Lost America

GREAT piece on the opening-credits sequences of those classic old 70s sitcoms.

Opening credit sequences are a lost art these days. “Lost” because the ritual of collective TV watching is a thing of the past with no real place here in the streaming era. And yes, once upon a time, Network TV watching was a ritual. Like a formal State dinner with seventeen different kinds of spoons and a new glass for each course, Network TV viewing came with a set of rules and an irresistable order. All over America families gathered around the TV set at the appointed time, tuned our sets to the proper channel and waited for the opening notes of the songs we all knew by heart, excited to spend half another hour with characters we’d come to think of as friends.

There was something gratifying too about the idea that all across the country millions of our fellow Americans were doing the same exact thing at the same exact moment. If you are of a certain age, you probably have a memory of getting up during a commercial break on a warm night, maybe to let the dog out, and hearing the sound of the same commercial you were just watching coming from your neighbor’s open window. There was something special about that sense of shared culture, all of us participating at the same time, no matter where or who we were…city mouse and country mouse…doctors, lawyers, electricians and plumbers. There was an irresistable allure to being a part of something magical that would only happen once and then never again.

Streaming TV viewing, by contrast, is a solitary act with no real sense of time or place and where nobody knows your name. By the time a popular 70’s show entered syndication, a committed fan would have watched the series opener one hundred times or more. But memorable credit sequences are more rare now, a function of their incompatibility with the churn-and-burn binge-viewing nature of the streaming model. Easier to just click the “skip” button, or “next episode”, and get on with it.

Instant gratification saves time, certainly, but in the process something is lost that perhaps should not have been. There is value in waiting. Part of what makes Christmas so special is the month long run-up that precedes it. There is also something captivating and mysterious about the idea of being treated to a show. To the knowledge that we can’t speed things up at a whim. That we can’t just skip to the good stuff. It is satisfying in a way that the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am rhythm of streaming will never be able to deliver. And it’s hard not to wonder if the old ways of network TV might not have been good for us in some critical way we can no longer recall.

Sit down, relax…be still. Someone else is in charge for the next 26 minutes and you can’t skip ahead. You are not in control. If the episode ends in a cliffhanger, you’re going to have to wait a week to find out what happens. And that’s OK.

Everything moves faster now. And while it may be an article of faith at Wharton Business School that the customer is always right, there is no immutable law that says the customer will always be happier, or even better off, once they get it.

“Sometimes you wanna go…where everybody knows your name…and they’re always glad you came…”

The above closing line, of course, comes from perhaps my personal favorite of all the shows featured in the post’s embedded videos:

Cheers, Taxi, KRP, Kotter, M*A*S*H—they’re all here, folks, and it’s one hell of a great ride. No true child of the American 70s will want to miss this one, and definitely shouldn’t.

(Via Stephen Green)

Update! The comments-section discussion betwixt myself and Barry compels me to append a typical, wonderfully silly cab-depot exchange featuring Andy Kauffman as Latka Gravas and the incomparable Christopher Lloyd as the Reverend Jim Ignatowski in Taxi.

Heh. LOVE that show. What kinda disturbs me is that, what with all the things that have slipped from my increasingly unreliable memory over recent years, I can still recall both Kaufman’s and Llloyd’s characters full names without batting an eye.

“What Pro Wrestling Can Teach Us About Politics”?

Plenty. In fact, pretty much everything.

Before there was a Kamala Harris the Frisco district attorney, there was a Kamala the Ugandan Giant who was really just a large black guy (billed as 6 ft. 7, 380 pounds) from Senatobia, Miss. (Weirdly, the last name of the original Kamala was also Harris: James Arthur Harris.)

If you hate pro wrestling, this is the part that drives you batty: It’s a bunch of lies — mixed with a heavy helping of utter nonsense — marketed to the masses. It’s clearly a bait-and-switch: You’re pretending this “sport” is one thing, when it’s actually something else. And YES TIMES A MILLION: IT IS FAKE!

But if you love pro wrestling, this is exactly what makes it so magical: How the hell did this fictional “sport” — featuring made-up characters doing the silliest, wackiest shenanigans imaginable — ever generate such passionate fandom?

