Worst Idea Ever #731: Mick Jagger and David Bowie's "Dancin' In The Street"

It probably seemed like a good idea on paper. Two friends....perhaps more than friends.....both highly talented and respected singers in their own right, covering a Motown classic from back in the era when they themselves first made their mark. Okay, I can accept that. But then there was the VIDEO. Capturing some of the most heinous, over-the-top footage since the crowd reaction to the stripping robot in Metropolis, this video would make Ziggy Stardust crush his own sweet hands in horror. Perhaps the only way it could have been worse is if they included the bubbles from the Rolling Stones' "It's only Rock 'n' Roll" video. The disgusted look Charlie Watts gives as the bubbles overtake him says it all in that one. Sadly, he was not there to be the voice of reason for Mick and Bowie's misadventure.

Philadelphia: The City That Loves You to Look Back

We Philadelphians are tortured sports souls. We haven’t known the thrill of a major sports championship since the 76ers won the NBA title in 1983 (and even that is difficult to savor because, well, it’s basketball…). We bemoan our fate whenever our Phillies, Eagles, Flyers, and Sixers break our hearts in their annual ritual of defeat. So desperate for a champion are Philadelphians that we grasp at any homegrown straw—human or animal—in hopes of salving our collective self-esteem: Bernard Hopkins, the 2004 Saint Joseph’s Hawks, Smarty Jones. We are forced to revisit past glory because we enjoy none in the present, our media endlessly regurgitating the long-gone triumphs of the 1980 Phillies, the Broad Street Bullies, and Chuck Bednarik’s 1960 Eagles. Many Philadelphia fans weren’t yet born the last time one of our major sports teams won a title, and most of us exist in a state of perpetual nostalgia to cope with the frustration over today’s teams.

To ease Philadelphians’ suffering, I propose combining our insatiable penchant for living in the past with the in-vogue marketing ploy of “throwback” uniforms and hold a throwback parade for one of our past championship teams. Instead of incessantly booing our athletes and badmouthing them on local call-in radio shows, let’s get the entire city lining Broad Street for the yesteryear glory we haven’t experienced in decades. The city could hold a parade for, say, the pennant-winning 1915 Phillies. Fly in some distant relatives of the original team and dress them in those vintage woolen uniforms. A column of cars parading Grover Cleveland Alexander’s 5th cousin, thrice removed, and a bunch of other anonymous yokels down Broad Street as they wave to two million adoring fans while wondering what the hell they’re doing there is just the shot in the arm Philadelphians need. At City Hall, a descendant of manager Pat Moran can thank the town for its passionate support and then urge continued isolationism in the wake of the Lusitania torpedoing to a confused crowd. The parade could continue up Broad to Lehigh—the former site of Baker Bowl, the 1915 Phillies home—and conclude with the septuagenarian grandchildren of Erskine Mayer and Gavvy Cravath getting checked for gout at the medical center that now stands there.



(Graphic enhancement on banner courtesy of Dave.)

One Missed Call I Won't Miss

So just about every day for the last 3 weeks, I have been bombarded by commercials for one of the lamest-looking movies I have ever seen: One Missed Call. Seriously, does anyone want to see this garbage? Some amalgam of The Ring, The Grudge, and every other J-Horror film of the last 10 years. That's not even to mention it doesn't look even remotely frightening. This is what we've been reduced to? Fear of missing cell-phone calls? Since the movie is being released today, I am praying the promotional campaign will finally stop. That is, until the sequel: Two Missed Calls.

Indiana Jones or Indiana's Pride?

While re-watching The Fugitive several weeks ago—an excellent film and a real testament to amputees with a can-do attitude—it occurred to me that although Harrison Ford gave a strong performance, his role would have been better played by David Letterman. Sure, this taut thriller called for moments of deadpan dramatics, but Ford played it a little too straight. Starring opposite the equally intense Tommy Lee Jones, the film ached desperately for levity—a facet the serious-minded Ford lacks. There was no give-and-take between Richard Kimble and Deputy Gerard, no mocking, no cynical wisecracks—a commodity Letterman could have delivered in droves. One of the Late Show host’s trademark quips through his goofy, gap-toothed smile while standing at gunpoint in the dam’s tunnel would have elevated The Fugitive from merely excellent to the realm of Citizen Kane, Casablanca, and Gone With the Wind.

