Anyway, on one of many random searches, a particular venue caught my eye. It could possibly top a list of The Most Depressing Theme Park in the World. Flippin’ awesome.

It’s Dickens World, a multi-million-pound venture situated in an old dock yard in Kent, England. Wow! Take a day to experience the filth, disease and hopelessness of Dickensian England, with actors portraying the dregs of hard-luck Victorian-era society. What a thrill for the kiddies. According to the website, you can also ” jump on board the Great Expectations Boat Ride for splashing good fun, take a trip back in time to a Victorian School complete with nasty schoolmaster or get spooked in The Haunted House of 1859.”

And look — the place comes with its own streetwalkers, ready to sell the kids their…um…yeah. Heh.

Seriously, I think this is fantastic. I would love it. I’m just not sure I’d take my children under the guise of having a cracking good time at an amusement park. History lesson — similar to, say, Colonial Williamsburg? Yes. Yee-haw, that-was-awesome fun? Nope.

OK, so Oliver Twist doesn’t float your boat. How about Grutas Park in Lithuania, where you can revisit the finer points of Stalinesque dictatorships, and, as Foreign Policy magazine puts it, “experience the joys of Gulag life, immerse yourself in the warm embrace of totalitarianism — and when you get a bit peckish, enjoy a tasty meal of ‘Nostalgija’ borscht, ‘Deer’s Eye’ cocktail, and ‘Reminiscence’ starch jelly in the cafe”? There’s also a train ride and a playground for the kids.

No? Sheesh, party pooper.

To be fair, some of these parks are not intended for children in the “entertainment” sense, but rather as an educational experience.  But when an American hears the term “theme park,” he likely thinks of amusements — roller coasters, a midway, food courts and the like. Hence, the confusion.

Still, I think I’ll stick to searching for the “yee-haw” element when planning an outing for the Toddlers — at least for now — before stressing to them the finer points of picking a pocket or two.

Photo credits: Daily Mail Online; Petras Malukas/AFP/Getty Images

Fellow crusties will remember typing class in high school, where we used old manual Royals, Olympias, Smith-Coronas or Olivettis to hone our mad skills. f-f-f-space, j-j-j-space. I loved those exercises because they had a definite rhythm. I remember trying to get the “tempo” of my typing as fast and rhythmically correct as possible. I never wanted to miss a “beat.” Is that music-geeky or what? But it served me well; learning to type fast on a manual helped me immensely on the easy keyboards of today, and even on electric typewriters back in the olden days (remember that old Selectric we had in the office years ago, RD?) I learned from the ground up.

Some of my friends and family like to poke fun at my typing style. I’m like Beethoven; keyboards don’t last forever with me. I type the way I play piano: forcefully, and without a single iota of finesse. But I get the letters and papers written, lemmetellya. Love it. (The secret:  in both playing piano and typing — never look at your hands. Well, almost never.)

Anyway. I was looking at some old typewriters this morning, and saw a few memories. I typed on a Royal manual, pictured above. The typing classroom was loud, loud, loud, as you might imagine (or remember, if you’re old enough).

Then came the portable manual — made of plastic instead of metal, so they were easy to carry around. But it was the IBM Selectric (pictured at left) that made everybody go positively mad. It had a little golf-ball-lookin’ typing head mechanism that you hooked onto the carriage. You could switch it out when you needed a different font, which of course meant that you had to buy a whole box of them to get the ones you wanted. But it was awesome at the time, heh. Progress.

Our mom had a portable electric — similar to the Selectric, but, again, made of plastic instead of metal. I remember typing a paper or two on it in high school, just to be fancy (back when typing a paper was almost never a requirement, except in typing class).  It was all cool and new and impressive.

But get a load-a THIS…

You really got to love the throwback to drop $350+shipping to have one of these crazy thangs. It looks kind of fun, though…

Anyone got a spare iPad on ‘em? I’d like to try this.

So, Mad Men star Vincent Kartheiser is in the news — for getting rid of his bathroom commode, and almost everything else. Living off the fat of the land, as it were, on a nondescript street in LA, Kartheiser has given away his car, dozens of expensive gifts, and every mirror in his house (a place he describes as “just a wooden box”). I am not making this up. Since he has thrown away his own toilet, he is relegated to using his neighbor’s, “for now.” [warning: profanity galore]

What the…?