Even Jerry Seinfeld was flummoxed. “If professional wrestling did not exist, could you come up with this idea?” he wondered. “Could you envision the popularity of huge men in tiny bathing suits, pretending to fight?”

But make no mistake, this fake sport makes real money. The WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment) has 90 million fans in the United States alone.

They also have a market capitalization of $8.37 billion. The WWE just signed a blockbuster deal with Netflix for $5 billion. It’s one of the most highly-valued entertainment properties in the entire world. Its stars include the top draws in Hollywood: “The Rock” Dwayne Johnson, John Cena, and David Batista. Retired stars like Steve Austin, Ric Flair, and the Undertaker are still commanding the spotlight; Hulk Hogan just addressed the Republican National Convention in primetime. 

This is Big Boy economics.

Why does it work so well? And will its “tricks of the trade” for evoking emotional responses translate to politics?

It’s probably worth noting that a very large percentage of pro wrestlers are hardcore Republicans. Kane, who played the brother of the Undertaker, is now the (Republican) Knoxville Mayor Glenn Jacobs. JBL (John Layfield) portrayed an ornery cowboy on WWE television, but he is a savvy financial planner who’s made hundreds of appearances on FOX News and FOX Business. The Undertaker (Mark Calaway), Road Dogg (Brian James), and Chris Jericho all donated money to Trump. Ric Flair and Hulk Hogan have openly campaigned for MAGA. Linda McMahon, the former president, CEO and co-owner of the WWE, served in President Trump’s cabinet.

And President Trump, of course, is a member of the WWE Hall of Fame.

Lots, lots more to this one yet, all of it bang on. For my money, sports entertainment just doesn’t come much more entertaining than this.

I consider it gratuitously insulting to compare the halcyon days of Eric Bischoff’s wild, rollicking WCW with the sewer sludge of politics theater in Amerika v2.0, but could be that’s just me.

Nobody does it like the Post do

Another rockin’ good headline from those wild, whacky NYP kids.

NYC artist who paints with human blood busted with cache of ‘illegal guns’ after cops responded to drug overdose

The article itself is kinda meh, just more of the usual self-consciously “edgy” obnoxiousness from a standard-issue, Mark-1 Mod-0 NYC “artist” type, whereas the breathless “cache of illegal guns” hubba-hubba refers to about as scrawny and undernourished a so-called arsenal as you’re ever likely to point and laugh at—except for the Mossberg, a scattershot collection of cheap junk none but a hoplophobic denizen of the Big Rotten Apple would think frightening: a Mossberg 12 ga pump; a KelTec .22; a Seecamp .32; a goofy fixed-blade “fighting knife” likely purchased at a boondocks truck stop for less than a double-saw, made of steel so buttery-soft merely sheathing the stupid, gaudy thing would be more than enough to dull whatever notional edge it may (or may not) have ever had; random boxes of ammo, probably all in 5.56, 9mm, .45ACP, and/or other mismatched calibers; one of those useless kit-stilettos you gotta assemble yourself, a practical joke from the bottom end of the otherwise generally half-decent Boker product line so flippity, flappity, and all-round raggedy-assed you couldn’t pop a soap bubble with it (ask me how I know, I dares ya).

If you find that sort of horsepuckey intriguing, feel perfectly free to click on through and read the whole thing. For my money, the headline pretty much says it all.

HOW I KNOW: Okay, okay, here’s the skinny. Many moons ago, long before the Innarnuts was even a twinkle in Albert “Arnold the Pig” AlGore’s eye (in days of old/when knights were bold/and Amazon not invented), I mail-ordered two (2) assembly-required stiletto kits from Boker. I affixed the plastic decorative handles to the pot-metal frame with model-airplane cement (not included), attached the blade-actuator button in its slot according to the minimal instructions, and was appalled to learn that, when the button was pushed to bring the blade (NOTE: not even the vaguest hint of an edge on the sorry thing, and I do mean none) zipping out of the opening, the internal spring was too wimpy to eject the blade with sufficient force to click it into the “open, locked” position. Imagine my chagrin as I stood there slack-jawed, brand-new knife in hand, the stabby part (HA!) of which lolled weakly in and out of its frame, of no more use to me than a 2-pound bag of ice is to your average Eskimo…a great deal less than, actually.

