The Younger Generation's Evil Spell

Two grade schools in Cumming, Ga., were shut down yesterday when a student at nearby Lanier Technical College inadvertently sent a text reading, ”Gunman be at West Hall Today.”

Inadvertently because the student intended to text "Gunna be at West Hall Today.”

However, the smartphone's auto-correct changed the first word to Gunman, and the student sent the text before noticing the gaffe.

What really bothers me about this is the student's use of gunna.

Since when has going to ever been incorrectly spelled in any way but gonna?

Gunna is a bastardization far enough from its progenitor that it has no place in made-up parlance. It would be like texting the word for by using a 5...

ÖMphG, what is happening to the state of America's younger generation when it can no longer properly spell incorrectly?

(Image copyright ABCNews.)

Davy Jones' Locker Is Opportunity's Knocker

Davy Jones, lead singer of The Monkees and the object of fantasy for millions of teenage girls in the 1960s, died of a heart attack earlier today. Only 66 years old, this is a sad passing, both for a man not yet reached the end of the road and for fans of the made-to-order Beatles knockoff group—which actually recorded some very good songs during its brief run in the 1960s.

Yet as the music world mourns Davy Jones' passing, opportunity knocks for David Bowie, who—as is well known—was born David Jones but changed his surname to Bowie so as not to be confused with The Monkees' vocalist. As an aspiring singer hoping to hop the Tin Pan Alley conduit to stardom, little-known David Jones took the surname of the legendary defender of The Alamo, who also gave his name to the knife he used, so as to avoid countless inevitable comments that he was much taller in person than on telly next to Mickey Dolenz.

Sure, David Bowie has achieved great success under his adopted name, and although some might consider it career suicide to return to his birth name after more than forty years as an icon known by his present appellation, when has changing names ever hindered David Bowie a/k/a Ziggy Stardust a/k/a the Thin White Duke a/k/a Moishe McManus (from his aborted 1983 Let's Hora project)?

So we say rest in peace to the man who crooned "Daydream Believer" and wait to see if David Bowie takes this rare opportunity to go home again.

Time may change you, David Bowie
But Davy Jones is covered with lime

Quid Provo Quo: Circumsizing Up Proxy Baptism

Once again, Mormons have “baptized” Anne Frank, the teenage Jewish girl whose diary chronicling her years in hiding from the Nazis stands as a testament both to human spirit and the cruelty and degradation that necessitated it. This baptism took place in the Dominican Republic, although the rite has been performed, in one form or another, many times since the late 1980s. And, in fact, an agreement had to be reached (in 1995) between Jewish and Mormon leaders for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to stop permitting the practice of baptizing Holocaust victims.

Mormons also recently baptized the late Nazi-hunter Simon Wiesenthal’s deceased parents, and they seem geared to do the same for still-living Holocaust survivor and Nobel Peace Prize winner, Elie Wiesel (whose name was entered into the Mormons’ database of proxy-baptism candidates).

Wiesel, himself, recently called on Republican presidential candidate and Mormon Mitt Romney to denounce these proxy baptisms, but Romney has refused comment, so infer what you will about his beliefs and/or his spine. (In turn, Romney can infer that he won’t be getting my vote should he win the nomination.)

Proxy baptism isn’t merely a disgusting affront to Jews—it’s a mandate of our “unworthiness” and the “need” to save Jewish souls. This is really dangerous stuff—tantamount to cultural identity theft and a concrete example of how heretical at least some Mormons regard Judaism. And as history has proved over and over, such attitudes eventually flare into violence and blood.

The Mormon Church has “apologized” for each of these proxy baptisms but has, in practicality, done nothing to stop it. Yet even if it’s just a fringe element of the Mormon Church, a fringe element often represents the tip of an iceberg—just as anti-Semitism or racial prejudice run far deeper into the populace than just bigots uninhibited enough to “go on record.”

So I say dig up the corpses of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young and give them a ceremonial bris, the ritual circumcision performed by a rabbi.

Because living Jews shouldn’t take this lying down, especially when deceased Jews can do nothing else.

Fourteen-Carrot Ratings Gold

I've never particularly been a fan of Glenn Close—perhaps unfairly holding against her the sacrilegious remake of The Lion in Winter, my all-time favorite film, as well as never warming to The Big Chill—but my respect for Close just spiked.

I don't know the source of this photograph—it certainly has the "feel" of a late-night talk show, which would explain such a goofy stunt as this—but Glenn Close has never looked so good to me. Possessing such a talent, I finally understand what Michael Douglas saw in her in Fatal Attraction.

Now if only I could find a photo of the stunningly attractive Anne Archer doing this—preferably with rutabagas...

Will the Hall Call or Was LaRussa a Juice-a?

Just 17 home runs shy of 600—still the rarefied realm of only Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, and Willie Mays in 2001—and owed $30 million on a contract extension, Mark McGwire received plaudits for limping away from baseball on his own terms. Hindered by bad knees, he still smashed 29 round-trippers in his swansong season, remaining a productive and popular player. Little did we know that McGwire’s exit was a less-than-virtuous getaway from the steroid scandal about to break—a lie that he lived for a decade, until finally confessing last year.

