Not this one, Jim.

From the creepy theme music to the truly scary, jump-out-and-blast-ya scenes (as well as more flesh and jiggle content than you’ve ever seen on basic network TV), American Horror Story (Wednesdays at 10 p.m. Eastern on FX) is just that: a horror story. And it’s frightening.

When the theme music comes on, I have to cover my ears and go “la, la la la laaaaaaa.” Why do I watch these things? What is it about our nature that makes us dare to be horrified? I remember doing the same hands-over-the-ears thing when the theme music to the old Dark Shadows played. When I watch them on Netflix nowadays, I fast-forward through the opening theme. Yet, I can’t stop watching.

Last night I watched American Horror with the Thriller, and dangit if I wasn’t petrified to go upstairs by myself. Ridiculous! I’ve always known that my empathy response was on overdrive; I put myself in countless situations right along with the actors. Internalizing this stuff ain’t healthy, lemmetellya. But I still watch. Why? I stop just short of making the Thriller sit by the bedside until I fall asleep. What a nutjob. (Me, not him.)

Heh. Boo!

PS – HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAVIS!

That all changed in 1978, when Dallas premiered, and producers — to their utter delight — realized that people could actually remember episode details from week to week, as opposed to the day-to-day schedule of normal daytime soap operas. Moreover, Dallas appealed to men, whereas the daytime half-hour soaps (broadcast, of course, during children’s nap times) were geared almost exclusively to women who stayed home. So began the era of evening serial television. Now, you can’t throw a rock without hitting one.

I must admit, I do love it so. Whoever did the demographic research on the subject knew that these types of stories tap into our most basal desires to share emotional experiences with those on the screen, and to run the gamut of reactions: disgust, anger, dread, sorrow, and most fun of all: shock. They want us to take sides, and boy, do we ever not disappoint on that score. And when the season finales rolled around, it was no holds barred. Beginning with the granddaddy of them all (“Who Shot J.R.?”), they’ve tried to outdo one another for decades.

Such was the case with the series finale of Breaking Bad last Sunday night. World: rocked. If you’re looking for an awesome series to sink your teeth into, this would be the one. What happens when a soft-spoken high school chemistry teacher finds out he has cancer, and to provide for his family after his death, decides to become a ruthless meth cook and assassin? You can catch up on the first four seasons on Netflix, or on various illicit (free) places on the web. Sadly, there’s only one season left.

But hey, you could always watch Dallas. TNT is even bringing it back! I wonder how old die-hards like Yours Truly will like the new casts and storylines. I’ma give it a try, though.

Hey, it’s Tunesday. Blah.

FO

I was never much of a David Bowie fan, although I do like “Space Oddity.” The whole Ziggy Stardust thing was boring to me, even back in the early 70s, when men dressing up as wo

men was particularly shocking. But some brows really furrowed when Bowie and his American girlfriend named their baby “Zowie.” Zowie Bowie. Poor kid. Anyway, I read a story about the boy, who is now an award-winning film director named Duncan Jones (Duncan is listed first on his birth certificate, and Jones is actually Bowie’s real surname, but he changed it to avoid confusion with Davy Jones of Monkees fame), and who, shockingly, turned out basically normal, in spite of his then-drug addicted, wild rock star father, and a mother who abandoned him.

The most surprising fact in this enlightening story: Jones went to the College of Wooster (about 30 miles from my house) in an effort to get an education while maintaining anonymity, and graduated with a philosophy degree with almost no one knowing who he was. Whoa.

Anyway, it’s an interesting read for, what’s this? Wednesday morning. Now I’ve run out of things to say about it, which means I have to get to work. Yay.

Duncan Jones photo: Ian West/PA Wire

West’s faithful sidekick, Artemus Gordon, was the comic relief, and the pair had the glamorous job of spying on bad guys for president Ulysses Grant during the Civil War. By all comparisons, it was a 19th-century cocktail of James Bond and Batman & Robin, complete with fancy techno-gadgets (fancy for the 1860s, anyway), plenty of criminals gettin’ what’s comin’ to ‘em, and West getting the girl. There was always a flavor of the week.

