. Later I realized in terror--what if I hadn’t recognized Gregory Peck?
- Most Surreal Moment. Seeing Edy Williams, wearing a completely transparent dress and holding a small dog, being kept out of the Oscar auditorium. Oh no, not because of the dress—no animals allowed.
- It Could Happen to You, Award: Seeing legendary Variety host Army Archerd, who introduced celebs to crowd on a loudspeaker, asking an actress he’d just interviewed. “And will you tell us who this is here with you?” The man leaned forward and said into the mike. “I’m Steven Spielberg.”
- Favorite leveling moment at the Oscars: Watching dreaded “Limo Gridlock” as everyone raced out of the Governor’s Ball to attend other parties. It was fun watching people holding a statuette in hand, staring at their claim check and not knowing where the hell their limo went.
- Thanks a lot, Gil. Oscar ratings sucked. While Jon Stewart was terrific as host, it does him little good to be associated with a show low rated because no one outside the auditorium saw the nominated movies.
- Biggest shoo-in: Daniel Day-Lewis. Seriously, it wasn’t even close.
- Best acceptance speech. Ms. Swinton.
- Worst Acceptance speech: The short Coen Brother.
- His act is getting old. Jack Nicholson.
- The author did the heavy lifting award: To Cormac McCarthy, who wrote “No Country for Old Men,” an extraordinary novel, and who sat in the audience while those who “adapted” it for the screen got the credit and the hardware.
- Thing they used to do, but don’t do anymore--and should. Talent competition. I used to always root for the snappy spoon player and…oh wait, that’s the Miss America contest.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Have Another Boozeberger, Ralph
Let's say for a moment Ralph Nader is a lush. I mean that metaphorically. As far as I can tell Nader has never tasted liquor, and as far as I can tell there are few people in public life who could use a drink more. But if Nader is a Metaphorical lush (Booze for Fame, get it?), then “Meet the Press” host Tim Russert was his enabler, Sunday. The Metaphorical case of scotch was the national platform Russert turned over to Ralph.
Russert helped resurrect the political career of a man who is at least peripherally responsible for the last seven years of National Misery. Lest we forget, had Nader not siphoned off the naiveté vote in Florida, the pivotal state in the 2000 election wouldn't have been close enough to steal-hanging chads be damned. Al Gore would never have done his Slide Show, the publisher of the “Bushisms” would be out some serious cash, and -who knows-perhaps half the country wouldn't hate the other half so much.
Nader made news Sunday, of course. Ralph announced he was running for President. Three thoughts. (1) Shocker. (2) Nader has as good a chance of getting elected as Harold Stassen does-and Stassen is dead. (2) You KNOW Russert knew in advance Ralph was there to announce. Otherwise, my sources say, Russert would have booked Brittney to announce she was going back into rehab.
Nader's combination of Ego and pragmatism is understandable. He runs for President again to reestablish his faded presence on the national stage. Fortunately for Megalomaniac enablers, this need plays right into their wheelhouse. Russert gets the pub for his Sweeps guest; Ralph gets a boost with voters anxious to waste their ballots. Win-win and sexier than-I dunno-booking guests who might discuss the real issues facing the country.
The (redundancy alert) Paranoid Far Left might also see a deeper conspiracy--the move as part of the McCain-loving MSM's desire to elect as president one of the few politicians who pretends he likes them, really likes them, just for themselves. Why, if John McCain becomes President, I'm sure he'll have us all over for a beer.
Never has the need for self-aggrandizement by the Ego needy been better positioned than in this day and age. Jokemeister turned Kingmaker Jay Leno launched Arnold Schwarzenegger's political campaign, and even Jon Stewart, Steven Colbert and Conan O'Brien “fought” over who helped bring Mike Huckabee out of obscurity.
Bored over the early Presidential campaign, some Media luminaries promoted Fred Dalton Thompson from the workaday TV character actor he was (and may again be) to “movie star Fred Thompson,” some even comparing his career with Ronald Reagan. Critics know Fred Thompson is a better political campaigner than an actor.
Last week we saw other examples how Splashmakers and their enablers operate. When Bill O'Reilly cranks up his (obviousness alert) Outrageous Stupidity Factor to Eleven, his Sworn Enemy, Keith Olbermann, tweaks O'Reilly by naming him the Worst Person in the World.
