After Tom Brady’s loss on Monday Night Football, he was largely castigated for being a “sore loser.” It seems he left the playing field without shaking the hand of the opposing and winning quarterback’s hand.
Immediately a hue and cry from those conservative fans came about a bad image for children to see, and how Brady was not a GOAT in a country of MAGA.
You have to know Tom from 20 years in New England to understand his attitude. This man is acting out the same way his candidate for president has. Trump is Brady’s friend and president.
What’s good for the QB is good for the POTUS. You don’t hear these anti-Kaepernick fans castigating Trump for being a sore loser, for claiming his victory was stolen, for demanding that the whole game is rigged.
Like his mentor president, Brady left liberal New England with its social conscience and high taxes for a land of warmth and no taxes. He even brags he never wears a hoodie any more…take that, Belichick.
Bad losers are endemic to Brady and Trump. They are birds of a losing feather, just think of Deflategate and Mail-ballot-gate.
The tantrums you see from Trump and Brady are part of what you see as greatness in sports and politics, small-minded losers!
With the second episode of season 8, it is clear that regular and original treasure hunter Dave Blankenship has been either evicted, fired, or otherwise removed from the series. He was a figure head “producer,” for years, meaning his father owned a better part of the Island for years. It now rings hollow when members of the team refer to a re-assembly of the “fellowship.”
At least one jolly good fellow has been eliminated. You could say that Dave Blankenship’s comic relief had run its course, finally and unfunnily.
We have seen this pattern in other History shows, and Dave has been on borrowed time since the death of his father—and he has added little to the show development for many years.
In the meantime, we have two couples in quarantine: Rick and nephew Peter in one house, and Alex and father Marty in another, receiving video call updates from the workers in the field. The real treasure hunters did find a surveyor’s mark in a flat stone, one of many found in 200 years, but the first by this team.
The most curious discovery is to see inside Rick Lagina’s Oak Island home, which he shares with his puppy nephew.
However, the series continues to read like a repeat of itself. Once again, we have some small discoveries that echo past findings. Gary Drayton, as usual, is the main explorer with a touch of near-non-ferrous. He locates another broken pickaxe.
There is also a button and piece of leather. Laird Niven disagrees that it is book-binding and immediately says, “shoe leather.”
Yet, the big news of the night is Gary’s withholding of a rare coin until the Laginas can show up after quarantine. They agree it needs more expertise analysis, but Gary’s sense is always prescient. He claims it is quite old, well before the hunting for treasure and perhaps one of the original diggers.
In all gatherings, the absence of a Blankenship is notable, and even the newly discovered map in an archive is credited to Dan Blankenship’s work in the 1980s in passing.
If Trump and his psychopaths are humored, we must go back over the past fifty years and declare the loser of every presidential election to be the true winner.
Yes, Jimmy Carter beat that deadbeat Ronald Reagan and the election was stolen.
Barry Goldwater should have been inaugurated, not LBJ, but the election was rigged.
Mike Dukakis was the rightful loser and should have been installed in the Oval office.
Without a doubt, the correct way to hold elections is to let the worst man (or lately woman) be celebrated as the loser with the most votes ever achieved for losing.
Winning is not all it cracks up to be: it simply means you are a cheater and a fraud. Damn the voting machines and the voters who cast ballots. If your candidate is the pits, he should be the incumbent.
Trump has smashed another tradition: losers are better than winners, and anyone who voted for the other guy was a dummy. If you can’t have your way at the ballot box, have Nazi-leaning politicians negate the vote and make their own selection.
If you think this is crazy, you don’t know your history. Most democracies have fallen for less, and all dictators have risen by the din of the dolt supporters.
America has reached its nadir, and the loser is at the bottom of the barrel must be declared riot leader.
Dangerous followers of Trump are around every corner, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. They parade in the streets and they congregate at places where votes are tabulated. Their intimidation is not a bluff.
Yes, the election is over and the evil caste of Trump racists and Nazis is upon us.
We should remind you of the past killers who have supported Trump. There is no joke here, only terror.
Over the past few years, you had Den Hollander, Nickolas Cruz, and Anthony Comelo. They are now either dead or in prison, but others await to take their place.
