Feeding the Birdies

Bye, bye, Birdie?

 DATELINE: Keep Your Eye on the Birdie

Not quite having devolved into the state of Nikola Tesla feeding pigeons in Central Park, we have nonetheless taken a turn toward pity toward fellow creatures.

With the overnight ice storm, the ground is a white frozen tundra and the little chickadees and finches in the backyard seem forlorn. They hop in and stand there as if frozen to the ground.

So, we went out to spread good cheer and a little birdseed.

What then transpired from the vantage of the patio window was Nature’s call in spades. It was an all-you-can-eat bonanza in town. It was also the only eatery open. So, the birds descended like Hitchcock nightmare.

It was like McDonald’s drive-thru with crash cars. IN an expanse, the birds came crashing down on top of the previous eater, knocking him away. So much for good manners. It was also eat and run.

The chickadees seemed to take one seed and fly up to the tree to eat in peace. They returned a few seconds later to repeat the ritual dining.

A little flinch stayed and gobbled up all he could as fast as he could. These are notorious sloppy eaters. If you drop a seed, the next bird quickly devours it. Table scraps are at a premium. The birds clocked in every three seconds.

We found they went for the large black seeds first. They disdained the small white seeds, and only when the first choice was gone did they partake of the left-overs.

We had our culinary lesson of the year. Birds do not keep social distance when it comes to a food fight.

Tesla was on to something by watching this sideshow.

Kardashians in Green

over the hump?

DATELINE: Butt, butt, butt…

Tristan Thompson is in our hearts and minds lately. So, we may ask you if you are over the Hump.

The Boston Celtics now have signed their second Kardashian husband. Those fans of the Hump may well recall the time Kris Humphries played in Boston.

It’s not enough they have reached a new bottom line.’

When the Hump stepped on the court in his first few games, he was largely booed by the Celtic crowd, which puzzled coaches in Green. Then, someone told them to watch TV and read the tabs.

Oh, it dawned on them that they had just stepped into reality that is surreality. Tristan wants to know if there are good eateries near the Boston Garden. He is planning to feast on chicken.

Now, we have again a crack in the Celtics Under-armor.

Society has hit rock bottom when pro athletes now are being tossed out of games—and arrested—for going for the formerly acceptable cheeky assault.

Thompson, you may have forgotten, was hit with a butt-slapping penalty during a low-blow  in his career.

We cannot recall when butt-touching originally went public in our sports arenas. It must be a carry-over from hauling ass around the gym. Once upon a time, it was considered a means of expressing male “affection.”

We are unsure if we have ever seen this activity in a gay bar, but we believe that it will now be forbidden even in the inner sanctums. Queer as Folk avoided such behaviors.

A pinch on the cheek used to be quite continental, but continence has reached a new plateau when it comes to below the belt buckles with knuckles.

Another Kardashian news tidbit: he will be coming to Bean-town with his wife.  We predict they will love Boston as much as Giselle and Tom Brady who couldn’t escape fast enough before another winter hit.

A few years ago, Tristan Thompson was in town with the Cavs and shocked Celtic Jae Crowder with a tap to the butt. It nearly disencombobulated the Celtic. Love taps to the buttocks are reserved to close locker room pals.

Whether Thompson will be arrested for assaulting good taste again with a tap to the keester will be under the microscope when he reaches Boston.

In the meantime, ain’t we got fun?

 

 

Kubrick Monolith Inspires Monkeys Everywhere!

DATELINE:  Ape Uses Bonehead?

With the news that the late Stanley Kubrick has sent a monolith to Utah, we have had flashbacks about the meaning for humankind.

In Kubrick’s movie, this led to rediscoveries on the Moon and on an orb going around Jupiter.

The heavy footed plodding of officials have muffed all chance of finding footprints or other characteristics of a forensic nature. We have some reports that the metal object is made with screws: no word on whether they are Phillips head.

It is interesting that the item is in a remote and difficult to reach place, presumably dropped there by chopper or UFO. We would have been much more impressed if the item had been found at the White House Rose Garden, or even in Joe Biden’s basement.