Upon further experimentation, it developed that now and again I could make the blade lock into place with a few sharp, vigorous flicks of my wrist, which felt every bit as foolish to me then as it sounds today. Regardless of all the jiggery, pokery, and Afro-engineering trickery I attempted, though, the button steadfastly refused to get with the program; after several years occasionally endeavoring such bootless meat-beatery, I finally gave up and tossed the Boker into the broken and/or non-useful tool drawer in my rollaway at the H-D shop. Once my youthful innocence had been forever lost, the trusty old Gerber Gator resumed its established role as my EDC shank, and the Boker pieces o’ shite eventually wound up in the rubbish bin where they rightfully belonged. THE MORAL OF THE STORY: As personal defense weapons, the Boker switchers make perfectly adequate paperweights, doorstops, and/or letter openers.

BEST. POLITICAL CONVENTION. EVARRRR!!!

Whatcha gonna do indeed.



Gott-damn SKIPPY. PREACH it, Hulkster!!! Much, much more of this incredibly good, tasty stuff at Twitchy. In response to the too-predictable D卐M☭CRAT sniffing, eyerolling, and contemptuous pearl-clutching for the Hulkster’s basic Not One Of Us, Dearie gauche-i-tivity—Harry Sisson’s lame-O bitch, piss, and moaning being the pluperfect example*—NotKenny Rogers puts it best:


You and me both, brother. You and me both.

* “No serious conversation on policy,” Harry? RILLY?!? Your corpse-tastic cadaver can’t manage to groan out a complete sentence betwixt the snot-bubbles and rivulets of drool even after his handlers have hit him with BOTH paddles, you sniveling sissymary. PRO TIP: Take close, careful note of Trump’s easygoing, beaming merriment at Hulk’s star-turn (at the end of @3YearLetterman’s post) and remember something: He who laughs last laughs best. And, in the theater of the absurd that national politics in Amerika v2.0 has become, he who laughs best will almost certainly win the race.

A meme out of place and time

At first I planned to hang onto this one for use in the regularly-scheduled meme post either here or over at the Eyrie, but decided it was just too damned funny to resist giving it its own spot tonight.

See, I just KNEW them darn ((((Jooz!!!)))) had to be good for something.

AOC outed!

An exclusive from winsome, pulchritudinous lass Diogenes Sarcastica.

MFNS – After months and months of researching sleazy corrupt democrats by our crack team of investigative reporters here at the award winning Middle Finger News Service, they have managed to stumble upon (?) Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (Socialist -NY) secret “Only Fans” account under the name “Showering With Sandy” featuring her daily morning showers before taking on the serious business of saving the nation and becoming a legend in her own time.

Now, there are questions as to why our reporters were on Only Fans Pages in the first place, but in the spirit of Journalism, we would be remiss if we didn’t bring you their findings…with a warning to all from Thomas Sowell.

Yes, there’s a pic of them big ol’ socialist titties, albeit with the real meat of the matter obscured by superimposed stars—and if it’s real, they are spectacular. I’ve always said that girl missed her true calling in life, which is as a topless dancer rather than just another shitlib Congresscritter. This would certainly confirm that assessment, in spades.

Rockin’ da blues

Today was a guitar-lesson day here at stately Hendrix manor, wherein I started young Zachary out on a Jimmy Reed tune—“Honest I Do,” by name —plus a little theory to back it all up. Now I’m down a blues rabbit hole, inducing me to share witchy’all a righteous cop from everyone’s favorite tall but brilliant, fabulously talented and visually stunning example of a placental mammal.

Yes, yes, it’s Kenny Wayne. Hey, I figger everybody’s already heard the Jimmy Reed stuff by now, right?

Update! For Bear Claw Chris.



“You married a dude?”

When a psychotic murderer makes more sense than one of the two (2, supposedly) dominant political parties, you know the country’s in one hell of a sorry state.


Via Irish.

Update! Since Barry says he hasn’t seen it, here’s a few more simply incredible scenes from one of the greatest Hollywood movies ever made.

