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In Memoriam: Patrick Swayze
In Memoriam: Patrick Swayze

G.I. JOE , THE 'REAL' ONE DISCUSSES THE MOVIE WITH HIS NAME IN IT
BY Eleanor Tylbor


After a stressful period of being relegated to a toy factory along with his love, BARBIE and her ex, KEN, the real G.I. JOE is quite upset that a movie has been made using his name as a draw. In a hastily called press conference, G.I. JOE with BARBIE by his side in his words, "wanted to clear the air."

"This is really bisrusting," G.I. Joe blustered waving his trusty machine gun in the air to emphasize his emotional angst. "They've gone and used my name and they didn't even ask me if they could!"

"Disgusting, Joe" the designer-dressed Barbie commented, smoothing her body-fitting dress and smiling for the photographers.

"Wha...?"

"You said, 'bisrusting'. There's no such word as bisrusting," Barbie emphasized, fixing her blond, vinyl hair and cleaning her teeth with her finger. "It's disGUSTING."

"Yeah! You're right on, babe! It is disbust...disrust...whatever she said! This G.I. Joe movie thingie isn't even a real person, like me. It's a military unit! Nobody bothered to ask me, a gen-u-ine soldier if I wanted to be in it. I would'a liked to, 'ya know!"

"Um...GI - remember you lost a foot when we busted out of the warehouse," Barbie interrupted the rant. "

"So? I could have sat at a table or something and held down the fort! Nobody would'a noticed." G.I. explained. "On top of it all, some dudes who call themselves Duke and Ripcord got jobs! But not me, G.I. Joe, the original soldier. It ain't fair!"

"I'll tell you what's not fair," Barbie intervened, "to have to walk on tippy-toes all your life, like me."

"Yeah - you're right as usual, babe. That's much worse than having your leg shot off. Hey - wanna go see the movie with my name in it? I got free tickets."

Placing a crutch under one arm and leaning on Barbie with the other, the pair left the room.

"Do you have to lean on me so much?" Barbie commented. "You're crushing my hair."

http://www.gijoemovie.com/

In the beginning, there was no television. I know this because I saw it on the History channel. Back then, hunting was not only man’s primary means of obtaining meat, but also a major source of artistic inspiration. At night early man slept, club in hand, dreaming of hunts to come—but not until he’d carved vivid accounts of that day’s exploits into the walls of his cave. This hobby effectively got him out of having to wash the dishes (Damn it, Rhonda, I’m busy! When’s the last time you drew me slaying a mammoth around here anyway?”), and would someday provide him with countless hours of diversion when he found himself trapped in the cave due to a meteor shower or the ice age.

Man eventually moved from the cave to a loft in the artsy district, but although he and his descendants were evolving, plot lines seldom ventured beyond the realm of familiar everyday themes. Greek tragedies, for instance were simply reenactments of tragic events in Greek history. The Roman’s idea of relaxation after a long day at the massacre was watching gladiators hack it up in the arena. It was not until Shakespeare started writing plays in which Italians spoke perfect English that the audience was required to suspend disbelief for a minute, but even then, he still threw in enough fairies and Jewish stereotypes to make his tales relatable to all.

Opera contributed by introducing characters who lived in a perpetual state of extreme song, their subsequent tragic deaths being the plot’s only link to the rational. Ballet pitched in, too, nudging the door of man’s imagination open yet wider each time a ballerina sprung across the stage in impossibly tight pants.

By the early 20th century, however, most people couldn’t afford to go to live shows thanks to economic constraints, flu epidemics and world war. Understandably, this period is known as the Great Depression. Fortunately, radio momentarily saved the day, allowing listeners to enjoy thrilling crime stories from the safety of their own homes, without even having to read.

But the grand prize, of course, went to television. Thanks to TV, our minds were finally free to prance through the worlds of heroes and villains, penetrate deep space or chuckle at talking animals at the click of a button. We had finally achieved complete detachment from reality, no conscious thought or cruelty to mammoths required. No longer was art merely imitating life; it was instead dictating it. Naturally, it was just a matter of time before someone fingered TV for the decline of our civilization.

Realizing we had created a monster that had to be controlled, a strategy was devised by which real people dealing with real moral, real personal and real serious issues were sent behind hostile lenses to infiltrate the world of television, just as it had infiltrated ours.

Unfortunately, the codename of the operation—Reality TV—blew its own cover, and television promptly resolved to exact its revenge. It didn’t take a lot. All TV had to do was turn our own weapon against us, sit back and watch what happened. More unfortunately, we still haven’t caught on that TV has caught on, although the fact that many of its most rightfully defunct former stars are once again being regurgitated onto our TV screens via the reality show ticket should be a clue. 

And so here we are, trapped in a Dog Eat Dog, Surreal Life with Jon and Kate, unaware of The Mole in The Real World, engaged in a less than Amazing Race with The Bachelor, The Apprentice, and their Big Brother, Real TV, to see who will be The Biggest Loser or at least America’s Next Top Model. There can be only one Survivor.

As for me, I’m gonna wash the dishes, or maybe draw a mammoth.   

As originally reported by TMZ and followed by the LA Times , we are saddened to report the death of celebrity entertainer Michael Jackson. Jackson collapsed from a cardiac arrest this afternoon in Los Angeles, California. As his family rushed to the hospital, the news quickly swelled on social media sites such as Twitter and [...]

NOTE TO SELF: PASS ON RENTING "SLUM DOG MILLIONAIRE"

Let's say... you're a film company who travels to Mumbai, India, to shoot a film focusing upon and that takes place in the Mumbai slums.

Let's say... you come accross some children living in the slums that would be perfect for your film and a decision is made to use them. The word "use" being the key word here.

The film becomes a huge success beyond everyone's wildest dreams and is nominated for an Academy Award. As a perk and perhaps even a promotional gimmick, the child actors are brought to the awards show all dressed up as movie stars usually are. Once the hoopla is over the young actors are returned home and back to their former lives of subsisting from day-to-day, living in shacks. One day a celebrity and now a homeless person.

Young 10-year old "Slumdog Millionaire" star, Azharuddin Ismail, was asleep when awakened and told to leave his family's home as part of a demolition of dozens of Mumbai shanties. It was among 30 shacks razed by city workers. As if that wasn't bad enough and according to Azhar, he was hit by a police officer. For their part authorities are saying that his family will be given a new home elsewhere.

Although the film earned US $326 million in box office receipts, the lives of the Mumbai "actors" haven't benefited from their appearing in the film.

"Slumdog" filmmakers set up a trust, called Jai Ho, after the hit song from the film, to ensure the children get proper homes, a good education and a nest egg when they finish high school. They also donated $747,500 to a charity to help slum kids in Mumbai.

Given this recent setback, it would seem that Azhar needs some of that charity money right away to get a roof over his family's head. Thing is - will he get it.

So Eleanor, it's been a while since any new updates have been provided. How are things going with you in the playwriting arena?

Same old, same old. Still pursuing that evasive first play production and sending out queries to various competitions and theatres. Whenever I send out my play followed by that inevitable wait for a response, I've managed to convince myself that a long wait indicates that they/a theatre really like it and want to discuss it's merits among themselves.

"Hey Paul (or Jessica or whoever) - did you read that Tylbor play? Wasn't it hysterical? We gotta find a place for it this season!"

If this were only the case!

Also been re-reading some of my older plays and evaluating the dialogue and plots. Frequently, the concept that perhaps I only have two full plays in me surfaces. It took me almost two years to write them and umpteen years: translation: still updating, years to perfect them to the point they are now. Anyway...

Each day I check into my favorite playwriting site, The Playwright's Forum. The forum, which in my opinion is one of the best playwright-related places on the Web, is moderated by Edward Crosby-Wells and Paddy who keep things running smoothly. The site is a gathering place for both professional and neophyte professionals who offer advice and critiques when asked, in addition to sharing 'calls-for-submission' that come up. It is also the place to share successes and bemoan bad reviews or not-so-successes. On occasion and to encourage playwrights, Edd holds two-page contests for a real prize. It's a very nurturing place to hang out and highly recommended for playwrights of all levels.

When it comes to tweaking - I'm right up there. I can agonize over the meaning of a word for hours. Realistically, it's obvious that the misuse or misplacement of a word ain't gonna make a whole lot of difference or impact on whether a theatre will accept a play or not. Frequently, I get bogged down with stupid details. For example in my short, "Elvis: The Real Story" I spent 45 minutes assessing whether I should rename my female character whose current name is "Tammy." So I'm thinking: maybe Tammy is an outdated name. Perhaps another more current name like Emily, Sharon, Amanda could make a difference. This is usually followed by a period of self-deprecation and a general internal rant of "why-do-I-continue-this-continuous-search-for-recognition" to be followed by a general acknowledgement of my ability and creativity to use the right words in an entertaining way.

I've also decided it's time to add to one of my plays-in-the-making, "Dead Writes", which I started and have added to over the years. In my humble opinion, it's got potential and the makings of a good story. It's a comedy-come-mystery-come-love-story, which is always popular. The more I write about it, the more appeal it has.

Let's see now...I've wasted two hours and the characters of Dead Writes are beckoning. I'm coming Felicia. Just wondering...perhaps Felicia is not an appropriate name.


http://www.stageplays-forum.com/<

NOTE TO SELF: AVOID FOX NEWS DUE TO GROSS INSENSITIVITY

Sometimes the ignorance of some news media makes me gasp in "what-were-they-thinking" mode. In this particular case, it's Fox News that has gone out on a limb to show its dumbness for lack of a better word in their assessment of the Canadian presence in Afghanistan.

Last week once again when Canadians were mourning the loss of four more soldiers, Fox News and more specifically, one Greg Gutfeld (who is this guy anyway and when did he seep out of the wood work?) who hosts some type of TV talk show, decided that it would be oh-so-much-fun to make fun of the Canadian military.

The five-minute segment, which aired recently on Fox News late-night program "Red Eye with Greg Gutfeld" and later posted on YouTube.com, features American panelists suggesting Canadian soldiers need time off for "manicures and pedicures."

The item aired after Gen. Andrew Leslie, the Canadian Forces Chief of Land Staff, told a Senate committee the military would need a one-year break from operations after the mission in Afghanistan winds down in 2011.

"The Canadian military wants to take a breather to do some yoga, paint landscapes, run on the beach in gorgeous white capri pants," Gutfeld said with a sneer. Another panelist Doug Benson said he was unaware Canadian troops were on the ground in Afghanistan.

"I didn't even know they were in the war. I thought that's where you go if you don't want to fight - you go chill in Canada," he said.

As a Canadian I'm disgusted with what they probably pass off as satire but in effect, is gross stupidity and far from amusing. There is a fine line between satire and insult and in this case, it has been crossed and then some. I do not, nor would I now for sure, subscribe to Fox News.

The show should be re-named, "Red Face with Shame."

Shame on Fox News! Canadians are NOT at all amused!

http://cnews.canoe.ca/CNEWS/Canada/2009/03/22/8847666-sun.html

Online www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcJn5XlbSFk

"It's been a long time. How are you doing?" my old (actually young) osteopath in Charlottesville asked me at his office this morning. He hadn't seen me in more than three years.

"I'm alive," I said.

He chuckled. A few minutes later, after he'd looked over the many pages of reports detailing the injuries I suffered in May 2006 and the many surgeries since, he said, "You're lucky to be alive."

"Yes," I answered. "It's been bad, but at least I'm here."

A few minutes ago, I read the news that 45-year-old actress Natasha Richardson died today from an unspecified head injury suffered when she fell during a ski lesson on Monday. According to the Quebec ski resort's spokeswoman, quoted in the NYT, “It was a normal fall; she didn’t hit anyone or anything. She didn’t show any signs of injury. She was talking and she seemed all right.”

In early August of 2005, I was in London and went to the theater with my long-lost cousin Larry. I'd gotten tickets to see "The Home Place" with Tom Courtenay, who'd acted with my father in the mid-1960s. I'd bought the cheapest tickets, but through some fluke was upgraded to mezzanine seats.

There were very few people in the mezzanine, so Larry and I moved up to the first row, by the railing. A couple of minutes later, he nudged me and gestured to the section to our right.

"Who are they?" he whispered.

I looked over to see a very glamorous couple getting seated. He was tall and craggy-handsome, with light-brown hair. She was gorgeous: blonde, tan, impossibly thin and dressed in impossibly spotless white from head to toe. Very L.A., I thought.

"You can tell they didn't take public transportation to get here," I muttered. (Larry and I had arrived via Tube.)

Then I looked a little harder.

"Oh, my God," I said. "That's Natasha Richardson and Liam Neeson. Her father Tony directed my dad in 'St. Joan of the Stockyards' in this theatre--or one just like it--in 1964, and in 'The Loved One' in 1965."

"Wow," breathed Larry.

After the play, we went backstage to see Courtenay, whom I'd been in touch with beforehand. Who else should be there but Richardson and Neeson, so I had a little chat with her. When I approached, she looked grim, probably thinking I was a fan, but warmed up when I told her of our connection. We exchanged names and everyone shook hands all around, greatly impressing Larry.

I then had a little chat with Courtenay, especially admiring the kiddie-print pirate sheets on the twin bed in his dressing room. Then the three famous people got into waiting limousines, and Larry and I walked to the Palms of Goa restaurant, where we ate cheap (for London), spicy food and marveled at our brush with the stars.

And now today Natasha Richardson is dead from a seemingly minor head injury, and I'm alive after a major one that left me with a concussion, PTSD, broken facial bones and nerve damage. The "family statement" to the news media from Liam Neeson came via Hollywood publicist Alan Nierob, who announced my father's death nearly 15 years ago.

It's all too close for comfort. But at least I'm here.

NOTE TO SELF: CHANUKAH CONCERT TAUGHT ME THAT ALL CANDLES CAN CAST A GLOW

BY ELEANOR TYLBOR

As a youngster, Christmas was somewhat of a demoralizing time of the year. Since our family was of the Jewish faith, we celebrated the holiday of Chanukah, which didn't seem to me to be half as exciting as the furor that went along with trimming a tree.

On occasion Chanukah fell during the same period as Christmas and somehow I couldn't work up as much enthusiasm for lighting a candle even if it was colored, as my friends seemed to experience placing ornaments on the branches of their trees.

Even though my parents explained time and time again that Jewish people don't celebrate Christmas, which meant that a tree even a miniature one was out of the question, it was difficult for me to accept. In spite of protestations that we could call it a Chanukah bush, it was obvious that there was no way a fir tree would be part of our celebrations.

Traditionally at Chanukah, children receive gifts of gelt or money and light small colored candles in a menorah (candelabra), one per night for the eight days of the holiday. While that was nice, in my mind it didn't measure up to all the excitement connected to the "other" holiday.

At Hebrew school we always celebrated the various holidays, big and small, and Chanukah was a particular favorite especially since our class, being the eldest students, entertained the residents of a seniors home. Each year the teacher would select eight students to sing and perform as Chanukah candles and competition was fierce for the part of lead candle.

Since I wasn't blessed with a good singing voice – I could barely carry a tune – I knew that my chances were slim at best to play any candle, never mind the lead candle. My biggest rival was Zelig, who had the voice and promise of a future opera singer. Not only did he have the best singing voice, he was also the top student scholastically. Plus he was also the teacher's pet. Whenever games were played for prizes during the holidays, Zelig won everything, which didn't exactly ingratiate him with the other students. Actually, we were all jealous and would have liked nothing better than for his voice to change in the middle of a concert.

Class auditions for candle parts were held a few weeks before the onset of the holiday and the best I could hope for was a minor part and even then, only if the rest of the students had an off day or laryngitis. Each student auditioned for the teacher and as expected, Zelig got the lead role, which irritated me no end.

My resentment was eased somewhat by being assigned the role of a minor candle, probably out of pity more than anything else. Those students not chosen became part of the chorus singing "tra-la-las" at the appropriate time.

Excitement was at a fever pitch when we arrived at the seniors' home, ready to perform for a live audience who were, for the most part, in wheelchairs. They were brought into the auditorium where we were lined up on stage, anxious to perform.

Glancing around the room, many of the seniors appeared half asleep.

"You will be entertained today!" their nurses might have insisted as they wheeled them into the room.

The first students opened the concert and sang well and those who followed performed admirably. Finally, it was my turn. My voice didn't fail me and I felt very proud of my accomplishment.

Zelig opened his mouth and it was like a chorus of angels had entered the room. His voice was strong and melodic and suddenly the seniors perked up, smiles on their faces in obvious appreciation of what they heard. When the last notes of his solo faded away, they all clapped appreciatively.

The musical recital was over and we performed a variety of Israeli dances, moving off the stage to mingle among our audience. Although Israeli dancing was a passion, I was consumed with the memory of the applause and accolades bestowed upon Zelig.

After our presentation and some refreshments, an elderly woman wheeled over to talk to me. She smiled, her trembling hand gently covering mine.

"Thank you," she uttered weakly and breathlessly. "You were all wonderful. How special you are to visit us!"

There was the sudden realization that it wasn't important who the lead candle was or who had the best voice. It was significant to our audience that we had taken the time to come at all.

It wasn't long after our successful performance that Zelig's voice finally broke and he never knew whether he would sing soprano or alto. Tough luck for him. My voice on the other hand, never changed and could always be depended on to sing off-key.


http://holidays.net/chanukah/


For some good Chanukah recipes and recipes for all year round, surf on down here:

http://www.gourmania.com/recipesmlym/mlnym_nofrylatkes.htm

So Sarah Palin returns to "normal" life and starts making the rounds of the talk shows.


DR. PHIL walks on to the TV set and greets the audience

DR. PHIL
Hi there, folks! This is a great and news-making and earth-shattering and super-duper-pooper day because - right here in front of your very eyes and on TV's around the world, our guest today is Sarah Palin!

(audience cheers)

It's true - I swear it! Would, I, Dr. Phil lie to you all? Look - my fingers aren't crossed! Just a joke... Sarah's gonna be here and we're gonna talk about...stuff. You know, Alaska...Russia...the prank phone call... What's it like to lose... Meanwhile, put your hands together and welcome... SARAH PALIN!

(audience cheers)

(SARAH PALIN walks on to the stage, waving and throwing kisses to everyone. She stops half-way and throws more kisses, smiles)

DR. PHIL
Hey Sarah...sweetie! C'mon over here, darlin'!

(she ignores him and continues to wave to audience, who is now on their feet and applauding wildly)

DR. PHIL
Um...Sarah? This is my show? Hello?

(ROBIN, Dr. Phil's wife walks on stage and pushes her from behind until she is directly in front of DR. PHIL)

DR. PHIL
Now ain't that nice? Robin really loves this woman, y'know! Right Robin? 'Course she does!Now sit down, Sarah, honey!

(SARAH is still waving and throwing kisses)

DR. PHIL
(placing a hand on either shoulder)
I said...sit down! Okay. That's better. I'm the only one who stands up on this show. So Sarah - how does it feel to be a loser?

SARAH P.
Loser? You're a loser, Dr. Phil! The whole media are losers! Everyone in the whole world are losers.

(the audience responds by applauding loudly and cheering)

SARAH P.
See? They agree! Yeah! I'm a loser, alright! You better believe it!

DR. PHIL
Now...Sarah. When did you first experience these feelings of persecution?

SARAH P.
The minute I bought these new glasses. I mean, I needed a new prescription so I went out and bought new frames! Is there anything wrong with that? Suddenly, everyone is wearing the exact same frames! They could have bought other models but nooooo - they bought the exact same one's as me! Why did they do that, Dr. Phil?

DR. PHIL
(finger on chin, pensive)
Cheez - I dunno, Sarah... Maybe they were on sale or something? Never mind that. So...how y'doin'?

SARAH P.
Well...alright I guess. I mean, Alaska ain't New York or Washington or Boston or...

DR. PHIL
Aha! See folks? Sarah here's isn't geographically-challenged like the press says she is!

SARAH P.

....or Montreal...or L.A....

DR. PHIL
We get the point, babe. So? Whad'ya been up to? Been hunting lately?

SARAH P.
Well Phil - you don't mind if I call you Phil - after all...we're friends now. What was the question? Something about Neiman-Marcus?

DR. PHIL
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...! You're so funny. Not as funny as Tina Fey but funny. I was askin' you 'bout whether or not you been huntin', lately

SARAH P.
Hunting? Who told you I hunt? I don't hunt! I buy all my meat at the supermarket, silly!

DR. PHIL
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha....! 'Course you do and I'm Arnold Schwarzneggar!

SARAH P.
Who?

DR. PHIL
Arnold? Governor of California?

SARAH P.
California? Oh yeahhhhh! I can see California from my door! Yeah...

DR. PHIL
So what are your plans, now? Just to go back to your boring job of governing Alaska?

SARAH P.
Yeah... I mean, being a governor is challenging work! Very challenging! Like every morning I go into my office... Uh-oh...I forgot where my office is, again. We move a lot, y'know. They keep opening new Walmart stores

DR. PHIL
'Course it is! We know that! So...like...let's say...if a person - not me of course - wanted to hunt possum in Alaska, could they?

SARAH P.
'Course they could! We got lots of possum waiting for the stew pot in Alaska! Why, we got them running everywhere

(silence for 5 seconds)

DR. PHIL
You don't know what possum is, do you, Sarah?

SARAH P.
Not really...

DR. PHIL
Well - there you have it, folks! A regular sit-down-and-get't'know-'ya with the loser... I mean to say, Governor Sarah Palin! Thanks for dropping by, Sarah! See? We ain't so bad after all!

SARAH P.
Just wanna say before I leave that I'll be having my own talk show this fall right after you, Dr. Phil! Isn't that wonderful? You and me on the same network? It's so exciting!

DR. PHIL
Thanks for dropping by, Sarah.

SARAH P.
And I just wanna invite you and Robin to come shoot possum in Alaska anytime you want. Bye everyone!

DR. PHIL
(whipping out cell phone)
Possum in Alaska, huh...get me Wolf Blitzer at CNN...