But no matter. I still love MM, and am looking forward to 25 July, when Season 4 drops. Yay! I’ll be in San Bernardino that night.

The Wigwam Motel had better have AMC…

FO

Image credit: AMCTV.com

I’ve been in and out of consciousness since 1 a.m. I awoke with a start at 4:35 after having this dream…

I was at my Dinner Theatre. For those who don’t know, DT takes place in a large-ish cafeteria that also has a stage, so it’s perfect for that kind of show. The weirdness began immediately because:

a) I was sitting in the audience and not at the piano in the pit
b) There were no tables with food; only rows of chairs

So I’m sitting there with people I don’t know, enjoying the performance. Then, one of my 7th grade boys walks onstage to do his feature number, which is bizarre, because my middle school students aren’t even allowed to audition for the cast. As he begins singing, he is joined onstage by a band full of the weirdest-looking people I have ever seen. (Think Mos Eisley cantina scene from Star Wars.) They began playing behind this kid, and actually the sound was good. They harmonized with him. But I was still shocked that this 12-year-old boy brought his own band and didn’t ask or tell me. I sat there, embarrassed and doing a slow burn.

Then the movie started.

It was a montage, beginning with scenes from The Wizard of Oz. Then it flashed to other scenes, each one darker and more gruesome than the last. (Think original Willy Wonka movie, bad-acid-trip boat scene: Not a speck of light is showing, so the danger must be growing. Are the fires of Hell a-glowing? Is the grisly Reaper mowing?) The singer and his band were nowhwere to be found now, but the movie montage went on and on and on and on…

After what seemed like an eternity, I got up and walked to the back of the room, ready to storm out into the hallway, go backstage, and stop the madness. I ran right into one of the guys from the kid’s band, leaning against the wall. All I could do initially was stand there and gawk at his face. (Think Hervé Villechaize morphed with Marty Feldman. Except tall.) Anyway, I told him how utterly disgusted I was that he hijacked my production, not to mention using copyrighted cinematic material without permission. He nodded and apologized; then, this exchange:

Him: It’s all in Jacksonville.

Me: What? What’s in Jacksonville?

Him: I thought maybe you and me…

Me: Oh my G…

*jerking awake and looking at clock*

And there it is. Nightmare on Sandusky Street. And now, the shower, the bakery, the school house, the 3-hour tech rehearsal — and hopefully, no creepy folks wanting to go to Jacksonville. Ugh, I need me some coffee.

FO

Photo credit: CBS

Russian singers from the 60s — awesome. Russian singers lip-synching a vocalise on Soviet television, complete with gorgeous set tricked out in week-old mustard-colored backdrop and tattered fence-like apparatus — incomparable.

Watch it twice. It’s Finkday, after all. Treat yourself.

Daryl Hannah, semi-recently and now

~

Hopefully, it’s just one of those weird-angle pictures, when the paps caught her off-guard, because that’s the only way I can reconcile this thing in my mind. Wasn’t Splash a fun movie? So many facelifts ago…

Another snow day, and we are out of DayQuil. This could be dangerous. Time to call in the reinforcements (snow plow guys).

FO

One word describes my reaction: speechless.

It was one of the more bizarre (yet completely entertaining) bio programs I’ve ever seen. It was produced by NFL Films. You have to watch it. No, really, I mean it. You have to.

As a 30-some-year football fan, I was surprised that I’d never heard of him. I’d seen the name “Corcoran” now and again, but apparently never thought anything of it or bothered to inquire. The Thriller’s first comment upon seeing footage of Corcoran later in life: “He’s a dead ringer for Gene Simmons!” Imagine my delight at finding out in later research that one of Jim’s famous escapades in Las Vegas involved his impersonating the KISS singer. Heh.

Honestly. You just have to read it to believe it. Then catch the NFL Network TV show. If you thought Joe Namath was a boisterous, self-absorbed, womanizing self-promoter, this guy will change your perspective forever. Like someone said in the TV special: “Jim was the ‘off-Broadway’ version of Joe Namath.” Very good assessment. Corcoran, for me, redefined “bizarre.” He was indeed Joe Namath — but with a raging personality disorder thrown in. Amazing. Truly, you have to read his story to get the gist. I’m shocked that even YouTube has nothing on him — no wonder many people hadn’t heard of him. But he is worth checking out, believe it. Wow.