After a two-month hiatus, Letterman returned to the air Wednesday—sporting a decidedly Richard Kimble–esque beard…fully validating my theory.

Therefore, I offer my Top 10 reasons why David Letterman is a better actor than Harrison Ford.

Drum roll, please...

10. While being prepped for quintuple bypass, Letterman kept surgical team in stitches; surgeons find Ford a colossal bore concerned only with improving his medical condition.

9. Ford cannot enunciate with a cigar in his mouth.

8. Ford's portrayal of "Alexei Vostrikov" in K-19: The Widowmaker clearly derived from Letterman's "Old Salt" in Cabin Boy.

7. When Letterman comes home at 2 AM, girlfriend buys "flat tire" story; when Ford comes home at 2 AM, Calista Flockhart remains suspicious.

6. Letterman spent several years as an innovative television weatherman; Ford doesn't even know what a "dewpoint" is.

5. While Ford was starring in one of the biggest bombs of 1979 (Hanover Street), Letterman electrified nation as "Ellsworth," a shady group therapist, in Episode 17 of Mork and Mindy. (I recall watching the episode as a youngster and thinking, "America's finally found its new Brando.")

4. Harrison Ford has several false teeth; all of David Letterman's teeth are false.

3. Ford made a career playing the same characters (Han Solo, Indiana Jones, Jack Ryan); Letterman versatile enough to host "Stupid Pet Tricks" and "Stupid Human Tricks."

2. Harrison Ford had zero on-screen chemistry with Larry "Bud" Melman.

And the No. 1 reason why David Letterman is a better actor than Harrison Ford:

1. Letterman turned down the role of the T-1000 in Terminator 2: Judgment Day; Ford was never offered the role.











(Photo of Harrison Ford and The Fugitive copyright Warner Brothers. Photos of David Letterman copyright CBS. Outstanding graphic enhancements courtesy of Mount Drinkmore’s Dave.)

You Are Now In The United States of Pottersville

Last week on Christmas Eve, Melissa and I were watching It's a Wonderful Life, and I began to get this strangely familiar feeling whenever a scene with Mr. Potter would come up. Like I had seen him earlier that day, or had been seeing him quite often for a long period of time. Then it hit me: Mr. Potter is Dick Cheney. Could Lionel Barrymore still be alive and maniacally playing out the worst fears we had of Mr. Potter taking over the Building & Loan...and then THE WORLD? I think the photographic evidence is more than enough to make the case:

Dream: Doppelganger Gets The Mail

So I had this dream the other night in which I move into a new house and creepy things start to happen—objects being moved around, disembodied voices, all of the usual stuff you hear about. But then I look out the window one day and see MYSELF getting the mail!!! In the dream, this is absolutely terrifying, but it seems far less so in waking reality. In fact, once you got past the uncomfortable, possibly demonic nature of it, who wouldn't want another them to get the mail, get the paper, and maybe do a little yard work?

Of course, when I woke up, I almost had a heart attack because the Christmas stocking I had hung the night before looked like someone's arm peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. Maybe my OWN arm, with the mail!

3600...3599...3598...

Certainly, the most enjoyable moment of New Year’s Eve is the countdown from 11:59:50 to midnight—ten seconds of anticipation and suspense as we cork our emotions and then let them burst forth in unchecked celebration. In those ten seconds, all of our pent-up frustrations of the past year dissolve into alcoholic ecstasy of the New Year’s promise. We revel in the ten-second countdown—both roomfuls of friends and millions of anonymous people simultaneously playing out the exact same ritual—but like most festive occurrences, the moment ends all too quickly.

That’s why, every New Year’s Eve, I take a page from the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, and draw out the moment of anticipation by starting my countdown not from the final ten seconds, but from the final hour. There is nothing like beginning the New Year’s countdown at 3600 and living out the mounting drama three thousand six hundred times. Sure, I’ve received angry stares, many a Shut the fuck up!, and celebrated one or two midnights on the street after being told to leave, but commencing the moment of joyous abandon while everyone else is still making small talk about property taxes and sinus problems makes such awkwardness well worth it. Like how the great Hitchcock let his audience in on the secret and stretched nail-biting suspense across the next hour of Rope, I’ll be starting my countdown to Happy New Year! at 11:00 sharp. Care to join me?

Now let's all sing in our best Alfred Hitchcock voice:



Good evening...
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind…