My kind of religion
I Attended Halle Berry’s star ceremony on the Hollywood Walk of
Fame and was quite impressed as I didn’t think her performance
in
”
Monster’s Ball
”
warranted an Academy Award and thought her acceptance speech a
laughable embarrassment.
My kind of religion
I Attended Halle Berry’s star ceremony on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and was quite impressed as I didn’t think her performance in “Monster’s Ball” warranted an Academy Award and thought her acceptance speech a laughable embarrassment. Her performance in that film was good but I think she is much better as Storm in the X-Men films as she does something that few stars of comic book movies do; she acts as though she is anything but a super hero. And yes, she is even more beautiful and articulate in person. Too bad she doesn’t prove that “Monsters Ball” wasn’t a fluke and show us just what a great actress she is by doing something, say, like “Catwoman.”
Guess my mommy, Ferlin Husky, and the church must have brought me up wrong, but why did I laugh so hard Sunday morning when I spilled my beer reading this: “Chicago Archbishop slips on Holy Water, Hurts Hip.” And that is why I never try to get close to Holy Water but fire water, you betch ‘m Kimo Sabe.
Speaking of my education at Sacred Heart in Hollister, I want my tuition back. In the same Sunday paper I read of a school that really knows something about teaching. Sex education at Sacred Heart in the fifth grade was a warning about “impure thoughts.” Last week at one of our fine progressive schools five fifth-graders were caught having sex in the classroom when the teacher returned from the principal’s office. Hopefully she was having sex, too. Even here at the senior center it’s either super sex or soup or sex, got to get this damned hearing aid fixed. I’ve got to be fixed. Aye chee waa waa!
A friend in San Juan calls to tell me that one of his friends in Hollister said that she always feels guilty reading my column. Not as guilty as I feel writing it. “Maria Sanchez” (not her real name) was a San Jose transplant and about seven years ago she called the bank manager where my wife worked and said the lines were too slow. She told the manager it was because the elderly tellers had to ask everyone how they were, how was the family and how was grandpa doing at Hazel Hawkins Hospital.
A couple of years pass and all culprits have either transferred, retired or moved to Hollywood.
“Maria” goes on to tell my friend when the older women left, the lines did indeed move faster. She now saves a minute or two but there is no one greeting her as the old gals did. No one cares how she is, or her family and the new, young and improved ones keep getting her mixed up with every other “Maria Sanchez” in San Benito County. The old broads always knew who she was and not once out of a hundred transactions did they make that mistake.
“Maria” once was special and now she’s relegated to “Not her real name” in a gossip column.
A salute to those old PHARTS. (People Having A Real Terrific Satori): Ofelia, Ersilia, Jean, April, Nancy, Jo and Edna and to all the women in San Benito County who know it’s not how fast but how good. Aye chee waa waa!
Director Bob Clark was killed last week by yet another illegal with no driver’s license. Clark directed hundreds of films and television shows, but was really famous for only two. And they couldn’t be more different. The randy teen epic “Porky’s” and the best Christmas movie ever, “The Christmas Story,” about the boy and a bb gun and his father who thought a lamp shaped in the form of woman’s leg ranked right there with the Sistine Chapel. He was wrong. The woman’s leg lamp is a real piece of art.
Still laughing at that news report from Middle America where a Lt. Governor was killed in a car accident and the announcer says “Name withheld until the notification of next of kin”.
Yet another Soup and Salad place is closed down in Los Angeles, E. coli. You people just don’t get it. Every morning I sit here with Milwaukee’s semi-best reading the obituaries of younger, much younger people kicking the bucket with the final sentence asking to make donations to the Vegan’s Rule or some Walk-a-thon. Worse yet, when I get my Pinnacle and Fifty Cent Lance’s and friends of mine from San Juan, Hollister, Tres Pinos and beyond who have gone to that great beyond in their cutesy Bicycle outfits or $400 running shoes clasping their Gold’s Gym membership cards for their now non-existent cardiovascular. I still have a membership card to a gym. The card expired before I did.