Last week O'Reilly suggested the possibility of lynching the African-American potential future First lady of the United States, and Olbermann righteously pointed out that--at the very least--O'Reilly should be suspended by Fox. True, but Keith is too smart to think that would ever happen.
So the Media Mandela goes on. O'Reilly rages, Keith rails-and both look good to their base.
But worse yet? When “The New York Times” ran its innuendo fest about John McCain, the biggest question on the Media's mind wasn't merely “What the Hell Were They Thinking?" or "What else have they got?" No, Media just had to know how the most Bloviated Bag of Wind in the land would react--in other words, what would (Oxymoron alert) Limbaugh Think?
So America's news junkies were treated to undercover quality video snippets of Rush doing his radio thing, telling the Dittoheads around the country how they should behave.
I could go on with other examples, but my goal here was to write about Media Megalomania without mentioning Chris Mathews.
Russert helped resurrect the political career of a man who is at least peripherally responsible for the last seven years of National Misery. Lest we forget, had Nader not siphoned off the naiveté vote in Florida, the pivotal state in the 2000 election wouldn't have been close enough to steal-hanging chads be damned. Al Gore would never have done his Slide Show, the publisher of the “Bushisms” would be out some serious cash, and -who knows-perhaps half the country wouldn't hate the other half so much.
Nader made news Sunday, of course. Ralph announced he was running for President. Three thoughts. (1) Shocker. (2) Nader has as good a chance of getting elected as Harold Stassen does-and Stassen is dead. (2) You KNOW Russert knew in advance Ralph was there to announce. Otherwise, my sources say, Russert would have booked Brittney to announce she was going back into rehab.
Nader's combination of Ego and pragmatism is understandable. He runs for President again to reestablish his faded presence on the national stage. Fortunately for Megalomaniac enablers, this need plays right into their wheelhouse. Russert gets the pub for his Sweeps guest; Ralph gets a boost with voters anxious to waste their ballots. Win-win and sexier than-I dunno-booking guests who might discuss the real issues facing the country.
The (redundancy alert) Paranoid Far Left might also see a deeper conspiracy--the move as part of the McCain-loving MSM's desire to elect as president one of the few politicians who pretends he likes them, really likes them, just for themselves. Why, if John McCain becomes President, I'm sure he'll have us all over for a beer.
Never has the need for self-aggrandizement by the Ego needy been better positioned than in this day and age. Jokemeister turned Kingmaker Jay Leno launched Arnold Schwarzenegger's political campaign, and even Jon Stewart, Steven Colbert and Conan O'Brien “fought” over who helped bring Mike Huckabee out of obscurity.
Bored over the early Presidential campaign, some Media luminaries promoted Fred Dalton Thompson from the workaday TV character actor he was (and may again be) to “movie star Fred Thompson,” some even comparing his career with Ronald Reagan. Critics know Fred Thompson is a better political campaigner than an actor.
Last week we saw other examples how Splashmakers and their enablers operate. When Bill O'Reilly cranks up his (obviousness alert) Outrageous Stupidity Factor to Eleven, his Sworn Enemy, Keith Olbermann, tweaks O'Reilly by naming him the Worst Person in the World.
Last week O'Reilly suggested the possibility of lynching the African-American potential future First lady of the United States, and Olbermann righteously pointed out that--at the very least--O'Reilly should be suspended by Fox. True, but Keith is too smart to think that would ever happen.
So the Media Mandela goes on. O'Reilly rages, Keith rails-and both look good to their base.
But worse yet? When “The New York Times” ran its innuendo fest about John McCain, the biggest question on the Media's mind wasn't merely “What the Hell Were They Thinking?" or "What else have they got?" No, Media just had to know how the most Bloviated Bag of Wind in the land would react--in other words, what would (Oxymoron alert) Limbaugh Think?
So America's news junkies were treated to undercover quality video snippets of Rush doing his radio thing, telling the Dittoheads around the country how they should behave.
I could go on with other examples, but my goal here was to write about Media Megalomania without mentioning Chris Mathews.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Go Google Yourself
John Corcoran
Pesky Gadabout, Los Angeles & The World
Corkczar@Aol.Com
Subj: I’m John Corcoran and you’re not.