Some neat-o facts, many of which I did not know:

• Ross Martin, who played Artemus Gordon, was born in Poland and raised in New York City, speaking Yiddish, Polish and Russian. He could lapse into any dialect at the drop of a hat. At the time of his death in 1981 (he suffered a fatal heart attack while playing tennis), he and Conrad were planning a revival of the WWW series. That would have been fantastic.
• The show was a treasure trove of awesome guest stars: Suzanne Pleshette, Sammy Davis, Jr., Ricardo Montalban, Robert Duvall, Ed Asner and Boris Karloff (of all people). I imagine it was like the Simpsons of its time: everyone wanted a guest spot, just to say they’d done one.
• The show, which ran from ’65-’69, was not canceled due to poor ratings. Rather, it was pulled because of its violence (unfortunately, necessary to the plot). Network brass felt squeamish about putting so much killing on TV when there was so much killing going on in the war. Hmm. Imagine that. Choosing humanity over profit. Psh.
• The beautiful black locomotive car the pair used as their lair/mode of transportation in the pilot was also the Hooterville Cannonball in CBS’s hillbilly comedy, Petticoat Junction. Ha, love it.
• As you know, all TV series episodes have titles. In WWW, the title of each of the 104 episodes began with the words, “The Night Of…”

I also loved the opening animated sequence and theme song.

One thing’s for sure. The movie ain’t the series. Ick. And yes, I’m one of those die-hards who just couldn’t make the jump from Robert Conrad to Will Smith. No comparison in my old, musty book.

Hey, is it Monday already? Yipes. Time to pound feet on the basement floor. Yay.

Hmmm, lessee here. Boozing, wh**ing, prescription drugs and mob ties. This is news? This is scandalous to bring up 50 years later? Honestly, hasn’t this been hashed over and over in print and film for decades?

Personally, I thought Greg Kinnear (JFK) and Barry Pepper (RFK) were outstanding. I wonder how many hours they spent analyzing film footage of their characters. Right down to the very gesture, they channeled Jack and Bobby. It was completely believable and entertaining.  Tom Wilkinson, who I really enjoyed as Ben Franklin in the HBO series John Adams (and for which he won a Golden Globe) was brilliant as patriarch and megalomaniac Joe Kennedy.

The only weak spot was Katie Holmes’s accent. Lordy it was bad. Cross between a Brooklyn housewife and Scarlett O’Hara. Bizarre.

Anyway, the History Channel and other networks were afraid of accusations of right-wing conspiracy, because the show did not paint the Kennedy men in an altogether positive light. I beg to differ. I submit that the script depicted a family in a constant state of perseverance in crisis; of trying to do right by the country while failing sometimes as husbands and fathers. Hello, it happens. And for some, it happens on a grander scale. So what? Compared with what has come after, is “Camelot” that sacred a cow? And artistic license in historical film is not a new concept. Every filmmaker doing this kind of production has employed it, and in this case, it was done wisely and tastefully.

That said, I did wonder a few times: “Where’s Eunice? Where’s Teddy?” They, along with a couple of other K-sibs, were never mentioned. At. All. Never even depicted by random children in the background. Maybe it was too much story, as the tale picked up before WWII and ended with Bobby’s assassination. Still, it was kind of confusing.

But “controversial?” No way.

Bottom line: for whatever “inaccuracies,” I was completely entertained, and so very impressed with the work of the three lead actors (Kinnear, Pepper and Wilkinson). It’s worth watching for that alone. You end up really “pulling” for Jack and Bobby. Therefore, the actors did their jobs. Home run.

So this wasn’t a bona fide review, per se, but I highly recommend it. Go watch it, wouldya.

Hey, I’m off to start the long process of getting the domicile ready for three weeks of wanderlust. Yep, I be excited. Happy Finkday.

Photo © 2010 Kennedys Productions (Ontario) Inc. and Zak Cassar

If that’s a size 10…

I  mean, I think it’s fantastic that she’s dropped so much weight since being on DWTS, but let’s call a spade a spade…and a 14 a 14. And who cares what size she is, really? It’s no one’s business, but if you’re going to make a claim, be honest. Vanity sizing, anyone?