In case you forgot, here is a thumbnail sketch of each of these works of horror.
Anthony Comelo was another MAGA hat wearer. He considered any in America who were not born here as “invaders.”
The self-named Annihilator Nickolas Cruz put a MAGA hat on the urn of his dead mother as she was sent to her crypt; she was one who hated Trump. Her murderer son had the last word to belittle and defame his own mother. Now, there’s a real Trump lover.
Trump supporters are the salt of the earth and are genuine American citizens. Because the 19-year-old couldn’t buy a gun in Florida he went for an assault rifle. It’s much easier to shoot, buy, and use. He was partial to merchandise with American logos. Hence, he posted a photo wearing a bandana over his face with stripes on it.
Cesar Sayoc crying out his eyes that he wanted to blow up people for Trump. He regretted being caught.
Whether they are shooting at you from a high rise in Las Vegas, or in a nightclub in Florida, or a mosque in Christchurch, you can count on the fact that your killer and murderer will likely count himself among those who find Donald Trump the man of the hour.
Trump supporters are urging people to buy more AR 15s in case they are banned. They are preparing to go to the White House for a shootout if impeachment dares to rear its head.
They will start shooting media stars. How many lists of famed CNN TV personalities have found their names scrawled in the demented scribbles of killers and potential mass murderers? We are now at the point of having lost count
Den Hollander was another killer (full name: Roy Den Hollander) was a Trump supporter. The man who tried to kill an appointed Obama judge Esther Salas, but only managed to kill her teenage son and shoot her husband, was a Trump fanatic.
One after another, these believers in Trumpism (actually a synonym for racism) are dangerous, vile, and ready to engage in violence for the man who encouraged their mad obsessions.
Is our long national nightmare now actually over? We have Biden our time for four years to have this moment in the sun. The odds are that Las Vegas has cast out the oddball.
The pandemic known as Trumporona Virus may go overseas, as he promises to leave the country. We aren’t sure what s-hole country will accept this refugee. They have laws too about unwanted immigrants and illegal thugs. We hope they have cages for his children.
Trump in defeat has turned the world of cliché expression on its sow’s ear. For every action, there is an inaction. A fool and his tax money will soon be joined in federal prison.
This worm has not turned. He won’t turn on a dime, and he remains the same every day the more things change. As usual, he never gets out of bed on the wrong side; every side is right, extreme right.
Trump’s knickers are never in a twist. The knickers belong to others that he twists, usually while some poor woman is wearing them.
He will not leave with his tail between his legs. His tale is between the history pages of the fall of the Roman Empire.
After chasing peaceful protesters with pitchforks and torches, they have turned the tables with mail-in ballots, hot off the press. Fill in the blank.
No cat has got his Twitter tongue. His tongue is still on Twitter, but likely not for long as a private citizen can be banished. His bite is worse than his bark. He can give you a pandemic with one big cough. That’s what he sneezes at his White House aides.
He can’t read between the lines because he can’t read.
Yes, Donald, it’s true: we are laughing at you, not with you.
Trump’s zebra stripes will never change because they will be part of his prison uniform.
When Trump counts to ten, he stops. And, we will not miss having Donald Trump to kick around.
The remnants of the Arthur Conan Doyle estate have scrapped together a lawsuit against the elements of Sherlock that are not public domain. These ten points of contention are the part and parcel of some post-feminist novels by one Nancy Springer.
We are more horrified by the endless string of ridiculous anachronisms the story seems to throw at history.
Netflix, ever the opportunist, has adapted the novels to a film on their ersatz network of third-rate shows, figuring a ripoff of Holmes fits right in.
It’s likely no mistake that the name of the airplane that dropped the atom bomb on Japan to end World War II is named “Enola.”
The lawsuit takes umbrage with the emotional turmoil when Sherlock must deal with a younger sister as well as a smarter brother. Talk about family troubles.
Throw in Sherlock’s mother as some kind of harpie, and you have the makings of a legal argument. We never had much faith in these family ties or family feud with Sherlock. We always suspected that Mrs. Hudson was his out-of-wedlock mother. She did refer to Mycroft once as a “reptile,” which surely is not motherly. Or is it?