Hi. I’m John Corcoran and I’m not illiterate, not a chop socky expert, not a “New Yorker” cartoonist, and not dead. Several “John Corcoran’s” are. I’m also not “J.C. Corcoran,” the guy ShopTalk just noted was suspended for pulling a major boner on the radio. Wanted to clear that up.
I won’t rehash J.C.’s troubles—I prefer my hash unrehashed--but I’ve met the guy. We used to hit the same towns for movie junkets some years back. Several times his hotel reservations got cancelled by a clerk who thought there was a double booking.
Many of you, like me, have Googled yourself in the privacy of your own home. Don’t know about you, but I’ve encountered some amazing discoveries involving namesakes.
There is, for instance, Martial Arts Author John Corcoran--no relation. I learned about him ages ago when our mutual agent accidentally sent HIS book royalty statement to me and vice versa. No biggie—neither of us got a check.
But if our agent was serious about cornering the John Corcoran market, he could have added “The New Yorker” cartoonist. When I moved from Washington, DC, to Los Angeles, friends swore this unrelated John Corcoran was actually me. “The New Yorker” had just run a cartoon captioned “Be Still My Heart.” In it, a man in a convertible was approaching a sign reading: “Entering California.”
Want more? Perhaps you remember the time I was featured prominently on “60 Minutes?” Actually, that wasn’t me, either. That’s the formerly illiterate John Corcoran, the guy who didn’t let a little matter of his inability to read or write stop him from becoming a successful educator and author (“The Teacher who Couldn’t Read”). He even has his own foundation.
I’ve got another. I went to Rutgers University on a football scholarship. Today the Scarlet Knights have a fullback named Jack Corcoran—no relation.
Found another John Corcoran on Google. This one is a fantastically talented political consultant and attorney in the Bay Area. He’s such a fine young man the only thing keeping me from adopting him is that he’s already my son. Okay, THAT John Corcoran is related.
But over on the movie website IMDb.Com, you’ll find three or four “John Corcoran’s” all jumbled up into one listing. “John R.” (AKA “John S.”) Corcoran played “Man in Tree” in “The World According to Garp.” Never heard of him. The “John Corcoran” who played “Himself” in “Burn, Hollywood, Burn,” however,” IS me. (Ironically, I was the director’s second choice. He said I wasn’t believable.)
And then there was the scariest coincidence of all. A few days after 9/11, A CNN reporter called my home to ask if I was still alive. Fortunately I answered the phone, said I was, and--why do you ask? Turned out someone named John Corcoran was a passenger on doomed United flight 175.
So if you haven’t Googled yourself. Try it. You may come across some fascinating people.
John Corcoran
Pesky Gadabout, Los Angeles & The World
Corkczar@Aol.Com
Subj: I’m John Corcoran and you’re not.
Hi. I’m John Corcoran and I’m not illiterate, not a chop socky expert, not a “New Yorker” cartoonist, and not dead. Several “John Corcoran’s” are. I’m also not “J.C. Corcoran,” the guy ShopTalk just noted was suspended for pulling a major boner on the radio. Wanted to clear that up.
I won’t rehash J.C.’s troubles—I prefer my hash unrehashed--but I’ve met the guy. We used to hit the same towns for movie junkets some years back. Several times his hotel reservations got cancelled by a clerk who thought there was a double booking.
Many of you, like me, have Googled yourself in the privacy of your own home. Don’t know about you, but I’ve encountered some amazing discoveries involving namesakes.
There is, for instance, Martial Arts Author John Corcoran--no relation. I learned about him ages ago when our mutual agent accidentally sent HIS book royalty statement to me and vice versa. No biggie—neither of us got a check.
But if our agent was serious about cornering the John Corcoran market, he could have added a “The New Yorker” cartoonist. When I moved from Washington, DC, to Los Angeles, friends swore this unrelated John Corcoran was actually me. “The New Yorker” had just run a cartoon captioned “Be Still My Heart.” In it, a man in a convertible was approaching a sign reading: “Entering California.”
Want more? Perhaps you remember the time I was featured prominently on “60 Minutes?” Actually, that wasn’t me, either. That’s the formerly illiterate John Corcoran, the guy who didn’t let a little matter of his inability to read or write stop him from becoming a successful educator and author (“The Teacher who Couldn’t Read”). He even has his own foundation.
I’ve got another. I went to Rutgers University on a football scholarship. Today the Scarlet Knights have a fullback named Jack Corcoran—no relation.