There is no word if this indicates we will have a cure for coronavirus soon, or whether it means the Dow will hit 30,000 for the first time.

We feel that it supersedes having Xmas decorations needed during a national crisis. The government should send everyone in the United States, who is eligible, a postcard photo of the monolith. It will replace stimulus checks.

The strange object is illegal, of course, but the meter maids have yet to stick a parking ticket on the shiny silver object.

We think someone has usurped the season’s findings at Oak Island. This monolith was supposed to be found by Gary Drayton’s metal detector next to Captain Kidd’s treasure.

The real impact of the monolith has been dulled because we do not hear the Gregorian chants emanating from its radio dial.

 

Fake Melania Now Escorting the President to Fake COVID Rallies

WILL THE REAL MELANIA PLEASE SHUT UP?

DATELINE: BOGUS FLOTUS

Some time ago we first reported on the shocking case of a fake Melania. This body double hoodwink now has become a scandal.

This story is known as the Bogus FLOTUS.  And only one word is an acronym. The other is a fake.

It seems the real Melania hates to hold hands with Trump in public and slaps his attempts at a finger roll. So, Trump has done what any billionaire with the resources and will to power may:  he has found a lookalike who willingly goes out on the campaign trail in large Jackie O sunglasses.

Now perhaps Trump likes the Jackie O look, or perhaps this is all part of the ruse to hide as much of the First Lady’s face from the public and media as possible.

Some gritty analysts now have taken to counting her teeth—and found that the broad smile on fake Melania contains different shades and shapes of upper choppers. All the better to eat fast food on Air Force One.

We grew increasingly suspicious that the First Lady Fakery is at hand, foot, and face, when Trump starts to introduce the First Lady by saying, “She’s here.”  We know that whenever he makes a statement, the opposite is more likely the truth.

So, who is this lookalike?  We may never know. As we proposed two years ago, this was done in a Hollywood movie in the 1940s when a Hitler fake went around to all the big political rallies.

The ending was disturbing as the fake Hitler’s wife makes a successful attempt at assassinating the Nazi leader. We don’t know how good Secret Service is, but the SS of Hitler were hardly slouches when it came to body protection of doubles.

We await the election results when the fake Melania may show up at the fake victory celebration.

 

 

Hunt for Real Dragons!

NOT MYSTERYQUEST, BUT MONSTERQUEST

DATELINE: Monsterquest Provides More Thrills

These lizards that once topped 40 feet, or the size of a bus, have been gone for 40,000 years according to some experts. However, on Monsterquest, in Australia, there have been sightings of monster dragons (monitor lizards?) that run at least 20 feet in length back in 1890. It was hunted and disappeared.

On Monsterquest, there is no such thing as extinction.

Today there are reports growing that something at least that big is in southern Australia. Since the habitat of these creatures was in tradition around the equator (northern Australia), they have moved increasingly south.

WE don’t expect to see one parading around in Central Park, but knowing what is in the Everglades, we wouldn’t be surprised. Footprints have been found that rival anything of Bigfoot near Alice Springs.

You’d have to accept the notion that alligators and great white sharks both grow to 20 feet normally. So, a monitor lizard of that size should not surprise. We did learn that lizards grow all through their lives, and only death stops that size.

So, your sprinting lizard could catch and rip a human apart easily. No comfort there. Aboriginal reports put the lizard at 10,000 years ago after the Ice Age. Could they survive in bush country?

Mysteryquestassembles a team of cryptozoologists (people without a degree or academic standing). The braver and younger team is in Indonesia at Komodo Island where a child was killed by a big dragon several years ago. These guys use a stick and rope to catch a dragon and measure it. They find several nine feet long, but the Australian team is smaller, older, and less lucky.

These creatures have saliva that contains fifty kinds of toxins that cause sepsis quickly, though one Smithsonian expert notes that if they bite something, it comes off.

Once again, Monsterquest has a solid episode without much result, but plenty of information and intrigue. As for the footprint, one museum expert with real credentials said it was too symmetrical and looked like it was artificially created.