Ignoring an upstart sister seems a fairly proper approach for Sherlock, but he had to put up with an obtuse Watson, mostly created for movie humor, but to give Holmes more emotion than Mr. Spock seems a stretch to the law offices of our solicitor.
We are now feeling emotional blackmail to tune into a Netflix series to give our usual slice and dice approach to all things un-Sherlockian.
To update Sherlock like he is one of the Ma and Pa Kettle movie series of the 1940s is enough to make us eshew the Poverty Row studios once and for all time.
The Gold Standard of monster investigations is, of course, the series Monsterquest. So, when they chose to coincide Halloween with an examination of vampires, we were ready to dig in.
As the show is always attempting to find a fresh angle, the episode does not mention Dracula for almost fifteen minutes.
They do tell us about a strange burial or re-burial in one of the leading spots of vampires in America: New England. That surprised us, but to learn that the bones of a suspected vampire are now kept in government archives was even more interesting.
A couple of aficionados of the vampire lore want to see what was going on in Willington, CT, 200 years ago that led to a spate of vampire reports. They also note that Bram Stoker too had a clipping of vampire story out of the New England archives to help him with writing his Dracula tale.
Since it will take longer than the show can wait, we never find out if the bodies they suspect will be exhumed or if family will allow this. Another dead end.
Monsterquest contends that vampires are a love-hate fascination with immortality.
A great deal of effort is put into finding “unmarked graves” that could harbor people who died of consumption (TB) and were thought to be vampiric. There may be many reasons why family members are buried without markers, but the theory here is vampirism.
While claiming to attempt to prove vampires exist, the show examines several murderers who believed their vampire character allowed them to live outside law. There is almost a kind of sympathy for these creatures, according to witnesses.
There is also an emphasis on “psychic vampires” who simply take electro-magnetic energy from others to gain strength.
What we have here is another example of a bad episode more than any serious insight. Monsterquest keeps its track record of having every other episode be a doozy.
Flush twice, Boston. It’s a long way to the bottom of the septic tank.
It would appear only two people recognized how bad Boston’s sports teams would be this year: the two stars who bailed on the town they never liked. We speak of Mookie Betts (World Series victor) and Tom Brady (another Super Bowl in Tompa Bay).
Every sports pundit and media expert in Boston failed to see the writing on the wall. Maybe they just can’t read Sanskrit or profanity.
Some are now casting blame on the genius Bill Belichick. Those people have clearly thought genius and hubris were synonyms. Belichck systematically disarmed Tom Brady over the years until the man ran off with Antonia Brown, deserting his Julie in the process.
The Red Sox threw a boatload of money at Mookie and he gave them the finger, not the thumbs up. Some claim these Trump supporters hated Boston’s political climate—as does Belichick. And owners who poured cash into winning, now are extracting cash faster than you can say Trump Tower bankruptcy.
Only Robert Kraft who likes to kiss his players’ butt has been caught with his pants down. John Henry has become the Claude Rains of Boston We used to see him at Symphony Hall now and then with a beautiful young man in tow, but the pandemic seems to have put the kibosh on those tunes.
Now we have a Bean Town full of beans and no counters to the problem of no beanie balls.
We are headed back to the 1960s when Patsies played at Fenway to empty seats and the Sox played to the same group in the other season.
No one believes us when we tell them about the good old days when you could go to Fenway on game day and find a box seat two rows back from the field. Maybe those days are coming baaaack.
Sacha Baron Cohen has been called “a creep” by the POTUS because of his merciless political satire on the entire McDonald Trump administration. Oi Vey, to say the least.
In a turn of the screw, Cohen’s Borat refers to the fast-food President as McDonalds Trump. There is one zinger after another in this horrifying movie. Borat requires a sense of humor of the 21stcentury: Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward fans need not apply.
Borat comes, as his followers know, from a backward nation under Putin’s thumb. There is an Arab streak in him inexplicably. Since his first movie fifteen years ago, he has been a political prisoner in his homeland, released only with another dangerous US mission. He is to deliver a pornographic monkey to Mikhael Pence, as a peace/piece offering.
When this fails, Borat plans to give Pence, Trump, or any of the Epstein followers his young teenage daughter. Yikes.