Found another John Corcoran on Google. This one is a fantastically talented political consultant and attorney in the Bay Area. He’s such a fine young man the only thing keeping me from adopting him is that he’s already my son. Okay, THAT John Corcoran is related.
But over on the movie website IMDb.Com, you’ll find three or four “John Corcoran’s” all jumbled up into one listing. “John R.” (AKA “John S.”) Corcoran played “Man in Tree” in “The World According to Garp.” Never heard of him. The “John Corcoran” who played “Himself” in “Burn, Hollywood, Burn,” however,” IS me. (Ironically, I was the director’s second choice. He said I wasn’t believable.)
And then there was the scariest coincidence of all. A few days after 9/11, A CNN reporter called my home to ask if I was still alive. Fortunately I answered the phone, said I was, and--why do you ask? Turned out someone named John Corcoran was a passenger on doomed United flight 175.
So if you haven’t Googled yourself. Try it. You may come across some fascinating people.
Pesky Gadabout, Los Angeles & The World
Corkczar@Aol.Com
Subj: I’m John Corcoran and you’re not.
Hi. I’m John Corcoran and I’m not illiterate, not a chop socky expert, not a “New Yorker” cartoonist, and not dead. Several “John Corcoran’s” are. I’m also not “J.C. Corcoran,” the guy ShopTalk just noted was suspended for pulling a major boner on the radio. Wanted to clear that up.
I won’t rehash J.C.’s troubles—I prefer my hash unrehashed--but I’ve met the guy. We used to hit the same towns for movie junkets some years back. Several times his hotel reservations got cancelled by a clerk who thought there was a double booking.
Many of you, like me, have Googled yourself in the privacy of your own home. Don’t know about you, but I’ve encountered some amazing discoveries involving namesakes.
There is, for instance, Martial Arts Author John Corcoran--no relation. I learned about him ages ago when our mutual agent accidentally sent HIS book royalty statement to me and vice versa. No biggie—neither of us got a check.
But if our agent was serious about cornering the John Corcoran market, he could have added “The New Yorker” cartoonist. When I moved from Washington, DC, to Los Angeles, friends swore this unrelated John Corcoran was actually me. “The New Yorker” had just run a cartoon captioned “Be Still My Heart.” In it, a man in a convertible was approaching a sign reading: “Entering California.”
Want more? Perhaps you remember the time I was featured prominently on “60 Minutes?” Actually, that wasn’t me, either. That’s the formerly illiterate John Corcoran, the guy who didn’t let a little matter of his inability to read or write stop him from becoming a successful educator and author (“The Teacher who Couldn’t Read”). He even has his own foundation.
I’ve got another. I went to Rutgers University on a football scholarship. Today the Scarlet Knights have a fullback named Jack Corcoran—no relation.
Found another John Corcoran on Google. This one is a fantastically talented political consultant and attorney in the Bay Area. He’s such a fine young man the only thing keeping me from adopting him is that he’s already my son. Okay, THAT John Corcoran is related.
But over on the movie website IMDb.Com, you’ll find three or four “John Corcoran’s” all jumbled up into one listing. “John R.” (AKA “John S.”) Corcoran played “Man in Tree” in “The World According to Garp.” Never heard of him. The “John Corcoran” who played “Himself” in “Burn, Hollywood, Burn,” however,” IS me. (Ironically, I was the director’s second choice. He said I wasn’t believable.)
And then there was the scariest coincidence of all. A few days after 9/11, A CNN reporter called my home to ask if I was still alive. Fortunately I answered the phone, said I was, and--why do you ask? Turned out someone named John Corcoran was a passenger on doomed United flight 175.
So if you haven’t Googled yourself. Try it. You may come across some fascinating people.
John Corcoran
Pesky Gadabout, Los Angeles & The World
Corkczar@Aol.Com
Subj: I’m John Corcoran and you’re not.
Hi. I’m John Corcoran and I’m not illiterate, not a chop socky expert, not a “New Yorker” cartoonist, and not dead. Several “John Corcoran’s” are. I’m also not “J.C. Corcoran,” the guy ShopTalk just noted was suspended for pulling a major boner on the radio. Wanted to clear that up.
I won’t rehash J.C.’s troubles—I prefer my hash unrehashed--but I’ve met the guy. We used to hit the same towns for movie junkets some years back. Several times his hotel reservations got cancelled by a clerk who thought there was a double booking.
