Saturday, February 3, 2024

Those Quiet Moments: The Ranker Event

 My wonderful in-laws celebrated their 60th anniversary this past November.  We had a great party with family, friends, food, and other "f" words, but not what you think.  Frivolity, fun, and fantastic vibes.

That's what I'm talking about.  60 years is a heck of an achievement.  Congratulations, I do love you both deeply.

So, my wonderful in-laws, Frank and Mary, received a slew of meal gift cards from the many guests.  So, of course a Friday evening a few weeks back, they invited us to have dinner with them courtesy of the gift card extravaganza, this particular one from Red Lobster (For the Seafood Lover in You!).  

I hate seafood. 

Me and the youngest had cheeseburgers. But, I must say, for a seafood establishment it was a pretty damn good cheeseburger.  Cameron would agree with me.

We enjoyed our dinner and conversation thoroughly and had reached the point of being ready to go home.  Now Frani and her Dad are given to the occasional sweet tooth.  Both of them were lamenting the fact that McDonalds no longer has the fried apple pies that were a pretty cool dessert choice back in the 1970's.  I believe that it was some sort of litigious event involving the hot apple interior and people who don't read packaging safety instructions that led to McDonalds converting to a rather bland and much cooler turnover style apple pie in the modern day. 

Either that, or the health kick that has also led to Baked Lay's Potato Chips. 

But not Whataburger.  Oh, no.  They're still slingin' the real deal to this day. 

So, as the dinner gods would have it, there is a Whataburger right next door to the Red Lobster (For the Seafood Lover in YOU!) that we were dining at.   


We decided to go through the drive thru and that's where this story gets stupid. 

Frank pulls up to the speaker and here is the exchange; scripted, and with permission of the federal government, unredacted.

Speaker:  "Hi! Welcome to Whataburger, how can I help you?"

Frank: "Hey there!  I'll take 3 apple pies, please."

Speaker: "3 apple pies?  That'll be 5.49.   The name please?"

Let me interject here.  At this point all of us in the car were a bit surprised by him asking the name as this order was not placed using a mobile device or internet connection.   A bit odd.  

Frank:  "Frank"

Speaker:  "Ranker?"  (My father-in-law's head cocked back in utter confusion at this)

Now, we're in trouble.  Frani, Cameron, and myself have begun struggling to attempt to restrain laughter at this.  Cameron reminds us of the time that we stopped at a hotel on a trip, and the concierge couldn't find the name that my wife got the reservation with.  After 15 minutes of keyboard-clacking and conferring with management, she asked Frani:

"Are you Rrances Will?"   This irritated me.  I wanted to say something along the lines of "How many Frances and Rrances with the same last name do you expect would make a reservation for the same day and time?"   But I didn't. 

Ranker?

Frank: "No, it's Frank"

Speaker:  "Okay, please pull around the drivers ahead of you, to the stop sign"

Now, I'm thinking this is no biggie.  We just ordered 3 apple pies, and they probably need to be dropped into the deep frier.  I was wrong.

Now as soon as my father-in-law pulls up to the stop sign, someone comes flying out of the door and down the steps of the side entrance of the Whataburger, and begins racing for the car.  In an extremely surreal exchange, he hands over the bag, and asks for the money.  Frani hands Frank $6.00, which he hands to the Whataburger employee, now panting like a dog in a 100 degree room.  With that he said "thanks" and bee-lined back to the restaurant with not a single mention of change. 

We were all caught off guard. Chortling laughter had begun with the word "ranker" and went on through the pull up to the stop sign and the track-star Whataburger apple pie messenger.  It continued through his complete ignoring of the fact that the money handed him exceeded the price of the purchase, before he pulled a speed trial rocket run back to his place of employment.

Frank was baffled.  Mary was laughing hard, and Frani and I were roaring in the back seat, as everything that happened in that 60 seconds was so stupid and bizarre (and a tad surreal) we could do little else. 

Regardless of it all, 3 people had their apple pies, and all was right with the universe, even if it was tilted in a somewhat odd way.


Ranker?

Wednesday, January 10, 2024

Spectrum: Tangerine Dream

 

What caused me to fall in love with the haunting music of Tangerine Dream was a trailer I saw for William Friedkin’s Sorcerer on Spectrum. Now many of you have heard this music used in other trailers for films that the music never appeared in.  "Betrayal" is a standby used by many for years to punctuate the drama of the film they were trying to sell in a trailer. 

Tangerine Dream's music is a synthesizer driven soundscape very similar to what John Carpenter creates for his films, and even more so, his Lost Themes albums. I own several Tangerine Dream albums including the soundtracks for Sorcerer and Thief, and some of their own commercially released LPs. 

Their music is infinitely unique and definitely lends itself to films, to images, to facial expressions,  to the works of many great artists. I mean, even in a film like Miracle Mile which has a different tone than many of the other films that Tangerine Dream's music has graced, the Dream makes it work . Miracle Mile is a soundtrack that I own and adore, but has a magic quite different, yet equally as powerful as their other works.

But I’ll never forget the power in that trailer for Sorcerer on Spectrum. It’s a fantastic film.  I’ve seen it several times to this day.  But Watching that two minute trailer, hearing that haunting music accompanying those images and those facial expressions and not knowing at all what was happening,  I was transfixed before having even seen it.

Sorcerer is a great movie and I highly recommend anyone see it.  Is it horror? No, but yes. Is it action? No, but yes. Is it crime? 

No, but yes.

   


William Friedkin may have made The Exorcist, The French Connection, and  To Live and Die in LA, but the one movie of his that has a cult following, however deserves much more, is indeed Sorcerer, which was based on Arnaud’s book The Wages of Fear

If it wasn’t for Spectrum, I may have never discovered this film, Tangerine Dream, or the depths of Billy Friedkin . 



Baseball Cards and Funny Names

 


I know I've written about baseball cards on here before, as well as baseball itself.   But have I written about the silly-ass kid mentality involved ? 

Probably Not. 

One of the joys of collecting baseball cards as an adolescent, and looking at or trading them with your friends is laughing at some of the players names.  Sometimes, you're just aghast at them.  What about guys like the late Biff Pocoroba?  How about legendary Bill Naharodony?  Buddy Biancalana anyone?  Maybe, just maybe, you're a fan of Kurt Bevacqua (who Tommy Lasorda once said "couldn't hit water if he fell out of a fuckin' boat") and his Bazooka world record gum bubble, and accompanying card?

One of my friends in the sixth grade and I often got a chuckle at just what the name looked like.  He referred to a California Angels pitcher as Don "Ass".  Yes, it was spelled "Aase", (and pronounced Ah-Say) but giant blasts of laughter would explode from both of us if one of us uttered "What do you want to trade me for my 1979 Don Ass?"  Your eyes viewed the name, your brain processed it, and your mouth pronounced: "Ass". 

Children.

Of course even adults will do this.  I occasionally watch videos from the online baseball card chap with the moniker "Junk Wax Sal" who records himself opening packs.  He has come across a late 80's card of the Mr. Aase, and also referred to him as "Don Ass".   Sal's a grown-ass man.   I guess the shit will always be funny, if you're at least partly a child at heart. 


Of course when it comes to baseball players with unfortunate names, there's a legendary pairing.  Dick Pole and Peter LaCock.  I am in no way, shape, or form making those names up.  And if you need evidence try this out from the always great Josh Wilker:  Cardboard Gods

I've written that baseball and humor go together like chocolate and peanut butter.  It's borderline perfection, like they were almost made for one another.   So, why should it be any different that baseball cards are often funny? There's snafus of course, like the 1979 Topps card of Bump (Bump?  Gales of laughter were emitted up into the atmosphere from youngsters that were visible from satellites at that name) Wills in his full Rangers regalia on a card designated for a player for the Blue Jays. 

In reality, errors exist all over the card world and have for decades.  But what about shit that happens in camera?  Like "Fuck Face" being written on the knob of Billy Ripken's bat as he poses for his card not knowing it's there.  Or Bob Uecker batting left handed in his 1965 Topps card, though he was a pure right handed batsmen?  Leave it to Bob to pull the wool over the eyes of the Topps Chewing Gum company.

Reasons to laugh can boil down to many things, whether it's a stupid looking face, a guy with a monstrosity of a last name, (or one that evokes naughty words), or goofy errors in the printing or photography process, (I'm sure to this day that Aurelio Rodriguez is thrilled that his 1969 Topps Card is actually the Angels bat boy).  Because of all of this, I can always look back at those days, remember my own laughter and that of my friends, and smile. 









Musical Thoughts: “I like the old stuff”





A lot of people utter the phrase “I like their old stuff”, particularly when it comes to actors, directors, and authors. 

But, boy does it come into play with musicians and bands. 

For instance, in my opinion, Aerosmith was better before their 1980 break up.  The Stones reached their peak with Sticky Fingers. Glass Houses was Billy Joel’s epoch. 

But the peak of all this discussion to me is AC/DC.  Their best stuff hands down was the Bon Scott era. Powerage, Let There Be Rock, and Highway to Hell are amongst the greatest hard rock albums ever.

But with that, comes a bit of a mystery.  I fell in love with AC/DC at the age of 9 with Back in Black . This, of course was their first record after Bon died, sadly from alcohol induced aspiration in January of 1980. 

Bon was a legendary gutter poet. It’s true many of their songs were about sex, booze, and Rock and Roll, but Bon had a way with double entendres and turns of phrase that made the lyricism smarter than it’s topics.  Unlike the post-Back in Black material however, Bon could venture into territory that stretched a bit.  What’s Next to the Moon, Down Payment Blues, Overdose, and If You Want Blood were songs about the human condition and even ventured into political or somewhat romantic territory. 

This is where my question lies.  Back in Black's lyrics were gutter poetry at its finest.  And Bon’s replacement, Brian Johnson, never wrote lyrics like the ones that appeared on that album ever again.  Despite the bands insistence that Brian wrote all the lyrics, did he then only have one album in him?  

What about the episode of VH-1’s Behind the Music where Malcom Young stated that the music was set and the rest of the band were “ready for bon” just before he passed away?  I don’t know that I believe the songs were complete without the lyrics and even some of the vocals being demo-ed.  Historically, I don’t know that the band worked that way. 

We will never really know, but when I listen to You Shook Me All Night Long, Have a Drink On Me, and Rock and Roll aint Noise Pollution,  I have my doubts about the author of Back in Black's lyrics. Especially knowing that What Do You Do For Money Honey had been written as far back as Powerage

It’s all a mystery, and will remain so.  It’s been said Bon played drums on some of Back in Black's demos, and past interviews stated Bon contributed “a little bit” lyrically. 

Who knows?  

If you read The Last Highway by Jesse Fink, I think you’ll be further convinced. 

Saturday, December 30, 2023

Auld Lang Psychopaths: Terror Train

The 1980 slasher flick Terror Train wasn't half bad actually.  It's blessed with a solid story, and decent young actors.  Old Hollywood legend Ben Johnson (many of you horror afficianados will know him as the Texas Ranger from The Town That Dreaded Sundown) helps ground performances that may have otherwise gotten out of control.  This was one of Jamie Lee Curtis' Scream Queen flicks before she jumped that ship, and believe it or not it presents a very young David Copperfield as "The Illusionist".


   

Oh yeah, and the biggest asshole in the cast is played by Hart Bochner, who many would know from the Christmas Classic Die Hard as the co-worker of Holly Gennaro who gets himself killed by claiming to be a friend of John McClane's.  With coke on his mustache, and Coke in his glass,  he gets that smug grin blown off of his face by Hans Gruber.  Bochner has a gift for playing dickheads.


Terror Train starts simply enough with a bunch of Freshman sorority members partying down and pulling a pretty dark prank on a helpless geek who ends up in a mental hospital as a result.  Jamie Lee Curtis is reluctantly involved in the cold hearted gag initiated by Bochner's soulless character. 

We jump three years forward and these same Med Students are going to celebrate New Year's Eve partying it up on a luxury train complete with a band, costumes, and David Copperfield's magic gymnastics.  The only problem is someone is murdering people on the train.  Is it our helpless gag victim from the beginning, or someone else?

The film is actually well written, with solid dialogue and acting from the students to the veteran Johnson as the train's conductor.  All these characters are pretty well set up from the get-go, and you get to know most of them fairly well, which makes you care just a little bit more than you would in your average slasher film when they meet their unfortunate fates.

Technically the film has a lot going for it.  It truly was shot on a train and not a set (according to Eli Roth's History of Horror) causing tricky lighting requirements provided by cinema legend John Alcott, whose career only includes A Clockwork Orange, Barry Lyndon, The Shining, No Way Out, and Vice Squad, among others.  Director Roger Spottiswoode, who would go on to a long and successful career keeps things tight and moving, and gets decent work from his actors and crew.  This couldn't have been an easy shoot. 

Kudos to all involved, and if it's New Year's horror you're looking for, Terror Train is a pretty good ride. 







Auld Lang Syne Language: Pee Wee and Me and New Years Eve



In the very early 80's, The Holidays were always very important to me, before and after my father passed away.   I had (and sometimes still do) a tendency to develop a bit of a post-holiday depression.  The way to counteract that was to stretch the holidays into New Year's Day, with the post-Christmas highlight being New Year's Eve.  My mom would often go out to celebrate the ringing in of the new year with friends, so my sister Pee Wee and I often stayed home for the big event. 

We actually had fun, (I know I did anyway) and part of that was Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve.  We would toss some Pizza Rolls in the oven, crack open some Cokes, fill the Pepsi Superman glasses and have a blast in the early part of the evening by playing board games, with Solid Gold and then maybe a movie playing in the background.  Then, when Dick Clark took the air, we enjoyed the bands playing live music from different locations across the 50 states, and then watching the ball drop at evening's end.  

It may not sound like much, but Pee Wee is a bit older than me, and it had to be a bit of a pain in the butt to spend New Year's Eve with her annoying little brother.  New Year's wasn't the only time she was saddled with the responsibility of little Rob.  All my siblings were cursed with that burden at times during this period, and I'm sure it was a pain, but they rarely showed it.  God Bless all of them.  

But it was always nice to have someone to stay up late with on December 31st and greet what would hopefully be a better year ahead, and know I was in a safe place with someone I loved.  

Thanks, Pee Wee. 



Auld Lang Syne Language: Tim, Myself, and B-ball on New Year's Eve

 



December 31, 1985

The folks were going out somewhere on New Year's Eve.  I don't remember where it was.  My brother Tim and I were getting bored.  It was mid-afternoon, and we took our restless asses and a basketball to a nearby court.  There, some guys in their late teens were shooting hoops, and asked us if we wanted to join them.  I was pretty much against it; as despite having no nerves, I had no ball handling skills.  I had a hell of a nice jump shot, but that was only if it was unimpeded and since I had no ups, the odds of it getting blocked were pretty damn good.  But Tim, competitive as his ass was, wanted in.  I guess I could just be a passer in the round and get it to a shooter, and I'd be good. 

One of these guys on the other team in our little pick-up game looked like a redneck Channing Tatum with a meth issue. He came complete, muscular and shirtless with cut off shorts and a buzz cut. He also had a bad habit of saying "It's in your booty" anytime he scored.  Those who know me, know that I have absolutely no fucking patience for that kind of repeated verbal ridiculousness.  So, as the game wore on, and the "booties" were piling up, I pulled Tim aside and told him I didn't know how much more I could take of the guy. 

That's when Tim started making it rain. 

Tim was not a tall guy, but he was quick.  He got open, took my passes and began splashing shots from all over the court.  He began to glove booty-man on defense to the point where he wasn't saying that stupid phrase anymore.  Eventually, the sun gave us a tap on the shoulder and let us know that it was time to go home.  The unknown teammates and counterparts said goodnights and happy new year as we headed off.

Except for the "King of putting stuff in your booty".  He seemed less than happy, as he gazed at his shoes while we left. 

Tim and I got back to the townhouse, called for a Domino's, drank Miller High Life, and watched movies until the New Year rang in. I believe Bruce Lee was sidekicking Bob Wall into a group of seated onlookers as the clock struck twelve.  It wasn't a bad New Year's Eve, as Waco, Texas was not exactly the high point of my youth, but it could have been worse.   

It was actually pretty damn good.  My brother is no longer with us, and times between He and I were always inconsistent, but the dawning of 1986 was actually a pretty damn good day with him. 

Happy New Year, Tim.