I’ve been watching with great interest the whole Mad Men story with Matthew Weiner, and how his battle with AMC to retain the series the way he wants it almost cost him the whole shootin’ match with Lionsgate. Weiner swears it’s not about money, but rather artistic freedom. Well, sorry Matt, but artistic freedom IS about money, or at least the freedom from being weighed down by its constraints. In other words, it’s always about money for somebody. Looking at the deal he finally struck with the studio (demands that cast members not be cut for financial reasons, Weiner’s reticence to give up two minutes of episode time so AMC could air two more commercials), money is indeed at the forefront of this drama — only with the studio on the major spending end.

I suppose that’s what producers do, after all. Spend money to bring something to the screen. And I’d be more cynical about the whole issue if MM was not my favorite show ever. Worst part: only three more seasons, and it’s all over for good. I guess it had to end somewhere. Truthfully, who wants to see Roger Sterling in a leisure suit? Or anyone else, for that matter? I think 1970 is a good place to stop if it all has to end. Besides, I’m sure Weiner wants the show to go out on a “high,” as opposed to dragging it into an era when the players would surely be watching themselves become extinct in a world that has definitely moved on.

Why do we (I) even get so incredibly attached to a made-up story on television anyway? The vicarious lifestyle, seeing people endure real problems like one’s own, fantasizing about being someone else…I suppose it all figures in. I know that’s why I love fiction, in books and on the screen. This show also brings back memories for me — a kid growing up in the 1960s and 70s. I recognize (and recall fondly) the clothing, the hats, the decor; everything has a personal place for me.

Mad Men will remain my absolute favorite drama of all time — unless something better comes along in the future, which just might happen. But I have to get through the final three seasons, which, at this rate, could take ten years.

What show is your favorite, and why? (Yes, this is where you participate in the discourse, my fiends.)

Yipes I’m late for the shower.

Photo – AMC, Lionsgate

If Charlie Sheen tested negative for drugs after his whacked-out interview with ABC News the other day, then he is far more dangerous than anyone previously thought. And this is the same man who told NBC News that he’s bent on getting his twin sons back where they belong, and that he definitely intends it to be soon (with a wink and a blown kiss to the boys at the end of this interview).

His nutball quotes and trippy non sequiturs have gone viral. If they weren’t caused by drugs, then what? Does the media think this is funny? The man’s lost the one and only explanation that could remotely justify the sensational “fire-breathing fists” and tedious “winning” comments. Being strung out on “seven gram rocks” will at least give a partial reason for the insanity. Now, the only reason is, well, insanity.

Of course, I don’t know all the details from all sides of this circus, so I won’t comment on what I think needs to be done. I’m just saying that Chuckles isn’t doing his case to get his children back one iota of good, boasting to all and sundry that he basically just fell off the cuckoo train.

And we think we have problems.

Oh, and speaking of craziness: rehearsal went pretty well last night. We’ll see what the other shoe decides to do.

I don’t know why, but as kids, we loved to scare each other. Sitting around a campfire telling scary stories, sitting under a blanket with a flashlight while telling scary stories, and sitting in a circle at a Halloween party telling scary stories are all part of my past. Remember chanting I believe in Mary Worth in front of the mirror, then running out of the room shrieking? I do. And I think it scared me even more because I was the little hanger-on in a group made up of my older sister and her friends. Crazy times, I tell ya.

Notice the city and state in the fine print? Well now.

We were never allowed to own one of these, but believe it or not, Parker Brothers manufactured Ouija boards from 1966 – 1999. [The creepy slogan, "It's only a game -- isn't it?", is honestly quite clever.] I can’t remember who had one, but I sat next to someone and watched him/her play once. The player moves a planchette around the board after asking questions, supposedly guided by the “oracle.” Questions are answered yes or no, or they are spelled out letter by letter.

“Ouija,” arguably taken from the combined French and German words for “yes,” first appeared on the entertainment novelty scene in the late 1800s. The history of the game can be found at The Museum of Talking Boards website — home of the ooky planchette cursor.

All *very* important questions.

Of course, you can’t have a cool new naughty toy without some puffed up Poindexter throwing cold water on everyone’s fun. From flat-out calling the Ouija boards satanic tools to yammering about the ideomotor effect, naysayers labeled the game — and anything claiming to have the slightest connection to divination — a hoax.

Well yeah, but…what about Jumanji? How cool was that?

Can you see Hasbro hawking Ouija boards nowadays, when everything’s supposed to be happy and cute and super-positive, and nobody ever shoots the bad guy anymore? Big fat chance.

Did you ever play with a Ouija board, or play the Jumanji game? What creepy stories can you share?

For those not hep to the Netflix savvy, the service allows you to check out DVDs with no return date and no penalty fees. (They just won’t send another one until you return the one you have.) All your movies/TV shows are listed and tracked in your queue. Mine looks like this:

I’m loving The Tudors. As some of you know, I enjoy historical aspects of the British monarchy, especially the period during the Renaissance. I even did a silly, yet mildly interesting post on Henry VIII a couple years ago. (Do you believe I’m talking about this blog in terms of  ”years?” Yumpin’ Yiminy.)

Anyway. When you’re done watching your DVD, you drop it in the prepaid envelope that accompanies the disc, and as soon as they receive it at a local hub, they send out the next one in your queue. Ad infinitum. Love it.

I can watch on my desktop, netbook or laptop anytime, but what’s really neet is streaming the service through the TV: something that Finkite Rae’s boyfiend set up for us last week. (He’s a sweety.) We are really enjoying it. Right there, on the TV. Clicky, clicky. I feel like a big ol’ Jabba the Hutt. Pass me them chocolate bars and Jones potato chips and pigs-in-a-blanket.

I need a vacation. I don’t care that I’ve just had one; I want another one. I want the world. I want the whole world.

Sincerely,
Veruca Salt

Like me.

I’ve never been a video game player. Never even held a controller on a Nintendo or PlayStation or XBox. Wouldn’t know Black Ops from a cyclops. But Angry Birds on my Droid..oh dear, it’s like an opium drip.

The other night, I played it instead of reading my Nook at bedtime. When I downloaded the update a few days ago, I played each night afterwards, at bedtime — and beat all 45 new levels to death. SCORE

I don’t have time for this, really. I’m using my heretofore precious nighttime reading slot to play this ridiculous game. The other day, after school, while I waited for a student’s parent to pick her up from rehearsal, I sat in my car and played it. I’m going mental.

But I can quit anytime I want.

Hey, it’s Finkday — yippity!

The Paratrooper

Anyway.

I laugh when I remember the ridiculous “safety” precautions of roller coasters at the Adventureland and Riverview amusement parks in suburban Chicago back in the mid-60s. I was scared to death of coasters — always had been. But somehow I was talked into riding one on one of our trips. It was the last time I did so for several years.

It was called the Comet, and I don’t even remember who rode with me. The cars were shaped like mini rocket ships, or some kind of streamlined contraption, and all I remember was being thrown by G-force clean out of the miserable excuse for a safety restraint and landing — screaming bloody murder — on the floor in the front “cone” section of the car. The shape of that conveyance was, I’m sure, the reason I didn’t fly completely out. I remember being slightly airborne, then shrieking MOMMY!! over and over for what seemed like an eternity. What was I, seven/eight years old? I think so. Riverview closed in 1967, so it had to be then or before.

I didn’t ride a roller coaster for some years afterwards. Having just moved to Ohio and finally making some friends (it might surprise you to know that I was extremely quiet and reserved in school until I discovered musical theater), I went to the Cedar Point amusement park for the first time as an eighth grader in 1973. Upon entering the park and seeing what looked like a snarl of serpentine wooden evil, I experienced a minor flashback to my horrific coaster ride years ago. Then my friends said, “Hey, let’s get in line for the Blue Streak before everyone else does!”

Yikes. It was do-or-die time. Was I supposed to tell my new friends I was askeered of a stupid roller coaster? No way. So I swallowed my fear (and its accompanying bile) and queued up for my rematch with wheels on metal.

We rounded the initial curve and the chain grabbed and yanked us up the first hill. The downward thrust was kind of thrilling, and I thought Hmmm…I might make it through this. Then, on the second hill, we’d gotten up a head of steam beforehand, and as the train crested the top and started the hard pull into the descent, I will be shot, stabbed, hanged, beat up and buried alive if my little 4-foot-11, 95-lb. body didn’t come clean up out of the seat and over the safety bar, nearly sprawling over top of the people in the car in front of me. I am not kidding you: I dang near fell out. The horror.

It took me a long time to conquer that fear. I finally did, but not until I was well into my 30s. Crazy, eh?

And I won’t even go into the “Ghost Train” nightmare at Riverview, where the train ride stalls in a pitch-black tunnel and all manner of scary creatures — played by real people — emerge from the walls, reaching and grabbing. All this at seven years old…no wonder I’m a flippin nutcake.

FO

Photo credit: Chicago Tribune

I live to serve.

If you’ve never heard of Fatty Arbuckle, you’re probably not alone. His persona has basically been lost to history for decades. But boy, was he a contenda — until the wheels fell off and he was destroyed by innuendo and sensationalism.

In 1918, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle became the first Hollywood actor to sign a contract for $1 million. His physical grace and athletic abilities despite his huge size were legendary. His contemporaries (Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and a very young Bob Hope, to name a few) admired him. The world was his oyster.

Then he went to a party in San Francisco over Labor Day in 1921. Several hours into the bash, a girl named Virginia Rappe ran screaming from a bedroom in the house. Four days later, she came down with an infection and died. Arbuckle was arrested and arraigned for rape and murder.

The rape was particularly brutal (I won’t go into the details here, but you can research it yourself to learn the nauseating facts), and many figured that the only person with the requisite size and strength to pull it off was Roscoe (his friends never called him “Fatty”). People assumed and figured, concocted and presupposed, and before long, Arbuckle was persona non grata in Hollywood. His career was over. There was just one little issue, however.

He didn’t do it.

He endured not only the scorn of his erstwhile adoring public, but the systematic deconstruction of the career he’d spent years building through touring with burlesque and vaudeville companies. Close friends refused to believe he’d done such a horrible thing, but with the combination of an overly-ambitious prosecutor looking for reelection, and a maniacal publisher (Wm. Randolph Hearst) dying to sell newspapers, Arbuckle was doomed. It was the first time that a major movie star was involved in such a spectacular scandal, and everyone wanted their piece of the action.

It was also the first time in the history of American justice that a jury later issued a formal, written apology. Even though they acquitted Arbuckle (at his THIRD trial) for the crime and set him free, they knew his life was irreparably shattered. In their letter to him and to the public, they said in a desperate plea for people to forgive and forget:

Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle. We feel that a great injustice has been done him … there was not the slightest proof adduced to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime. He was manly throughout the case and told a straightforward story which we all believe. We wish him success and hope that the American people will take the judgment of fourteen men and women that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame.”

Too bad it didn’t work out that way. He never recovered from the scandal. He died in 1933.

So, it’s no wonder people like Reggie Bush are counting their blessings today, Heisman or no Heisman. It could have been a lot worse.

But hey, let’s end this on a positive note: BOOMR ARRIVES TONIGHT!!!

Christina Hendricks (on the left, in the gorgeous taupe gown) was lovely, as usual. I for one recognize her acting talent as well as the fact that she is a great physical role model for “regular” women. No worries, Chrissy.

My other favorite series (HBO’s True Blood) was nominated but didn’t win. It’s a rather goofy show, but cool that a saga about vampires and werewolves and other silly creatures has captured the entertainment world’s attention. I also like nominee Breaking Bad, but I never get to watch it for some reason. I’ve settled for the cheapskate recap vids on AMC’s site.

Most deserving was Al Pacino, for his role as Jack Kevorkian. It was by far his creepiest  (I’ve seen every Pacino movie since Panic in Needle Park and Serpico), and right up there with Michael Corleone on the believability scale. Home run.

Then there’s Glee. We won’t talk about that this morning — I’m in a hurry.

RF, still looking for the happy in Mondays

Image credit: Reuters