FO

Hence, today’s little funny.

Haha.

FO

According to the article in the New York Times, Kim was amazing his family at a very young age. Dismissed by doctors in the mid-1950s as profoundly retarded, his father knew better. By the age of six,

‘Kim had read and memorized the first eight volumes of a set of family encyclopedias,’ his father said. He received part-time tutoring from the age of 7 and completed a high school curriculum by 14. He spent great swaths of time absorbing volumes in the Salt Lake City Public Library.”

The journal Scientific American did a feature on him in 2006. In it, they said:

He knows all the area codes and ZIP codes in the U.S., together with the television stations serving those locales. He learns the maps in the front of phone books and can provide MapQuest-like travel directions within any major U.S. city or between any pair of them. He can identify hundreds of classical compositions, tell when and where each was composed and first performed, give the name of the composer and many biographical details, and even discuss the formal and tonal components of the music.

Of course, someone always has to cast a pall; throw a monkey wrench; pee on the birthday cake. The Daily Mail paints quite the different picture of the level of inspiration Kim actually provided the star of Rain Man, Dustin Hoffman. Reportedly, Hoffman remembers little about their initial meeting, and counted Kim as only one of several “inspirations” that contributed to his development of the Raymond Babbitt character.

No matter. It still doesn’t cancel the “amazing” factor. If I can tell someone my birthdate, and within one second, he tells me the day of the week it fell on and what the weather was like in Zion, Illinois, well, I’m impressed.

And the blackjack scene from the film still makes me laugh. Interesting trivia here. Cool.

FO

Photo credit: AP; 20th Century Fox

Image credits: Vogue, Reuters

I’ll start. You continue, k? One or two will be fine; y’all don’t have to appear as messed up as myself…

1. I just don’t think Jerry Seinfeld is funny. (Sorry Stoney & Wendell.) The whiny, semi-loser, smirking Jewish guy with the expressionless eyes just doesn’t do it for me, as it apparently did for millions of others.
2. I love the song “Stacy’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne. I play it in the truck all the time, volume on 28.
3. When I was little, I had a nightmare in which Abraham Lincoln was under my bed, and he grabbed my ankles. The horror has never left me. Ever since 1968, I yank my feet up into my bed as fast as I can.
4. I refuse to open a public door without grabbing my shirt or sweater sleeve and covering my hand with it so I don’t have to touch the handle or knob. When I am in short sleeves, I have been known to stand there, trying to figure out an alternate plan, or trying to jimmy it open without the use of any fingers. I look ridiculous.
5. There are certain words I cannot bear to hear or say. I’m like the Knights who say “Ni.”

So yeah. Spill it. What makes you certifiable? I covet your responses. #6: I love to say that I “covet” this or that. I love the word; it has a nice mouth feel.

Fink out (of her mind, I know).

If

Well, first thing I’d do is ask Osama bin Laden for some expertise on the subject. Thasswhat I’d do. But since I wouldn’t actually be able to find him, I’d probably just experiment. Like Evan.

Evan Ratliff is a freelance writer who decided to test the system after writing a story for Wired on the guy in Arkansas who faked his own death and disappeared. But this time, there’s fun and cash involved for the searchers, as opposed to the escapee.

Wired has offered 5,000 semolians to the first person to Find Evan Ratliff. That is actually quite cool. It’s like a cross between The Amazing Race and Where’s Waldo? As the article explains, Evan disappeared and left his credit card and other personal, trackable information with someone at the magazine. Clues are given out on the site each day.

If I had the time and the ambition (both in reeeeeally short supply at the moment), I’d get my sleuth on and try to participate. Sounds like fun.

But so does a nap. *yawn*

Fink out. (You’re yawning right now, aren’t you.)

Since 1980, I’ve had twelve surgeries. That’s a dozen, cousin. I’ve survived Diprivan all twelve times. (Obviously.) I know everyone reacts differently, but here’s how it went for me:

Anesthesiologist: We’re going to start some medication through your IV now, Mrs. Fink. Just begin counting backwards from 100, OK?

Fink: Ninety-nine.

Next thing I know, I’m waking up in recovery. That’s how fast it puts me out. And for the next several weeks, all I can think about is getting home and going to bed. It stays in my system like it was its job. Ack phooey. Hate the stuff. I don’t know how anyone would voluntarily take it to help them sleep, especially since it’s not supposed to be used outside a controlled surgical environment.