No one is spared the spot-on nasty barbs. If you like your political cruelty nothing short of Chaplin’s Great Dictator, you may have some kind of reincarnation in Barron Cohen (who shares a name with Trump’s son, about all they have in common).
The world will long note the zingers that never miss.
If you suffer from a syndrome known as “bad taste,” this is your movie. Borat lampoons all American life ruthlessly, and goes through a list of men to offer his daughter (all McDonald Trump aides are in jail or under arrest). This leaves him with Rudi Giuliani—and that leaves us with the biggest political shocker of many years of political humor.
We cannot think of a more worthy political target.
What exactly is faked in this movie? You likely have to watch it for yourself to make a hard decision on the corrupt nature of Trump’s associates.
This is a whack job movie, and defies good taste, political boundaries, and critical assessment.
How can anyone ever forget the great Lord Laurence Olivier playing Zeus in Clash of the Titans? In one hilarious moment, he yelled out, as only he could, “Release the kraken!”
Good heavens, now decades later, Monsterquest has indeed released the Kraken, a legendary god of the Deep Blue Sea. We have been accused often of being Kraken in Der Head. Now we have Kraken on the brain.
If you like your fishy monsters with a pedigree, the Kraken is your sea creature. Alas, Monsterquest is after the Humboldt Squid: still a voracious, muscular, omonster of the deep. Never seen, but theorized to be a hundred feet in length, they have populated Jules Verne novels, but have remained science fiction mostly.
Now, there will be an attempt to prove they live in the depths and never surface. They will eat anything, including you.
This latest episode is an update of a 2006 show that captured a giant squid on camera for the first time. The 2019 version featured Scott Cassell, the same expert, whose blonde hair is now snowy white. The cute researchers are now long in the tooth, and the latest Monsterquest team is basically a new batch of thrill-seekers.
What else can you say about guys who don’t mind being attacked by angry squid. One complains, there must be an easier way to make a living—but they’d never go for it.
There is, he contends, as many giant and colossal squid (the 100 feet long ones) as there are people on earth, but they are so deep in the oceans they are never seen.
If anything comes out of this show, it is the idea that 1000 years ago these things were called Kraken—and they are highly intelligent and observant! That may be enough to say, leave them alone.
Your NFL might be game spoilers, but they are contemptuous of society’s rules of good faith and good manners. Yes, they have shown their hypocrisy again by caving in to the whims of Tom Brady, that traitor slug whose personal looks are as fake as his so called family values.
Now a pirate-headed shot-caller in Trumpabay, Tom left leftist New England for the land of no income tax: Florida. Like the true Trumpist he is, he has no sense of shame when it comes to his racism.
It’s not America that Tom wants Great. It’s himself.
He has befriended mental case Antonio Brown, not for altruistic reasons, but for good old-fashioned plain greedy reasons. He wants to prove what a great quarterback he is—and he is calling for the talent he wants, even if the rest of the world is horrified.
Antonio Brown is a walking text book for sexism, misogyny and rape. So, family man Tom Brady wants him as his receiver. He even let this nutcase live in his house for a few weeks in New England. Wife and kids be damned.
The Patriots and sex toy Robert Kraft (even Belichick the Cheat, could not abide Antonio Brown and released him.
Now Tom’s hissy-fit antics in Tampa have caused HC Bruce Ariens to go against his political instincts and become the new Bruce Aryans. Yes, he will do whatever fascist Tom Brady requests. He too wants to win.
The NFL is like that: money over integrity, bull-headed control over common sense, racism and sexism over logic and science. It’s Trump’s guys gone wild.
We can only hope that Brown will not deliver the packages and Brady will be a Tampa Dud. However, we expect our Proud Boys will line up behind Tom Brady. It’s a year of pandemic gold.
When you do movie review blogs for ten years, you soon have quite a backlog of films. Some remain popular year after year. We have never been able to predict which reviews will be favorites of the reading public.
However, many blogs are read several times during the first week they appear—and thence go into one of those black holes in the center of the galaxy.
We –my tapeworm and I—have decided to gather together some of the lesser read blog reviews under a general heading. We figure out of a pile of thousands, we can find about 100 that are interesting.
So, we began compiling movies according to genre (like suspense, Sherlock Holmes, UFOs, and the like).