Many of you, like me, have Googled yourself in the privacy of your own home. Don’t know about you, but I’ve encountered some amazing discoveries involving namesakes.
There is, for instance, Martial Arts Author John Corcoran--no relation. I learned about him ages ago when our mutual agent accidentally sent HIS book royalty statement to me and vice versa. No biggie—neither of us got a check.
But if our agent was serious about cornering the John Corcoran market, he could have added a “The New Yorker” cartoonist. When I moved from Washington, DC, to Los Angeles, friends swore this unrelated John Corcoran was actually me. “The New Yorker” had just run a cartoon captioned “Be Still My Heart.” In it, a man in a convertible was approaching a sign reading: “Entering California.”
Want more? Perhaps you remember the time I was featured prominently on “60 Minutes?” Actually, that wasn’t me, either. That’s the formerly illiterate John Corcoran, the guy who didn’t let a little matter of his inability to read or write stop him from becoming a successful educator and author (“The Teacher who Couldn’t Read”). He even has his own foundation.
I’ve got another. I went to Rutgers University on a football scholarship. Today the Scarlet Knights have a fullback named Jack Corcoran—no relation.
Found another John Corcoran on Google. This one is a fantastically talented political consultant and attorney in the Bay Area. He’s such a fine young man the only thing keeping me from adopting him is that he’s already my son. Okay, THAT John Corcoran is related.
But over on the movie website IMDb.Com, you’ll find three or four “John Corcoran’s” all jumbled up into one listing. “John R.” (AKA “John S.”) Corcoran played “Man in Tree” in “The World According to Garp.” Never heard of him. The “John Corcoran” who played “Himself” in “Burn, Hollywood, Burn,” however,” IS me. (Ironically, I was the director’s second choice. He said I wasn’t believable.)
And then there was the scariest coincidence of all. A few days after 9/11, A CNN reporter called my home to ask if I was still alive. Fortunately I answered the phone, said I was, and--why do you ask? Turned out someone named John Corcoran was a passenger on doomed United flight 175.
So if you haven’t Googled yourself. Try it. You may come across some fascinating people.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Games Night Fiasco (I Blame Myself)
One of my tasks as semi-retired House Husband is to help out my helpmate. It is my sad duty to inform you that I failed in that task earlier this week with semi-dire consequences.
I have important regular duties around the home. I make the coffee. I feed the dog. I do “the dog's ears.” I straighten up my crap the day of our maid's bi-monthly visit (It won't do to have a messy house when the maid comes). I supply myself with milk and do most of the fruit shopping. I gas up and maintain the cars.
I help on financial matters, too, correctly affixing my signature where Dotty informs me it should be affixed. In general, as the old joke goes, I decide the major issues--whether to invade Iran, Impeach Bush, or jab Roger Clemens in the ass with a ten-foot fishing hook. Dotty takes care of the minor decisions--where we live, how to pay for our retirement, when we should replace my broken computer. While there is some overlap, it generally works out pretty well.
My agenda also includes duties when she has guests over. Every month or two Dotty hosts “Games Night”, and this week is where I went frightfully wrong in that area. “Games Night” is a weekly event whereby 6-8 or so close friends get together to play board games and break their diets.
My task for this week's event was similar to tasks in the past. I was to clean my crap out of the living room, get the coffee ready to brew, take care of the wine, and get the Hell out of Dodge when the ladies are here.
Most of it went very well. I got the first pot ready, and had printed instructions for preparing a second pot, if necessary. I got out sufficient red wine, and put the white wines in the fridge, Dotty knew where the corkscrew was. My crap was flung in my room, the door closed and I was headed out to the movies before the guests arrived.
I chose poorly, seeing a chick flick called “27 Dresses.” I'd seen all the Oscar contenders and while I admire Rob Reiner, I had no desire to see a movie about two old dying guys, even when played by Nicholson and Freeman. So I went with the chick flick. If I had it to do over, I'd have bribed my dentist to stay late and practice his anesthesia-free molar extractions on me.
The trouble started when I got home. The ladies were still there, but before I locked myself in the alternate TV Viewage Room, Dotty explained there had been issues with the wine. “The red had a defective cork,” she said. “We all tried to extract it, to no avail.”
