Midnight Movie @12:01 am Chelsea Okay, it’s Friday and that means it’s time for the Midnight Movie here at MAD. Tonight’s movie is one of my all-time favorites, “Fear Strikes Out.” It stars Anthony Perkins and Karl Malden and both of them are great in it. It’s the true story of Jimmy Piersall, a Boston Red Sox player (hello csp!), who, for a while, was a couple bases shy of a baseball diamond. This movie chronicles those kooky years of Piersall and his bitter and over-bearing father. Okay, let’s go to my apartment and watch it.
Every year there's a night when you walk out and realize that winter is finally over. Tonight's that night and it feels great! Of course, now that I've said that it'll probably snow six feet tomorrow.
Nice, you just tack a sign to the door and tell the store to move itself! Let's try that here: Movie, start now.
You can't read this in the picture, but it's an error box saying that a critical error has happened and the disc cannot recover. I tried cleaning it but got the same error in the same place. Looks like in addition to fear, this movie has also struck out. Anthony Perkins went "Psycho" three years later and Karl Malden used an American Express Card to get to San Francisco. The End. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
I overslept today and still have to put the post together. Hey, it's Saturday, give me a break already! Anyhoo, here's my favorite Simon and Garfunkel song, Cecilia to listen to in the meantime. It's got one of the greatest backing tracks of any song, in my humblest of all opinions. Okay, check back around two and I'll love it if you do! Till then, toodleoo, buckaroos!
Apocalypse Now—Part II: The Search For O’Kurtz! @11:39 am East Village Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice mission, and when it was over, I'd never want another.
I was going to the worst place in the world, and I didn't even know it yet.
It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of Colonel O’Kurtz's memory—any more than going out on St. Patrick’s Day was an accident.
Part of me was afraid of what I would find and what I would do when I got there. I knew the risks, or imagined I knew. But the thing I felt the most, much stronger than fear, was the desire to confront him.
Oh man, the bullshit piles up so fast on St. Patrick’s Day you need wings to stay above it.
The crew were mostly just kids. Rock 'n' rollers with one foot in their graves.
Their idea of great R and R was cold corned beef and buckets of green beer. They had only two ways home: stumbling or passing out on your stoop, covered in their own green vomit while screaming gibberish at an ear-splitting level. Things had spun out of control and I was sent to clean it all up.
He was close. He was real close. I couldn't see him yet but I could feel him.
This was his camp. A hideous and frightening outpost, with the most horrific glowing font I had seen in all my life. I had to go in, but luckily when it was all over I could leave and never enter it's blinding doorways again. And thank fucking God I didn’t live above this noisy monstrosity.
Everything I saw in here told me that O’Kurtz had gone insane. The place was full of bodies, throwing down booze just to get completely out of what little minds they possessed. They were screaming at one another, yapping on cell phones and texting all at the same time. I was close to a mental and physical breakdown.
Luckily, it was at this moment I found O’Kurtz. He was almost passed out underneath a table and mindlessly pouring green beer all over his round, bald head. He was wearing a t-shirt with three strange words printed on it in pink lettering: “Hot Chicks Room.” I don’t know what that meant, but something told me it was time to improvise. I leaned in and tried to shout above the racket: “O’Kurtz, can you hear me?”
O’Kurtz squinted his eyes, trying to make out who I was. After a moment he smiled. Perhaps he realized who I was, but the growing stain in the lap of his pants told me he had just relieved himself of some of the evening’s green beer. He pulled me closer in and placed his mouth one inch from my ear and screamed, “WOO HOO!”
I've been having a nice conversation on Twiitter with the King and yesterday he told me about the Beatles coming to Papaya King in 1964, so I asked him this question.
I came home from work and there was no reply from the King. So sad!
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Some Things I Did Before Work Today Checked my front right pocket to make sure my keys were in there. Went to the corner deli. Got a bottle of diet Mountain Dew, Teas Tea and a bag of Funyuns. I didn’t really get theFunyuns. I just like to type the word Funyuns. Checked my front right pocket to make sure my keys were in there.
Carnegie Deli @11:39 pm Midtown I haven’t been to midtown much since I started this and there’s a reason for that: Midtown sucks! Lots of business and tourist traps and I rarely go there unless I have to. But I want to be hitting all over New York with MAD, so tonight I looked around on Google of possible spots in midtown to go to. I stumbled upon the Carnegie Deli. I’ve never been there and it’s always loaded with tourists, so it might be an interesting MAD stop. It is a slice of New York history, they’ve been on the block since 1937. They have beer and they are open from 6:30 am to 4:00 am, so they get marks for that. How bad can it be? I guess we’ll find out.
The Carnegie Deli is at the corner of 55th Seventh Ave. Twenty five blocks straight up. It's not that cold out so we'll just walk it.
The Andrews Coffee Shop, once a thriving local chain of 15 coffee shops, now reduced to two, thanks to chains like Starbucks. You can read about the Andrews remainders in this fine piece at Jeremiah's Vanishing New York.
If you'd like to open a Starbucks or 7-11 here, just call Jerry Collins. I wonder if he's related to either Phil or Tom? And did you know that Phil Collins announced he's retiring from making music? I heard it and it was so weird, you could almost feel the world stifling a collective yawn. Chilling.
Beauty...
And the Riese. Bah!
And here we are, The Carnegie Deli.
Just in case you forget where you are, it's spelled out in the coleslaw and potato salad as you enter. Handy and a little frightening all at the same time!
Love the black and white cookie!
And of course there's t-shirts here, adorned with a vegetarian's nightmare emblazoned on it.
Some of the people streaming in. The place was doing a brisk business.
I thought there'd be a counter or something I could sit at and just have a couple of beers, but there wasn't and I was told to take a table. Oh well, when in Rome, start roamin' I guess.
I ordered two beers, McSorley's style and this fine gentlemen served them up.
Since I wasn't eating, I took a photo of a neighboring tables sandwiches. A mountain of meat and I think they need to invest in bigger bread slices.
The sandwich kind of grossed me out and I was glad I stuck to a liquid dining option in the deli.
The place has a lot of chatter going on about where people are going and tomorrow's plans on seeing the Empire State Building and The Hershey's Store in Times Square. No one mentioned a Show World trip. Lots of people texting and checking their phones in here. Kind of headache inducing.
There's lots of photos on the walls of known and unknown people.
Once you look at the photo of Raul De Molina and the giant pickle, your Carnegie Deli experience is complete and you are allowed to exit. The forecast for repeated entrance to Carnegie Deli? Karen Carpenter slim to none, son. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow, after dark.
Review Q. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? A. Practice, practice, practice.
Yesterday I introduced this feature showing you my Twitter conversation with none other than New York's very own Papaya King. Here, the Papaya Dialogues continue with The King. Enjoy the banter!
To be continued!
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Some Things I Did Before Work Today Bought tickets to Charlie Sheen’s Radio City Music Hall show. Immediately felt a little dirty. Took shower. Put on The Raveonettes' Chain Gang of Love. Checked Charlie Sheen’s Twitter page.
Neon Lights/My Favorite Concert @11:09 pm Chelsea I thought tonight I’d take pictures of neon lights on the way home and then write about my favorite concert in my life. I wrote about this once in a MySpace blog (anybody remember MySpace?) so I apologize if you’ve read it before. But I’m going to write it fresh tonight. I like re-writing stories, you always remember something different than the first time you wrote it. Anyway let’s look for neon, Leon.
We'll take a stroll down 7th Avenue towards my home base and fortress of solitude.
I've noticed a lot of deli's have three line neon signs. Kind of like deli haiku. Except they don't worry about the whole five, seven, five thingy.
More deli haiku.Sandwiches, bagels, coffee. Simple and to the point.
Nice! They've taken deli haiku to a higher level and done it in a sweeping circular motion. Impressive!
Oh, geez. I hate to be critical, but Chinese Food, do you have to insert your phone number in your version of deli haiku? It's so...commercial. If you just want to advertise, please stay away from the deli haiku style.
When you're ready to leave, this place will literally give you the boot! I'm killing myself over here, I smell ya!
This place is right next door and I don't know, they're kind of trying a little too hard. "While U Wait" and "Same Day Service," just spell neon redundancy to me.
Food groups are always represented in the world of neon. Pizza!
Love the steam coming off of the chicken!
Hello Burger!
And a bottle of Negra Modelo to wash it all down with.
Hey Papaya King? You seeing this over here? Live and learn, my friend!
And Sleepy's lives up to her name. The neon here is shut down for the night, they close early...hey, do you think she's sleeping with the Papaya King? Careful Papaya King, Sleepy's husband is 1-800-MATTRESS. He claims they leave off the final "S" for savings, but I think it's a code for shotgun. Watch out, King, you don't want to get your hot dog blown off!
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The Papaya Dialogues!
And speaking of the Papaya King, our conversation continues at Twitter. When I came home tonight, there was a Tweet from the Papaya King waiting for me. Here it is:
It's nice that he likes the blog, but on he's got to try a little harder. Here's my reply:
Stay tuned for further Papaya Dialogues with the Papaya King here at MAD. Now onto the weekly Tuesday Night Short Story. Enjoy!
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My Favorite Concert In the summer of 1979 I moved into an apartment in Indianapolis, Indiana from my hometown of Peoria, Illinois. I was 21-years-old and I had taken a job with a Safety Products company and would be selling safety products there. That was my “territory.” A couple weeks after settling in, my brother Jim came to see me for a weekend and I had tickets for the two of us to go see Cheap Trick in concert.
Cheap Trick has always been one of my favorite bands and I was psyched to go. The concert was on a Saturday and my brother showed up on Friday. I can’t remember what we did that Friday night, but I’m sure it involved drinking and if I remember correctly I think we were doing speed as well. And I’m not glamorizing or recommending booze or drugs, but in my defense, I was 21-years-old, it was 1979 and I was a complete mess and an idiot at the time. I’m happy to say I’m not so much of a mess anymore.
Anyway, the fateful night came and we went to a bar before the show and had many drinks. Then we went to a liquor store and Jim got a bottle of Jack Daniels and I got a bottle of Southern Comfort for the show. We piled back into my car and drove to the arena where the concert was being held. The seating was “festival seating” meaning first come, first served. There was a throng of kids piled up at the door and it was turning into an ugly mess. (About six months later, 11 people were trampled to death at a Who concert and that put an end to “festival seating.”)
We stashed our bottles inside of our jackets (nobody searched you back then and nobody really cared what you brought in as long as you weren’t obvious about it walking past, “security”) and wormed our way into the crowd. After about twenty minutes being pushed, jostled and being way closer to this smelly fat guy than I ever wanted to be, the doors were flung open. I remember feeling like I wasn’t even in control of my movements, my legs and body just jerked along with the mass movement of the crowd. We found seats off to the side of the stage that weren’t too bad and sat down. Jim was on the aisle and I was seated to his right. As soon as we sat down two kids came bounding up to the aisle and pointed at the two seats next to us.
“Those seats taken?” One of them asked.
“Nope,” I replied, “knock yourself out, Ringo.”
I don’t know why, but when I called him Ringo, Jim and I both cracked up. We got up, let the two kids in and we all settled in our seats. Soon the entire arena was one big marijuana cloud and people were pulling out bottles and cans of beer. Security guards looked the other way, as long as you weren’t killing anyone. These were rent-a-cops making minimum wage and all they wanted was to get the show over and collect their dough. Unless you hassled them, they pretty much left you alone.
After about a half an hour the house lights went off and people started hooting and hollering and the first band came out. I can’t remember the name of them, but they were a low-level Southern rock band who had a minor hit at the time. They were horrible and nobody was really listening. It was then that we sat down and pulled out our booze. We each had bought a fifth of our particular brand. I know it sounds like a lot, but my brother and I were always of the mindset that it is far better to have way extra, than not enough if you can swing it. There’s nothing worse than running out, especially if you’re all cranked out on some sort of drug like speed or acid. I have many sorrowful memories of being gooned out of my gourd on one thing or another and opening the refrigerator to one of the most horrific sights in the world: One lone beer. And you knew you’d be up climbing the walls for at least four more hours. Sure, there were a few all night convenience stores in Peoria, but sometimes it would be a real chore to navigate there and pull off the purchase without going directly to jail. Anyway, that’s why we always over-bought if our wallets permitted.
As I had a belt out of my bottle of Southern Comfort I glanced to my right and the two kids were staring at Jim and I. One of them kind of looked like a lankier version of Beaver Cleaver and the other had braces and patches of zits all over his face. They both had hair down to their shoulders and couldn’t have been over 16-years-old.
I leaned over to Jim and said, “Watch this.”
Then I leaned into the Beaver Cleaver look-a-like and said, “You want a slug?” I held the bottle out for him to grab.
He smiled and looked at his friend and said, “Sure!”
Pretty soon the four of us were passing the bottles back and forth. Right after Cheap Trick hit the stage to a thundering welcome, my brother lit up a joint, which our new found pals were happy to indulge in. Soon they were pretty well out of their minds. Everybody was on their feet and Cheap Trick was putting on a great show, as they always do. About twenty minutes into the set, Rick Nielson banged out the familiar opening chords to their anthemic song, “Surrender.” Everybody was on their feet clapping and singing. My next memory of this show always plays out in slow motion, because that’s the way it seemed to happen that night. Rick Nielson had just started his solo on his black and white checkered guitar. Beaver Cleaver let out a whoop, jumped up in the air and fell down on me. I grabbed him before he fell into his seat.
“You okay?” I screamed at him.
“Yeah, I’m fucking great!” He slurred back.
I wasn’t so sure, he didn’t look too good. And that’s when it happened. I think to prove to me that he was fine, he stood up straight, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Rock...”
I think the next two words he wanted to shout were, “and roll,” but the next thing you know, his hands flew down to his stomach and instead of words, a steady stream of vile and violent vomit came spewing out of his pie hole. All over the woman if front of us.
She let out a scream and her boyfriend looked at her and froze for a second. He was a big guy, with short hair and the both of them were dressed a little too nicely for your standard 1979 Cheap Trick concert. In fact, my brother was a little nervous the guy was cop or a narc when they first got in their seats. We relaxed when someone passed him a joint and he took a hit off of it. After staring at his girlfriend and assesing the situation, he turned around and stared daggers at Beaver and his buddy. I grabbed Beaver and kind of pushed him out towards the aisle and yelled one word.
“Run!”
He took off with his friend close behind. The cop-looking guy grabbed his girlfriend and they hightailed it out of there. I looked at my brother and we started laughing our fucking asses off. We continued to laugh all through the concert and afterwards we went to a bar and told the story to anyone who would listen to it and even those that wouldn’t: "The tale of the teen that couldn’t puke straight."
I’ve told that story thousands of times and I never get tired of telling it. I always wonder what that kid is doing today. I’d like to buy him a beer for making that Cheap Trick concert my favorite concert of all time.
Some Things I Did Before Work Today Checked my email. I got an email from the band Night Ranger announcing, “Pre-sale tickets for the 2011 Eclipse Tour.” Really, Night Ranger? Pre-saletickets? Shouldn’t you just be worried about selling just plain old tickets? You are Night Ranger after all. Listened to Cheap Trick’s first album. Had a craving for M & M’s. Massaged and rubbed my itchy eyeballs.
Papaya King @1:07 am Upper East Side Okay, it’s Monday evening and if you’ve been following this blog, you know what that means—The Papaya Wars continue! Tonight I’m traveling to the Upper East Side. There’s a Papaya King up there and I read on Grub Street that it got a makeover last September. Grub Street reported that there’s vintage photos in here and one of Anthony Bourdain in the hotdog house. So it’s off to Papaya number five, to see how they fare. Oh, and I hope you realize that the Papaya Wars are brought to you exclusively via MAD, you won’t find this reporting anywhere else. And yeah, I know it’s because I’m making the whole thing up, but still, it sounds good. Right?
I had to work late tonight, it's almost one in the morning and a little deserted outside on this Monday night.
We'll catch a cab out here on 6th, I'm tired and want to get this shit over with can't wait to start this fun evening of mayhem and hot dogs.
And here we are headed to the Upper East Side, we'll be there in minutes.
Wow, this looks like a good Papaya!
I love their neon, let's go get a dog, I'm in the mood for this all of a sudden!
The hot dog pictures look inviting, but the door is locked, what's going on here?
This fellow told me through the glass that they were closed. Closed? Papayas never close. This is sad news, indeed!
And it's a shame, this looks like a first-class Papaya King...except it's closed.
You may be the original, but you go to bed too early, Papaya King. What about all of us late-shift workers who long for a dog at one in the morning?
I wish I could back this boast up...but you're closed!
One last ebony and ivory, ketchup and mustard photo. Shot through the window. So close...but yet so far away. Sob!
Lets see if there's anything else open, this whole neighborhood is kind of dead.
Sheesh! This is the only all-night hot doggery on the block open all night. This is my cue...
To get back in a cab...
To come home and say hello to my little friends. Goodnight everybody and see you after dark.
Okay, I got home and did some research. I found out from a review in New York magazine that they close at midnight on weekdays and are only open till two in the morning on weekends! What kind of a sorry-ass Papaya King is this? I thought they all were open 24 hours. Well, it certainly doesn’t bode well for their rating in the Papaya Wars, here’s the new numbers. As always the rankings go from worst to the best.
5.Papaya King on the Upper East Side, I have no clue what this place is like because they close at midnight. They may be the original and the oldest in Manhattan, but still, they should be up all night to wage war against the 7-11 down the street. Come on, those clowns are selling hot dogs all night, where’s your fighting spirit, Papaya King? You disappoint me, sadden me and now I’m crying Papaya tears. They’re tasty! 4. Hell’s Kitchen Papaya, because it’s not there anymore. 3. Chelsea Papaya, it’s clean, people were nice in there, but there’s no beer. 2. Gray’s Papaya on the Upper West Side, it brings back good memories and the signage is nice, but there’s no beer here and I don’t know if I’ll ever get that horrible taste of the papaya drink out of my mouth or mind. 1. Penn Station Papaya...they’ve got beer!
Last night I Twittered about this cruel and bitter Papaya moment, and the Papaya King took note. Here’s the Tweet’s.
I posted a twitpic of the closed hotdog hut.
They replied with this Tweet.
And so, the dance begins! I'll let you know on further updates.
If they stay true to their word and stay open later, I’ll pay them a return visit and maybe their rating will improve. I’m nothing but fair...in the Papaya Wars!
Stay tuned to see who wins in the ratings of the Papaya Wars only here on MAD!
Papaya King 179 E. 86th St. (Near Third Ave.) 212-369-0648
Bleecker Bob’s Records / 8:45 pm Greenwich Village One of the many things that the internet is killing is the record store. Most people download their music now, thereby eliminating the middleman, the record store. It’s too bad, because I’ve always loved hanging out in record stores and flipping through albums. There’s not that many left in Manhattan, so I thought I’d start spending every Sunday visiting record stores that are still left. Tonight’s destination is one of Manhattan’s more famous record stores, Bleecker Bob’s in the heart of Greenwich Village (though ironically, it’s not on Bleecker St.) It’s been featured in films and in an episode of Seinfeld.
Here we are, Bleecker Bob's records in Greenwich Village.
Let's go inside and check it out.
John was minding the store this night and I asked him to pose with one of his favorite albums. He chose the "Velvet Underground and Nico," which was a nice pick, seeing that the first nightcap video on the blog was the Velvet Underground. John has worked here for twenty years and has seen everyone from Keith Richards to David Bowie to Rick Rubin to Frank Zappa walk through the door. Speaking of Zappa, the owner, Bleecker Bob is Godfather to Zappa's daughter, Moon Zappa.
Okay, let's take a look around Bleecker Bob's.
Here's some posters and records in the front window.
Boxed records are labeled and stacked up on one another behind the counter.
John Lennon's last single, "(Just Like) Starting Over" hangs next to an early Beatles album on the VJ label.
A wall of vinyl.
Separated at birth moment: The cash register at Bleecker Bob's...
Johnny Thunders and Jayne County, would've loved to have seen that show!
Rachel Sweet! I had this album back in the day, I wonder what ever happened to her?
The very first album I ever bought was "The Best of Herman's Hermits." That's what I love about record stores, all the memories that start coming back.
There's a nice crowd in here on a Sunday night and that's good to see.
Irony at its finest hour. The punk rock section behind "Guitar Heroes!"
Here's the Jacksons with many of their influences stacked behind them.
John's a regular in the store and here he is posing with one of his favorite albums, Cream's Disraeli Gears.
------------------------------ Some Things I Did Today Cursed the idea of Daylight Savings Time. Opened a Twitpic account. Ate some Chef Boy-Ar-Dee Beefaroni. Read a feature article about teen sensation, Justin Bieber in Rolling Stone. Paid my bills. Drank two bottles of Dasani Lemon Water. Got a haircut. Flipped through the new Best of New York magazine. Read the Charlie Sheen story in that issue of New York magazine. Felt bad about wasting more time reading about Charlie Sheen. Checked Charlie Sheen’s Twitter page.
Joy Burger Bar / 9:19 pm East Harlem Live from New York, it’s Cheeseburger Saturday Night! Starring Joy Burger Bar and featuring the ready for prime beef player, Marty Wombacher. And now, from East Harlem in New York City, please welcome tonight’s host, Joy Burger Bar!
And here we go, off into the night.
Down into the bowels of the New York subway system.
This guy was great! Love the Tokyo Circus and his "Your Smile is beautiful" sign.
Alright, there's a decent crowd down here, that means a train will show up at any minute.
And sure as shit on a shingle, here it comes!
Wow, it's surprisingly empty on here for a Friday night.
This ad has me obsessed. First off, what's with the grammar? If this weird kid is so excited about ordering burritos online, shouldn't there be an exclamation point after the word, "Fantastic?" I'm not a fan of over using exclamation points, but when you use a word like, "fantastic," it's almost a given. Next, why is he wearing a tie around his head? Is this the reason that he's so fucking thrilled about ordering burritos online? Because he's never learned to dress in a manner that's socially acceptable, thereby making him terminally housebound? And look at his eyes. Those are Manson Woman eyes and they are screaming, "Helter Skelter." And the father and daughter are doing some sort of weird F-Troop dance. Plus, look at the daughter, one half of her left leg is cut off and she has no hands. How frightening is that? And the mother is escaping out of a box in the back. This is one fucked up ad campaign, and weird family, but it made my 10 stop subway ride go by in a breeze.
See, we're here already.
Just a few blocks and we are there.
That's one cheap-ass chicken!
And irony unbounds as I see it's sold at the Pioneer Supermarket. Whenever I see the word, "Pioneer," I think of the genius lyrics in Warren Zevon's song, "Carmelita." "Well, I pawned my Smith Corona, and I went to meet my man, he hangs out down on Alvarado Street, by the Pioneer chicken stand." I love that song.
And here we are at the Joy Burger Bar, let Cheeseburger Saturday Night begin. Would someone please sound the trumpets? Oh, the horn section called in sick tonight. Sorry.
I decided to start out with a beer and Frank happily served up an ice-cold Corona.
There's tables in the front area of the burger bar.
And there's stools over here with a window's view of the neighborhood available as you eat.
But I chose to sit up at the bar, close to where the action is.
Here's Frank and his front-line crew, making the burger magic happen.
Lots of action is going on here. He's taking a bowl of freshly cut fries...
And turning them into individual orders.
These two heard me telling Frank about my blog and came up to say hello. From left: Hisham and Moa, nice to meet you, guys!
Here's a vintage Heinz Ketchup ad on the wall. I'm guessing Kari will like this.
Here's the beers available at Joy Burger Bar. Hey, what's that card in the holder?
Huh, how'd that get there? Golly-gee willickers.
Condiments!
I'm starvin' like Marvin over here. I hope that's my burger being fried.
Ask and ye shall receive! Here's my burger, I got cheddar cheese with chimichuri sauce.
Okay, time to hit the road. Over and out. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Review Joy Burger Bar is a comfortable and casual burger restaurant in East Harlem.There’s tables up front, stools at a window bar overlooking 101st Street and a small bar in the back near the kitchen and grill. You place your order and pay at the register here and you’re called when your order is ready. The staff are friendly and efficient and happy to explain any questions about burger options or anything else on the menu. The decor is vintage Coca Cola and Heinz ketchup art on the walls and a giant menu hangs over the grill. There’s piles of paper menus as well, if you’d like to get a drink and study them at your table or stool.
There’s a couple things that make Joy’s Burger Bar unique. One is they offer ten different kind of sauces to top your burger with at no extra charge. The second is that the burgers come in three sizes. The Munch is a three ounce burger, The Midi is five ounces and The Maxi weighs in at 8 ounces (save your Kotex jokes, fork in the road beat you to it, see “further reading,” below.) Some of the sauces available include: garlic mayo, bbq, chimichuri, pesto, sweet chili and spicy mango chutney. The fries are hand cut and the onion rings are as big as Rosie O’Donnell’s head.
Okay, it’s Friday and that means it’s time for the Midnight Movie here at MAD. Tonight’s movie is one of my all-time favorites, “Fear Strikes Out.” It stars Anthony Perkins and Karl Malden and both of them are great in it. It’s the true story of Jimmy Piersall, a Boston Red Sox player (hello csp!), who, for a while, was a couple bases shy of a baseball diamond. This movie chronicles those kooky years of Piersall and his bitter and over-bearing father. Okay, let’s go to my apartment and watch it.
Every year there's a night when you walk out and realize that winter is finally over. Tonight's that night and it feels great! Of course, now that I've said that it'll probably snow six feet tomorrow.
Nice, you just tack a sign to the door and tell the store to move itself! Let's try that here: Movie, start now.
You can't read this in the picture, but it's an error box saying that a critical error has happened and the disc cannot recover. I tried cleaning it but got the same error in the same place. Looks like in addition to fear, this movie has also struck out. Anthony Perkins went "Psycho" three years later and Karl Malden used an American Express Card to get to San Francisco. The End. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
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"Secret Weapon" banner art by "Boris."
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