We were surprised there were a good many comedies. We generally don’t watch those films, or don’t review them. You may not realie that I only print out the films that are largely interesting, well-done, unusual, or seem metaphoric of the era.
When we gathered together Comedy Tonight, it had some of our favorites, and some we had forgotten. Actually our book on Westerns is selling briskly. All the reviews are based on some college courses taught years ago in another life as a professor of film studies.
Among the marvelous comedy movies, we found Elaine May’s A New Leaf with Walter Matthau as a fortune hunter going after a millionaire botanist. We recalled The Loved One that featured Liberace and Rod Steiger as funeral directors in a California mortuary. We had forgotten about Follow That Camel with Phil Silvers playing his alter ego, Sgt. Bilko out in the desert as a foreign legionnaire—or marvelous Peter O’Toole playing a version of Errol Flynn in My Favorite Year.
Oh, yeah, there are a few stinkeroos that we advise you to avoid.
Our reviews always seemed to be in some kind of humor rivalry with the actual film under review. Yet, we think if you want a collection of recommendations, this little volume might do the trick. It’s available, of course, in both e-book and print versions on Amazon.
The vast opinion nowadays is that book collecting is a form of dust collecting. And, this little doc tells us something about the sellers and the buyers. Author Fran Leibowitz provides some cogent and hilarious commentary in The Booksellers.
Taking a look behind the scenes of New York’s lively bookseller market may be less than pleasant, however interesting. This little documentary gives us some monitoring of a business that was stable for 150 years—until the PC and Internet changed everything.
The Booksellerstakes a pulse of intellectual America. It needs more oxygen than Trump.
As someone who has a library with a couple of thousand books, I know that I am a dinosaur. Most friends have no books in their homes, and don’t VHS tapes either because they don’t own a player.
Book owners are often academic types who have piles of books from years of teaching college. In fact, many booksellers were former academics who left teaching because they’d rather read than deal with people.
So the vast number of bookdealers in this film own cats, live in dusty apartments with books from floor to ceiling. They complain that the Internet has taken joy from collecting: they used to look for a book for 20 years that no one will buy, and they put on a shelf for the rest of their lives.
Personal book collecting is a dying art, or dying obsession. Most books that are collectible (like Ian Fleming 1steditions go for $100,000). So, collectors are now looking at autographs and manuscripts, movie scripts and other paper documents.
The film dabbles in a dozen New York sellers, like the Argosy Bookstore and the three sisters who run it.
Sellers still hold fairs, and interesting people show up. However there are now only 20% of the number of bookstores in New York than years ago (now about 75). Big chain stores are also dying because of Internet sales. And, a small group of obsessed types are opening tiny specialty bookstores here and there.
The film focuses finally on women (the true readers of the era) as taking over whatever is left of the business and collecting.
The art is not dead: but most of the collectors will be soon.
A documentary on the life of movie critic Pauline Kael would seem to be counter-productive. The late genius of insight into movies was hardly the stuff of action melodrama, but this film takes on her life—unwed motherhood, marriages of convenience, a history of working in low-level jobs trying to find herself.
What She Said is about the art of Kael. It is more about words than images. For that reason it is a topic doomed to be wordy and not visual, yet there are plenty of home movies and photos of Kael. That notion might not please her. Her ideas were the key.
When she first sells a movie review in the early 1950s to the New Yorker, it was a scathing attack on Charlie Chaplin’s bloated egotistic movie, Limelight. It won her an audience and a career.
Her insights into movies, which she loved as a medium, contain brilliant insights that some movie makers in this film tell us were influential to their productions. We don’t believe it. They may have read Kael, but it was to see how she shot down their rivals.
We would have preferred a film in which someone simply read some of her most scathing comments about well-known films over her life. She collected about 14 books of her critiques. And, they are delightful to read.
Sometimes she is utterly wrong about a film and its importance, but she always gives an interesting perspective on what the cultural or artistic value really may be. Her views are meant for the wider, lasting meaning of life in the film world.
We admire Kael and used to read her work when it came out. It frequently put good movies into a framework, and bad movies into a trash can.
She might have been the first to tell you this documentary is unnecessary and superfluous. Just read her books.