“Did you try yanking it out with your teeth?” I asked.
“Of course not. We're ladies.”
“What did you do?”
“Fortunately, we were able to dig up another bottle of red that didn't have a defective cork.”
Well that was certainly a relief, as it meant my Sour Mash Bourbon and Jamaican Overproof Rum supplies were safe for another week. Later, however, after the ladies left and Dotty was putting things away, I heard a cry of alarm. She had spilled some of the red wine on the kitchen floor. “I guess the cork was partly removed.”
At that point, I'd had it up to here with shoddy craftsmanship. We all know a wine cork can dry out. But, no fool I, I make great effort to store my stash of wine on its side. A bad cork upset me. Dammit, I thought. I'm getting my money back, I'll be damned if I'm going to get ripped off. And I was sure there was good use for my five dollar refund.
So I checked the bottle and saw the foil cover had been penetrated by the corkscrew. It looked like the side of a destroyer hit by a shell. As I gingerly touched it, I realized it was much thicker than I'd ever found protective foil to be. It was then I checked the bottle more carefully and discovered what had flummoxed the Games Night ladies that evening.
They'd used a corkscrew to try to remove a non-existant cork from a screw-cap bottle.
I have important regular duties around the home. I make the coffee. I feed the dog. I do “the dog's ears.” I straighten up my crap the day of our maid's bi-monthly visit (It won't do to have a messy house when the maid comes). I supply myself with milk and do most of the fruit shopping. I gas up and maintain the cars.
I help on financial matters, too, correctly affixing my signature where Dotty informs me it should be affixed. In general, as the old joke goes, I decide the major issues--whether to invade Iran, Impeach Bush, or jab Roger Clemens in the ass with a ten-foot fishing hook. Dotty takes care of the minor decisions--where we live, how to pay for our retirement, when we should replace my broken computer. While there is some overlap, it generally works out pretty well.
My agenda also includes duties when she has guests over. Every month or two Dotty hosts “Games Night”, and this week is where I went frightfully wrong in that area. “Games Night” is a weekly event whereby 6-8 or so close friends get together to play board games and break their diets.
My task for this week's event was similar to tasks in the past. I was to clean my crap out of the living room, get the coffee ready to brew, take care of the wine, and get the Hell out of Dodge when the ladies are here.
Most of it went very well. I got the first pot ready, and had printed instructions for preparing a second pot, if necessary. I got out sufficient red wine, and put the white wines in the fridge, Dotty knew where the corkscrew was. My crap was flung in my room, the door closed and I was headed out to the movies before the guests arrived.
I chose poorly, seeing a chick flick called “27 Dresses.” I'd seen all the Oscar contenders and while I admire Rob Reiner, I had no desire to see a movie about two old dying guys, even when played by Nicholson and Freeman. So I went with the chick flick. If I had it to do over, I'd have bribed my dentist to stay late and practice his anesthesia-free molar extractions on me.
The trouble started when I got home. The ladies were still there, but before I locked myself in the alternate TV Viewage Room, Dotty explained there had been issues with the wine. “The red had a defective cork,” she said. “We all tried to extract it, to no avail.”
“Did you try yanking it out with your teeth?” I asked.
“Of course not. We're ladies.”
“What did you do?”
“Fortunately, we were able to dig up another bottle of red that didn't have a defective cork.”
Well that was certainly a relief, as it meant my Sour Mash Bourbon and Jamaican Overproof Rum supplies were safe for another week. Later, however, after the ladies left and Dotty was putting things away, I heard a cry of alarm. She had spilled some of the red wine on the kitchen floor. “I guess the cork was partly removed.”
At that point, I'd had it up to here with shoddy craftsmanship. We all know a wine cork can dry out. But, no fool I, I make great effort to store my stash of wine on its side. A bad cork upset me. Dammit, I thought. I'm getting my money back, I'll be damned if I'm going to get ripped off. And I was sure there was good use for my five dollar refund.
So I checked the bottle and saw the foil cover had been penetrated by the corkscrew. It looked like the side of a destroyer hit by a shell. As I gingerly touched it, I realized it was much thicker than I'd ever found protective foil to be. It was then I checked the bottle more carefully and discovered what had flummoxed the Games Night ladies that evening.
They'd used a corkscrew to try to remove a non-existant cork from a screw-cap bottle.
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