What a fucking movie, eh?

Updated update! A little more background info on NCFOM, for anybody else who may not have seen it yet.

No Country for Old Men is a 2007 American neo-Western crime thriller film written, directed, produced and edited by Joel and Ethan Coen, based on Cormac McCarthy’s 2005 novel of the same name. Starring Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, and Josh Brolin, the film is set in the desert landscape of 1980 West Texas. The film revisits the themes of fate, conscience, and circumstance that the Coen brothers had explored in the films Blood Simple (1984), Raising Arizona (1987), and Fargo (1996). The film follows three main characters: Llewelyn Moss (Brolin), a Vietnam War veteran and welder who stumbles upon a large sum of money in the desert; Anton Chigurh (Bardem), a hitman who is sent to recover the money; and Ed Tom Bell (Jones), a sheriff investigating the crime. The film also stars Kelly Macdonald as Moss’s wife, Carla Jean, and Woody Harrelson as Carson Wells, a bounty hunter seeking Moss and the return of the $2 million.

No Country for Old Men premiered in competition at the 2007 Cannes Film Festival on May 19. The film became a commercial success, grossing $171 million worldwide against the budget of $25 million. Critics praised the Coens’ direction and screenplay and Bardem’s performance, and the film won 76 awards from 109 nominations from multiple organizations; it won four awards at the 80th Academy Awards (including Best Picture), three British Academy Film Awards (BAFTAs), and two Golden Globes. The American Film Institute listed it as an AFI Movie of the Year, and the National Board of Review selected it as the best of 2007. It is one of only four Western films ever to win the Academy Award for Best Picture (the others being Cimarron in 1931, Dances with Wolves in 1990, and Unforgiven in 1992).

No Country for Old Men was considered one of the best films of 2007, and many regard it as the Coen brothers’ best film. As of December 2021, various sources had recognized it as one of the best films of the 2000s, and as one of the best films of the 21st century. The Guardian‘s John Patterson wrote: “the Coens’ technical abilities, and their feel for a landscape-based Western classicism reminiscent of Anthony Mann and Sam Peckinpah, are matched by few living directors”, and Peter Travers of Rolling Stone said that it is “a new career peak for the Coen brothers” and “as entertaining as hell”.

No argument from me, with any of it. So what the heck are you waiting for, anyhow?

Another one they aren’t making any more of these days

That would be gifted actor, horseman, Marine veteran, Hollywood stuntman, ranch hand, jazz singer, blacksmith, and world-champion poker player Wilford Brimley.

Anthony Wilford Brimley (September 27, 1934 – August 1, 2020) was an American actor. After serving in the U.S. Marine Corps and working odd jobs in the 1950s, Brimley started working as an extra and stuntman in Western films in the late 1960s. He became an established character actor in the 1970s and 1980s in films such as The China Syndrome (1979), The Thing (1982), Tender Mercies (1983), The Natural (1984), and Cocoon (1985). Brimley was known for playing characters at times much older than his age. He was the long-term face of American television advertisements for the Quaker Oats Company. He also promoted diabetes education and appeared in related television commercials for Liberty Medical, a role for which he became an Internet meme.

Brimley joined the Marines in 1953 and served in the Aleutian Islands for three years. He also worked as a bodyguard for businessman Howard Hughes as well as a ranch hand, wrangler, and blacksmith. He then began shoeing horses for film and television. At the behest of his close friend and fellow actor Robert Duvall, he began acting in the 1960s as a riding extra and stunt man in westerns. In 1979, he told the Los Angeles Times that the most he ever earned in a year as an actor was $20,000. He had no formal training as an actor, and his first experience in acting in front of a live audience was in a theater group at the Los Angeles Actors’ Theater.

His first credited feature film performance was in The China Syndrome (1979) as Ted Spindler, a friend and coworker of plant shift supervisor Jack Godell (portrayed by Jack Lemmon). That same year, he appeared in the Robert Redford/Jane Fonda feature film “The Electric Horseman” cast as simply “The Farmer” while assisting Redford and Fonda’s characters evade troopers while transporting the horse in a cattle hauler. Later, Brimley made a brief but pivotal appearance in Absence of Malice (1981) as the curmudgeonly, outspoken Assistant Attorney General James A. Wells. In the movie The Thing (1982) he played the role of Blair, a biologist among a group of men at an American research station in Antarctica who encounter a dangerous alien that can perfectly imitate other organisms.