If there was a truly disturbing moment, it was when the show switched to a commercial with that Australian lizard who sells insurance. Talk about frightening. 

Humming a Tune

DATELINE: Tiny Speedster

 

The littlest birdie in the world is the hummingbird, and you have David Attenborough ready to spill the beans in the heartbeat in this documentary from 2012 called, Hummingbirds.

When in flight, their hearts beat around 1200 beats per minute. When they sleep at night, they go into a suspended animation that leaves their hearts beating 40 times per minute. It takes them half an hour in morning to wake up—and they are prime choice for predators in this condition.

They must eat every fifteen minutes to keep their prodigious lifestyle. Besides flower nectar, they go after little bugs. They avoid bees whose sting could kill them.

These remarkable mammals are the fastest, smallest, and most amazing of creatures: they came about ten million years after flowers and adapted to become the cold morning pollinator. Insects could not do the job.

The hummingbird also is the most acrobatic flier in the world: he can fly backwards and upside down, unlike any other bird. Though they seemed to be most closely tied to South America and Brazil, they moved into the Andes Mountains soon thereafter—and a micro-version went to North America.

They must eat every 15 minutes to keep up their energy, but there are so many mysteries about how they live, no scientist can say for sure.

They migrate thousands of miles to Texas each year—and then must fatten up to make a flight across the Gulf of Mexico where there is no rest, no food, and no information on how they do it.

But this film is stunning for the beauty of the birds that have iridescent feathers that explode in color when they are combative. Slow motion photography grants an opportunity to see what is too fast for the human eye normally.

 

 

 

 

 

Junk Food Impresario

 DATELINE: President Goya, Not Artistic

 

When Donald Trump poses with junk food, you know in your heart he’s right of heart disease. Now, the burger king of hamburglars is posing with Goya beans.

Trump never heard of Goya the artiste, but he knows his hot sauce. The picture of a United States president with cans aligned is enough to put you off your feed.

You know he’s never eaten that stuff: too healthy.

The man with thumbs up on his empty Oval Office desk is tanking in the polls, but not in the hearts of taco lovers.

A few purists of integrity might claim that the POTUS has cheapened his job to that of a TV huckster. Well, he already consults with Chuck Woolery of game show fame for advice on science and medicine.

Trump only plays a president on TV. In real life, he is an escaped inmate from some madhouse of the 18thcentury. This is a man who knows haute cuisinefrom the back of his hand where he usually spills the ketchup. Gourmands of the world have a new pinup boy, the man who loves a can opener only as a last resort. He prefers to unwrap his lunch from cheap paper.

We seldom see Trump smile except when he thinks he is making a profit. The smile on the face of this man is so fake that it ought to become the yardstick for fake news.

If hunger pains are consuming you, your president is now a man strictly from hunger for supporters who refuse to remain distant (and how we wish they’d be distant) and only wear masks when they are about to steal your election and right to vote.

If Goya foods survive this endorsement, they will be using Nazi insignias on the next K-ration can.

If Trump plugging nachos is your idea of humor, you have been outside the box with Alexander Pope far too long.  Generic fish and chips would have been adequate to put us off our feed.

  Sinatra in Palm Springs

DATELINE: 50 Years in the Desert!

 1948 Home!

One of the least frequently used ways to examine a life biography is to study the place called home. For Frank Sinatra, that place was not New Jersey or Las Vegas: it was Palm Springs where he first moved in the late 1940s and fell in love. He was one of the self-professed “desert rats.”

When he commissioned a house, it became a sleek modern style that so fit the area. It soon became a compound, and with his marriage to Ava Gardner, she took over much of its design, including a recording studio within for when he had the urge to sing.

Before long, the social and gregarious Sinatra had many of his show biz entourage there. It was an exclusive place which did not cater to his Jewish friends, and with Jack Benny and the Marx Brothers, they built a golf club that was open to all, especially celebrities. Even Bob Hope soon moved to the Springs area.

