Melrose: a Place forever in my heart

Here's my type-n-gripe: Is nothing sacred? Nothing unworthy of a do-over? Can sleeping dogs ever lie? Can Amanda Woodward ever drive off into the sunset without looking back?

If you weren't ever a Melrose Place Classic aficionado, then perhaps you aren't perturbed by the miscreants at the CW who have tried to recreate the immortal, beloved, Melrose Place. But I was, and I am.

In the nineties, Melrose was the rightful ruler of Monday nights, full of saucy, crazy, good-looking people in SoCal doing saucy, crazy things. The craziest of all was Dr. Kimberly Shaw (Marcia Cross), who managed to survive death and insanity to plot revenge on her romantic rival Sydney Andrews (Laura Leighton), herself certifiable. Each week, a showcase of rivalry, manipulation, infidelity, rage, dishonesty and lust would roil across the screen . . . all ruled over by advertising agency queen bee Amanda Woodward (Heather Locklear), wearing skirts so short you could see through to the next commercial break.*

Melrose was the brainchild of Sir Aaron Spelling, and it took place during the heady, pre-reality TV days when actors acted and sets visibly wobbled when touched. It was shiny and exciting, full of people better looking than the ones we knew in real life.

The characters for the most part worked in aspirational occupations - fashion, advertising, photography, medicine - and lived in a place a whole lot nicer than our own. They dressed the part, and looked the part. They weren't like us.

They lived in places that looked nice - garden apartments, beachfront properties - and drove fast cars on empty highways.

Now the CW has revisited the past and I'm not quite ready to rewind. If you've ever gone back to the childhood house you grew up in, and found that the cliche is true - really, it's a lot smaller than it seemed when you were growing up - then you'll find Melrose doesn't stand the test of a remake.

Melrose was set in a pre-texting, pre-internet, pre-iPhone age. Target was barely a corner shop in Minnesota when it first aired. Only the seriously deluded would drive a fuel-efficient car, and health care reform never entered Dr. Mancini's brain.

Melrose belongs in the nineties . . . let it rule the decade in peace.



* For a fuller plot synopsis, see IMDB

WTF? culturally correct language

It looks like it's taken me six months to find my login and password for my blog account, which is only partly true. Actually, I've been meaning to write, it's just I've run out of ideas faster than cash in the Cash for Clunkers program. (I thought I'd throw it in as a topical aside.) I did forget my login and password . . . although my browser helpfully reminded me as soon as I tried to sign in tonight.

Anyway, this extended explanation of my six months of silence is just padding. I've only got one observation and it involves popstar Pink. For some reason, I was listening to the local radio station in the car, and a Pink song was playing - "Just Like a Pill." Obviously, I wouldn't ever choose to listen to a Pink song, but I'm not so opposed to Pink that I'd bother taking my hand off the steering wheel to stop her playing on the radio.

So, I'm driving along, listening to the chorus and there's a blank bit. This happens a few times in the song, so I realize, it's intentional and the word rhymes with "witch." Which leads me on to my point. The "b-word" is a big deal stateside, but doesn't really raise much of an eyebrow on the other side of the Atlantic. It's not a compliment, but it's not likely to be scrubbed from lyrics.

Crap, on the other hand, would land you in the crap, so to speak.
Funny old world eh?

Don't Mess with the Emanuel (or "Why the Chief of Staff is the Zohan")

So it's not news that White House Chief of Staff Rahm-bo is a man of many f***ing talents, as he himself would say. But I recently watched the Adam Sandler cinematic showcase, "(You) Don't Mess with the Zohan" and realized that Rahm is the Zohan.

Just in case you haven't seen Zohan, here's a quick synopsis: Zohan (played by Sandler) is the finest counter-terrorist Israel has: he's mean, fast, fatal, lithe and sexy. He can even grill a burger with his manparts.

But Zohan yearns to be a hairdresser. He wants to fulfill his dream of snipping locks and creating styles from the Paul Mitchell model book of the 1980s. He leaves Israel and moves to New York, where he pursues his dream, becomes a "hairdresser with benefits" and falls in love with a Palestinian girl. Needless to say, much hilarity ensues, including a memorable scene where Zohan extinguishes a three-alarm blaze using hummus and an industrial vacuum cleaner.

Now . . . on to Rahm-han. Rahm's just your average foul-mouthed, butt-kicking, proud Jew from Chicago who earned a reputation in Congress as a pit bull before becoming chair of the Dee-Triple-Cee, and finally, Chief of Staff in the Obama administration.

But like Zohan, Rahm's got a sensitive side: Rahm's a ballet dancer. A serious ballet student, he was offered a scholarship to the Joffrey's ballet school in Chicago, but turned it down to go to Sarah Lawrence.

The similarities don't end there. I don't know about grilling with his manparts, but Rahm's certainly seen the blade of a meat cutting machine. While working a high school job at Arby's, he severely cut the middle finger of his right hand, leading to part of it being amputated.

Like Zohan, Rahm has helped Israel in times of trouble. During the first Gulf War in 1991, Zohan, I mean Rahm, worked in Gallilee, fixin' trucks for the Israeli Army.

And best of all, like Zohan, the Chief of Staff is a hit with the ladies. Just type in "Rahm Emanuel is sexy" in Google and away you go - enough hits to make Adam Sandler weep.

All these similarities got me thinking about the Emanuel Brothers. Are they real, or are they from a reality show on steroids? Clearly, Rahm is the Zohan. And brother Ari is played by Jeremy Piven on Entourage. What's the other one? Ezekiel the Bioethicist? I wonder who plays him in real life?

I just love that rug

The quote comes from former President Bill Clinton, a surprise declaration upon entering the Oval Office during a White House lunch January 7, 2009. President Bush invited all three surviving presidents (Carter, Bush 41, Bill), plus then President-elect Obama for a little lunch. Who knows what they talked about ("wide-ranging" according to Perino), but Bill at least could hold his own about interior design.

For the record, the rug is a pale yellow sunbeam design, which Bush brought with him from Texas, and which, by now, should be back in Texas.

I, however, upon reading the quote and looking at the photo thought, gee, he deed-n't . What rug? Who's wearing a rug? Maybe I've been watching too many news items about Blagojevich, but I thought Bill was talking about a male rug.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with a rug, but I prefer the guy who's bald and proud, particularly if he's involved in the higher offices of government. Talk about transparency.

Naturally, my mind wandered to the issue of Bald Presidents. I quickly whipped out my spill-friendly plastic place mat with all the pictures of the presidents helpfully lined up. (This, by the way, is an excellent place setting for dinner parties. Not only is it a conversation starter - who's your favorite president? etc. - but its waterproof surface is ideal for drunken guests who might knock over their drinks.)

Back to the place mat: Eisenhower looks a little thin on top, but I wouldn't call him bald, per se, but you have to go back to John Quincy Adams (1825-1829) and John Adams (1797-1801) before you get a follicle-free pate. On the flip side, Andrew Jackson (1829-1837 has enough on top to challenge Don King in the ring; Chester Arthur (1881-1885) puts the mutton in mutton chop sideburns; and Benjamin Harrison (1889-1893) has a beard that enters a room several minutes before he does.

According to my fine academic study of my place mat, recent presidents are all non-bald. How's that for a glass ceiling?

4:30 Inauguration Day

I know that more than enough will be written about today's historic inauguration, about President Obama, the First Lady and their adorable daughters. I wasn't there on the Mall, on the steps of the Capitol, on the parade route, at one of the balls, but I was on the sofa.

First off, I woke up this morning at around 4:30 AM. I didn't mean to. I just did. I couldn't sleep, so I got up, trod in cold cat sick (gee, thanks Mr. Bojangles), and sat and watched local TV here in DC. I watched the lines at Metro stations, the lines to get into the parking lots at the end of the Metro rail system, the lines at the security checkpoints for the Mall. As soon as they were allowed on to the Mall, people ran, they hightailed to get a good spot. It may sound dopey, but it was uplifting to see people, bundled up, in the pre-dawn hours, breaking into a gallop in an effort to witness something that they wouldn't miss for the world.

There were people who'd driven over night to be there, some who'd spent practically a day or so just traveling by train or car. Some were alone, some with a dozen family members.

I spent some time channel surfing, and without exception, all the news anchors looked freezing, even in front of those scorching TV lights. They seemed genuinely shocked that they'd had trouble getting to work at 4 AM, which let's face it, under normal circumstances, they'd find a breeze.

While I was watching in the dark, the street lit up with the headlights of a neighbor's car - they were setting off for the Mall.

At 4:30 this morning, it seemed like everyone in the world was up and making their way to the Mall. My journey was to the sofa, with cat sick along the way.

Hold a Gun to My Head, I'll Get Creative

Anyone who works in a creative field or uses creative services is familiar with the Eleventh Hour Syndrome. Given a creative brief, it's not until two weeks have passed, the presentation to the client is due tomorrow and the printer's out of ink that anything remotely creative happens. For some reason, time and resources hinder, not nurture, execution.

Who thought the same principle would apply to the US auto industry? The Big Three, not known for nimbly adapting to the marketplace (unless you count selling the same truck for thirty years as adapting to the marketplace), have finally shown up ten minutes before the deadline with some good ideas.

This month's Detroit North American Industry Auto Show seems to contain enough good ideas that one might actually stick and make it into production before the bridge loans are due. Clearly, innovation isn't the sole prerogative of the Big Three, it's just such a surprise because since the oil crisis of the 1970s, it's only been in the past three years that the light finally went on in the creative department.

I hope they can catch FedEx.

Walking Back to Happiness

DC is literally giddy. The city is beside itself with excitement, filled with anticipation and an underlying sense that something historic will happen on January 20.

For a start, the First Family-elect is in town, ensconced at the Hay-Adams Hotel, attending school, shutting down streets and chowing down at Ben's Chili Bowl.

Whenever I meet anyone these days, they greet me with, "Are you going to the Inauguration?". We twitter about who's going, who's got tickets, who's got access. Everyone is planning elaborate ways to get into the city. Inauguration day is a test of your initiative.

Virginians face a roadblock of no bridge access. Recommended alternative: walk.

People heading in from Maryland might be better off, but only if most of the population stays home that day: traffic on the roads into DC is usually a parking lot on non-inaugural days.

Bus and Metro have piled on extra services, but still the message is: walk. It might take a couple of hours, but you'll get there.

Of course, many welcome the test. After all, President-elect Obama's road to the White House was hardly an easy ride, so why should we just cruise down to the Mall? We are happy to walk. Every step that's taken will be one away from the current administration and a step toward what many hope is a new era for America.

As Yogi Berra said, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."

The Dog Days of An Administration

Oh, it's so interesting to witness the last days of an administration, the hours before a new president takes up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania, and the guy on the way out mustn't forget to pack his toothbrush.

Signs of the clock ticking down are all around town. Maybe it's just me, but the White House landscaping looks a little shabbier these days. On the Metro in the morning, you see GOP career appointees traveling to work with a mixture of resignation (literally) and sadness, feeling as though they have not been invited to the social event of the season that everyone's talking about. "Something will turn up, I just have to wait a bit," is how they greet one another.

Washington has become a city-wide revolving door, with every car with a Texas license plate heading out west, past the Beltway, back into the hinterland. The Washington Post relegates reporting on the President's activities to the nosebleed section of the paper. It seems like recent coverage of the death of India, Bush family cat of 18 years, was the only time the President made the front page in the last few months. Suddenly, POTUS 43 is not on the guest list. The cheesy tourist gift shops are crammed with Obama-belia. Bush? Sorry, no Bush here.

There's No Smoke Without Smoke

I went to the mall the other day, and spent a perfectly lovely afternoon idly watching consumer spending slip into oblivion.

After a few hours of trawling the retail walkways of capitalism past, I began to feel sorry for all those stores acting as if the economy hadn't thudded to a stop like an Aunt Annie's pretzel dropped from the roof of the mall to the floor of the food court.

But if things were bad for the shop owners, they were exponentially worse for the slightly obscure retailers you find hawking their wares on those carts cluttering the mall avenues. You know, the ones parked in the areas between the real shops, selling face cream you've never heard of, or pushing violent kick boxing video workouts designed to make you tough and fit. This particular afternoon, I noticed a deathly sales pallor at the moccasins cart - the one that sells only fluffy moccasin products - and at the cute-but-overpriced children's sweater cart. Maybe the market for snuggly footware will bounce right back soon, but somehow, it didn't seem that way when I was at the mall.

Most alarming, though, was the smokeless cigarette stand. Activity over there had been all-but-extinguished, but somehow, I feel that it wasn't just the recession to blame. An imitation smoking product? Hmm. Whose smart marketing idea was that?

Unsurprisingly, the product is aimed at smokers. It's designed for smokers who really, really need to hold something in their nicotine-stained fingers when they want to smoke but can't. The video playing at the moribund mall cart showed a man in a restaurant being asked, in full view of a "no smoking" sign, to put out his cigarette. He took offense momentarily. And then he pointed to his cigarette . . . the smokeless cigarette.

The product is basically a stick of stainless steel that emits a smoke-like vapor. A little red light on the end completes the illusion. It reminds me of something you'd find in an old-fashioned magic shop. Yikes! He's on fire! Oh no, not really. It's a trick cigarette. Ha, ha. I was fooled.

The funny thing is, the video promoted how "cool" it was to smoke . . . it showed movie stars from the forties and fifties, sucking away, all film noir. Really? It's cool to pretend to suck on a fake cigarette? Kids at my elementary school used to do that with pens, and it wasn't really cool back then. In fact, the pens often leaked, and the cool kid pretending to smoke a pen ended up with an inky stain around their mouth.

Maybe the smokeless cigarette is really an anti-smoking subterfuge: if you think this looks stupid, try the real thing. Totally stupid.