Brimley’s close friend Robert Duvall (who also appeared in The Natural) was instrumental in securing for him the role of Harry in Tender Mercies (1983). Duvall, who had not been getting along with director Bruce Beresford, wanted “somebody down here that’s on my side, somebody that I can relate to.” Beresford felt Brimley was too old for the part but eventually agreed to the casting. Brimley, like Duvall, clashed with the director; during one instance when Beresford tried to advise Brimley on how Harry would behave, Duvall recalled Brimley responding: “Now look, let me tell you something, I’m Harry. Harry’s not over there, Harry’s not over here. Until you fire me or get another actor, I’m Harry, and whatever I do is fine ’cause I’m Harry.”

It was Brimley’s showstopper star-turn as AAG James J Wells (not James A Wells, as Wiki erroneously has it above) in Absence of Malice that sent me down the Wilford Brimley rabbit hole today, after re-watching Brimley’s riveting performance on YewToob. Interesting thing about the apparent James J/James A flub: Brimley’s character may very well have been James A in the script (don’t know, didn’t check), judging from what appears to be his momentary hesitation when giving his name as James J in the AoM final cut:

Note ye well that Mr Brimley, a relatively unknown bit-player-cum-character actor at the time, just walked in, sat down, riffled some papers, opened his mouth, and proceeded to steal the entire film from screen titans Paul Newman and Sally Field, without so much as breaking a sweat. By God, that there is what you call acting, bub. Ahh, but how very typical of Wilford Brimley: Kurt Russell, Robert Duvall, Robert Redford, Jane Fonda, Jack Lemmon—running scenes with all of these fine actors and many more, he refused to be intimidated or overawed, nonchalantly holding his own with all those marquee names, making it look not just easy, but effortless.

More rich, buttery Brimley goodness from AoM:

One more time:

Over the years I must’ve seen Absence of Malice about, oh, I dunno, forty or fifty times—enough that I’ve long since had every word of Brimley’s dazzling five minutes or so of screentime towards the end down by heart, anyway—and still ain’t no way tired of the flick. If you’ve never seen the movie, I urge you with all my heart not to let another sun go down before you rectify that gap in your cinematic education. They ain’t making movies like Absence of Malice anymore, nor actors like Wilford Brimley, nor sturdy, versatile, by-God American men like him, for that matter.

Anybody else thinking, as I just was, that the AAG Wells character, in fact pretty much all the G-men in the above climactic scenes, represents another long-gone American totem: the competent, reasonable, and trustworthy public servant? Not to mention Sally Fields’ newspaper reporter, who, although she lost her way temporarily and compromised her professional ethics in pursuit of a red-hot scoop, nonetheless proves herself to be basically decent in the end, deeply regretful for betraying her integrity and resolved that she will NOT let it happen again.

As Wells says of the DA ensnared in Michael Gallagher’s clever trap: “Yeah, he’s a nice guy, he just forgot about the rules.” When the dust has settled, the wayward but basically well-meaning are chastened, the corrupt and malifecent made to face serious consequences, and AAG Wells has somebody’s ass in his briefcase, as promised.

Today, though, is there anyone left among us so naive, so unworldly, that he seriously expects such unflagging virtuousness from his “public servants,” even in a fictional movie? Yep, the past is a different country all right.

At long, long last

Ordinarily I’d hold onto this little gem to run it on a Monday or Wednesday, but it’s so damned good I just can’t control myself any longer. Ladeez ‘n’ gennamuns ’n’ sheeit, coming to you direct from WRSA’s Friday roundup, without further ado, embellishment, or delay, feast your eyes upon…the Meeeeme of the Centurrrrryyyy!!!

Heh. How ya like THEM apples? No need to crowd or jostle, folks, there’s plenty of room for all to have a good, close look at this rarest of specimens, never before displayed in captivity until this most special, once in a lifetime event.

Actually, I’m kinda ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.

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