The home was the site of famous fights between Ava and Frank, resulting in damage that is now part of the legendary design. After their divorce and Sinatra’s resurgence after From Here to Eternity, he moved about ten miles across town to Rancho Mirage where he stayed for the rest of his life. He is buried in the Springs as well.

Sinatra even allowed his home to be used for Joan Crawford’s house in The Damned Don’t Cry. Later, his new compound had many guest houses for his frequent gatherings. He loved to entertain and be entertained. Only his mother’s death in 1977 in a plane crash on her way to be with him seemed to be a bad time.

Sinatra loved to drive around at night—and frequented many of the well-known restaurants of the area, from the Doll House to Melvyn’s. He had his own table in many—and he owned the town. If he came to your restaurant or bar regularly, you had it made.

In the early days of Palm Springs, celebs could walk around unbothered by fans. It was an increasingly cosmopolitan place away from the business centers of Hollywood, and the Racquet Club was part of Frank’s world.

The word most often used to describe Sinatra was “generous.” He was charitable beyond his moodiness or occasional blowup. Most called him a pure gentleman.

His entourage was not only the Rat Pack, but many stars from different films who vied to be part of this Vegas legend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prince of Cool: Chesney Baker!

DATELINE: 1954 Buddy

 Chet as Challenger.

Was he really the first jazz musician in the early 1950s with a gay following? In a world of macho and homophobic jazz fans, Chet was often was dismissed as “faggy,” and singing like a girl. His style was decidedly feminine, often impossible to tell whether it is a boy or a girl’s voice. Think of Astrud Gilberto or Stan Getz.

He chose to sing a few ditties, that cemented the belief. His “My Buddy,” is shockingly gay for 1954.  And, his other plaintive tunes, like “Just Friends,” seem to sum up a gay world experience in the closet days of yore. He was always with beautiful women and a dog, as if to throw the bloodhounds off scent.

You half expect him to sing out about the love that dare not speak its name. And, then he bookends his melancholy sound with an amazing trumpet rendition that is subtle and delicate.

Gay historians may have missed him simply for not looking in the unexpected world of jazz by the Prince of Cool, as he was known to the aficionados of the day. He speaks convincingly, “How could you know what love is?” It almost seems a finger-poke to the straight eye.

“Miss your voice, the touch of your hand

Just long to know that you understand

My buddy, my buddy, your buddy misses you.”

Bruce Weber did a lionizing documentary on Chesney, Let’s Get Lost, which has been called homoerotic, rather knowingly. If you want a copy on DVD or tape, you will pay through the trumpet, unless you can play a Euro version on your recorder.

He was beautiful in his youth—and the camera loved him. By the end, the drugs and careless living took a hideous toll on his face. His talent remained, like a granite pyramid.

Chet Baker was hardly gay, in any open way, but was a sexually charged creature.

When Chet blew off a movie role as a trumpeter, Robert Wagner replaced him in  All The Fine Young Cannibals.

Weber’s biographical docurama contains the last haunting images of Chet before he either jumped off a hotel roof in Amsterdam, or was thrown off by drug dealers to whom he owed money.

The movie is stunning in its black and white sharpness: Chet Baker was James Dean, Louis Armstrong, and Picasso, all rolled into a trumpet.

Trump’s Confederate Roots

DATELINE:Pass the Buttersworth!

Is there an official tally somewhere?  Just how many slaves does Donald Trump own?

Trump will miss Aunt Jemima when she’s gone.

Based on his vehement defense of Confederate generals, flags, and plantation mentality, we presume he is the last slave owner in America. Or, are we mistaken? Those people surrounding him are zombies, not slaves.

Maybe it was Fred Trump, the KKK wannabe wizard, who owned the slaves or treated his workers like slaves.

The brain dead seem to gravitate to the man whose billions of dollars may well be in Confederate currency.

Throw anyone in jail who dares to malign Gone with the Wind.

Donald Trump may be the only person in the United States who is standing on the dock awaiting the arrival of  Mississippi gamer boat, Waiting for the Robert E. Lee, of Al Jolson fame.

No doubt Trump prefers Jolson in black-face singing, “Mammy,” as he pours Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on his Uncle Ben rice.

He likely hums “I Wish I Were in Dixie,” before going onstage for his notorious political rallies.

Jeff Davis would be proud. John Wilkes Booth would not shoot Trump.

Acorn Falls from KKK Tree

DATELINE: KKK and Fred Trump

New York March of the KKK on Memorial Day, 1927!

President Trump practically gave himself a hernia in his latest apoplectic denial to the Twitterverse. He denies vehemently that his father attended and may have been arrested at a Klu Klux Klan rally (one of those big events Trumps appear to like) in Brooklyn in 1927. It came only a few years after KKK burned down a black neighborhood in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the notorious Wall Street Massacre.

Trumps like to repeat history.

Police are pictured above rounding up the usual suspects.

Donald Trump may deny till he is blue in the white hood, but there was a parade of Klansmen on Memorial Day in 1927—and police took five or six stalwart marchers aside. The big issue is whether Fred Trump was detained, or simply arrested.

We also don’t know if he had a deluxe Klan robe.

Whether the President’s father’s wizard-style caused him to be detained or arrested is a matter of, you guessed it, inflammatory semantics. They didn’t have stun guns back then, or Fred Trump might have been knocked on keester. Fat keesters also run in the Trump family.

Apparently, to be detained by police, your questioning must be “brief and cursory,” and after that, if you seem to be suspicious, they can arrest you.

Whether there was probable cause is the big issue. Knowing the Trump family, we suspect that “probable cause” is their middle name.

Police records are not being provided to the media from the arrest, but newspaper accounts are rife from the era. We provide one picture here from the Brooklyn fake news media.

Twenty years before the President’s birther records were faked, his father was one of six dubious marchers who were pulled aside for belligerence and racial intolerance (that’s the suspicion).

Whether Nature or Nurture, we now have more evidence, however circumstantial, that the acorn does not fall far from the Grand Wizard’s old oak tree.

Orson Welles in a Western?

DATELINE: Have Horse, Will Travel.

 Orson, Horse Optional.

When we saw the listing, it was beyond credulity! Can it be that Orson Welles made a Western?  Even worse than that, the film is listed as a “tortilla-Western,” made in 1969.

The film is called Tepepa. It would appear that the film never made it to the United States for release—probably to Orson’s great relief.

Well, if there was a chance to see Orson on a horse, we needed to view it and give a report to faithful fans. No, he did not direct this Spanish-Italian production. It was made when he took all kinds of roles for the money to bankroll his own films. This was done for a few dollars more without Sergio Leone.

You cannot expect much—or have we grown too cynical? The film is a dubbed mess, some of it in English, some in Spanish, and some in Italian. Dubbing was optional.

Welles does not appear on a horse. The tortilla setting is Mexico, beautifully filmed in clean, clear settings. And, the Western is actually set in 1920. This gave Welles the chance to ride around in an antique red automobile, obviously a man of the future.

He plays some kind of prison commandant, or colonel of the villainous order. He is the foil to Tomas Milian who plays some kind of revolutionary folk-hero in the Che Guevara mode.

The movie’s director reported that Welles was most disagreeable on the set—and particularly nasty to his costar. Yet, they had merely a few scenes together. Mostly, Welles appeared opposite blond John Steiner who played a British doctor who also wants to kill the revolutionary hero who raped his girlfriend.

One of the main characters is a Mexican boy who serves as a ping-pong ball between the other actors. As for Welles, you’d expect he’d phone in his scenes and act with nonchalance. Though he mumbles some lines in disdain, he actually gives a nuanced performance, as if he can’t help himself. He clearly enjoys playing the baddie and savors each moment. He chomps on a stogie and is half-apologetic for his evil.

No, this isn’t Citizen Kane,and it’s not even For a Fistful of Dollars, but it is an hysterical historical gem with Orson Welles. We hooted openly.

Fat Cells Unite!

DATELINE: When a Pound is not a Lb.

 Moby Trump?

Someone is not telling us the truth. The relative weight of blubber is not fluid.

According to Nero Trump’s latest physical exam, he stands 6’3” and weighs 244 pounds. This is a growth of height and weight since he became president.

When we looked at Ryan Allen, formerly of the New England Patriots, another athletic individual, he is listed as 6’3” and 230 pounds. Clearly someone has his numbers skewed.

When you look at a man 40 years younger than Trump, one expects to see more muscle. In this photo comparison, it is clear that Trump has more muscle around the ears and around the waist.

We think it cruel that Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi believes that Ryan Allen is morbidly obese as she characterized a man who is tall and athletic. Oh, wait, she was calling Mr. Trump “morbidly obese.”

We must castigate the House Speaker because Trump is merely “clinically obese,” if we believe the poundage presented by his ever-truthful doctor.

It is not possible that Trump is 275 pounds, though his shape more naturally matches the size girth of NFL linemen more than a place kicker.

Trump defenders insist that the President’s fat cells have been photoshopped.  We think it is more possible that they have been distorted by hydroxy treatments. Couple that with the lack of exercise caused by his daily couch-watching habits determined by Fox TV binges, and you have put a bullseye on the below-the-belt hitting Democrats.

Trump Has Malaria?

 DATELINE: Whatever Ails You?

 Happy Halloween!

Trump has boasted this week that he is taking an anti-malaria drug, using it as a preventative for coronavirus. He now takes one pill of  hydroxychloroquine plus azithromycin every day.

He also admitted that the White House doctor did not “recommend” the treatment. Indeed, the FDA warns about its dangers. Yet, Trump is not most people—and he has a little button in his brain not known to science that compels him to act however he wants. Has someone pushed that button again?

We are amused that the White House doctor would take a chance in prescribing a pill for the president that could cause him to have rapid heartbeats or a heart attack. Thus, if Trump died, the doctor could be called an assassin.

Trump actually may be the first president to assassinate himself.

 Under the circumstances, we wondered if the doctor was giving Trump a placebo of aspirin, unbeknownst to the world leader.

Blithely used in a blind study, Trump then goes on his merry way.

His insistence on using a malaria drug comes out of some Fox News story he must have heard. In any respect, he started taking  hydroxychloroquine plus azithromycin right after a number of people in the White House started coming down with positive tests for novel coronavirus. It inspired Trump to try anything. His COVID came COD via his Veep.

Of course, there is a chance that Trump tested positive, and the White House lied to the press about the result. We are still not entirely satisfied he is healthy. He looks putrid lately.

Brady Tells Fans to Eat Cake

DATELINE: Well, shut my mouth!

What kind of guy fakes eating chocolate cake for a photo op with his wife and son?

Chances are it’s not retiring types like Philip Rivers or Eli Manning. No, we are talking about Tom Brady who eschews chewing on cake as a poison to his healthy regimen.

Well, chances what you have here is  a quarterback with a dubious history of truth-telling. Yes, this guy with his mouth shut tight and his fork pristine clean, is lying through his polished teeth.

Give us another shot of Botox.

He is pretending to munch on cake that would violate every precept of his TB 12 diet, whilst his wife Gisele and son have large chunks of chocolate cake heading into the mouth tunnel.

But wait, is that frosting on the cake? Or frosting on Tom’s moist lips? It could be his lip balm. There appears a residue of something chocolate on the fork.

You know if Brady will fake cake eating, he might be the sort of guy who’d let air out of footballs for an advantage.

He’d the kind of guy who’d post photos in cryptic poses of him coming or going out of a stadium, tormenting fans with a cheap stunt to sell cable TV.

You know Tom is capable of any action to further his career—even at the expense of faking fun with his family. We aren’t sure we buy his argument that they have a big say in his football future. Based on this, we think they have NO SAY.

Only in Boston and only with the Patriots would a harmless photo of eating cake be equated with the worst of Marie Antoinette.

We are tempted to say, off with his head.