Yet, that’s what they found in Michael Jackson’s house yesterday. I’m sure you’ve seen the interview with the nurse who told MJ that if he took that drug, he “might not wake up the next morning.” No surprise that she feels sick in her soul now. But, according to reports that have surfaced over the last couple of days, you just didn’t say no to Michael. I wish I could remember where I read a quote from someone close to MJ (Brian Oxman, maybe?) who tried to tell Michael he was killing himself with all the drugs. The statement went something like, “Michael shot you a certain look; he didn’t say a word, but you knew that you had better can it or you’re gone.”

I don’t know if it was just spoiled-bratism, or if Michael was simply desperate, addicted and lost. People who are tortured in childhood often live long enough to torture others as adults — at the very least by building up emotional walls made of petrified wood. But that’s analysis for another day.

I still can’t believe he’s gone.

FO

PS – Happy Fourth of July to all my fiends. I am delighted to go to the annual Polk Speed Shop Bash, given by #1 Son and Hannah, this night. Best part: we girls rented Revolutionary Road. Heh.

For those who don’t know what the”Wall of Sound” technique sounds like, just listen to any Spector-produced record, especially from the 60s (“You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” by the Righteous Brothers, “Da Doo Ron Ron” by the Crystals, “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes, and “River Deep, Mountain High” by Ike & Tina Turner).

Truthfully, I never much liked the WoS. And I *hated* it in “The Long & Winding Road” (and reportedly, so did Paul McCartney), which Spector produced.

What I didn’t know was how many hit songs the guy wrote. I had no idea he was behind “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,” “Chapel of Love” and “To Know Him is to Love Him.” And while his résumé as a producer is impressive by any standard, his bio reveals some huge problems — stuff people should have seen coming.

Possibly the most bizarre thing about Phil was his choice of hair apparatus. Hilarious. Courtesy Getty Images, I put together a little montage:

And from bizarre to disturbing…this photo was taken in 1975, with Spector’s bodyguard, a former federal marshal. I didn’t notice the haircut stolen from a standard poodle as much as I did the pointing of a gun at a camera:

Pictures from his trial often revealed him as looking heavily sedated. Maybe he was under the influence when the murder happened at his house that night, who knows. If he gets the full 15 years for killing Lana Clarkson, he will be 84 when he gets out. What a waste. As is customary, his lawyers are appealing the 2nd degree murder charge and the sentence. Still, while all that goes on, he sits in jail.

So much talent, so much money…and now look. Have you ever said anything similar to, “Man, if I had that much money and such a perfect life, I would never be so stupid as to get myself into that kind of trouble” ?? I have. I mean, I know money can’t buy you happiness. But it can sure as heck buy you a lot of things that can make you happy, ya know? Actually, I’ve never had money, so I don’t know — and the folks in the cheaper seats can clap their hands in agreement. The rest of you can just rattle your jewelry.

FO

I will resist the temptation to post certain photographs of certain people, brought to mind by the word “clown.” That wouldn’t be nice, or ladylike. It would be like, I dunno, calling Lil Kim a tramp.

I read a funny/snarky political blog this morning on the LA Times site. In it was a picture of Massachusetts senator John Kerry with this character that got me thinking about clowns again. (This particular part of the post was poking fun at the clown, not Kerry.)

There must be a secret history of clowns that I don’t know. Hmmm. Well now, back after ten minutes. It seems there is quite the storied … um… story. To save you from researching this yourself, I will deposit all the pertinent information you might require directly into this space, because I heart you and I want to be your personal philomath.

According to clown-ministry.com, you got your three basic types of clown:

While they have varying origins, it is assumed that the whiteface clown is the oldest, descended from the medieval court jester. Interesting aside: while court jesters probably did not wear white makeup, later clowns (variations on actors of the day) did so in order to illuminate their faces in poorly-lit performance halls.

But I still wonder — why are clowns considered funny? And to whom? Certainly not to me. And I don’t know about you, but these guys don’t strike me as people I’d want my children following around. An “Army of Clowns?” No thanks. They all look like they just got off the chain gang. (Sorry, I know — stereotype. Sue me.)

Just sayin’.

FO (loving those 2-hour fog delays)