Now Tony LaRussa, still shaking confetti from his tawdry hair, stuns the baseball world by retiring days after his St. Louis Cardinals capture the World Series. A mere 35 managerial wins shy of the legendary John McGraw, LaRussa has carte rouge to rack up as many more victories in Cardinals red as he desires. On the cusp of cementing certified greatness, LaRussa’s retirement smacks of another quick getaway.

So far, no one has asked the question: Did LaRussa juice while managing? Let the numbers decide:

Third all-time in wins, with a whopping 2728, LaRussa piloted 5093 regular-season games over 33 seasons (each of the latter figures second most in baseball annals). In addition to three World Series titles, he won Manager of the Year four times, including the first award, in 1983, and most recently in 2002. That 19-year span of dominance in a major category is equaled only by Roger Clemens’ 18-year bookends between Cy Young Awards—and we all know how Clemens achieved his. Pacing dugouts for 5214 games (including playoffs) means, conservatively, that LaRussa paced for almost 47,000 innings. A younger man might manage such mileage, but half of LaRussa’s managerial career occurred after age fifty. As the oft-recited baseball maxim states: the first thing to go is the legs—so is anyone buying that LaRussa logged so many innings on his feet without artificial help?

Like McGwire and Barry Bonds, whose bodies ballooned during the steroid era, LaRussa began tipping the scales (albeit less dramatically). His 1981 Fleer baseball card, issued three years into his managerial career, listed LaRussa at 185 lb; however, Baseball Almanac currently denotes him at 190 lb. Sure, this shocking transformation of his body could result from weightlifting—as asserted the unrepentant Bonds—but let’s not kid ourselves.

And is not batting the pitcher eighth—an occasional LaRussa strategy—the reasoning of a mind muddled by performance-enhancing chemicals?

On the numbers, LaRussa was a good manager for a long time and deserves Hall of Fame election. But like McGwire and other juicers, should he—if guilty—be made to wait a decade or more? LaRussa's mediocre record as skipper of the Chicago White Sox, which predates the steroid era, is decidedly not Hall of Fame caliber. Only when LaRussa moved to Oakland—where he teamed with McGwire and Jose Canseco, two players at the core of the steroid maelstrom—did he begin amassing the numbers that led LaRussa near the top of career lists and seemingly warrant his induction.

One is left to wonder...

Thus far, no evidence has come to light—and maybe there is none to find. But Mark McGwire once, too, was pure.

Scorsese Got Lazy with Living in the Material World

I finally viewed Martin Scorsese's latest film, George Harrison: Living in the Material World. As an admirer of Scorsese's work and a long-time devotee of George, I expected a real treat for the eyes and ears. Much of the 3½-hour documentary please-pleased me, but I must confess that Scorsese's direction bored me to tears. For instance, the segment chronicling Harrison's 1999 stabbing at the hands of a mentally unstable intruder lacked any sort of Scorseseian drama. Scorsese glossed over the entire incident with nothing more than talk.

Whereas previous Scorsese films, such as Goodfellas and Gangs of New York, were chock full of graphic knife work meant to convey the visceral brutality of their characters' worlds, in the case of George Harrison, Scorsese strangely opted for empty, inert monologue. Why not recreate the moment—perhaps with a Daniel Day-Lewis cameo—and let the audience in on one of the most dramamtic moments in George's life? (Sure, Harrison's assailant probably never uttered anything about "rib or chop...loin or shank" as he attacked the Quiet Beatle, but the supremely talented Day-Lewis surely could sell such a recreation.)

This is not an oversight limited only to Scorsese's latest rock & roll biopic. One need only labor through The Last Waltz and witness the first indication that the music documentary is decidedly not Scorsese's milieu. Beyond Emmylou Harris tousling her gorgeous mane and the crazily attired Van Morrison high-kicking his way through "Caravan," the film is devoid of action. Sure, the musical performances are top-notch, but, overall, The Last Waltz is a snoozer. Where is the Joni Mitchell car chase? Where is Neil Young beating the daylights out of Rick Danko with a baseball bat? Where is Dr. John putting on 60 lb for the concert and punching a wall until his hands break? How could Scorsese permit the film's finale—The Band, Ringo Starr, and Ronnie Wood backing Bob Dylan as he performs "I Shall Be Released"—to progress as nothing more than a soulful sing-along when he could have turned it into an epic bloodbath? It's no surprise that The Last Waltz is one of Scorsese's lowest earning films—even the box-office flop Kundun outgrossed it almost 16-fold!

I haven't been this disappointed in a Martin Scorsese film since the stale popcorn in The King of Comedy.

Finding a Founding Father Lacking in Accuracy

So you know those Citizens Bank ads featuring Alexander Hamilton. Most people don't have any idea of Hamilton's role in the founding of our federal banking system. In fact, a large part of our oblivious populace is not aware that it's Hamilton gracing the $10 bill (I've met some of this lamentable demographic personally).

But what's the one thing practically every school child is taught about Alexander Hamilton? That he was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr, the Vice President of the United States.

So why doesn't the actor in the Citizens Bank commercials have a big, bloody bullet hole in his lower abdomen? I mean, can't we have some concession to historicity?

It doesn't even have to be overt. Perhaps Hamilton, in touting the virtues of Citizens Bank, explains to his Federalist colleagues, "Some people get shot...a good bank gets that," as Hamilton rolls his eyes downward and motions his brow toward his damaged torso, before collapsing in agony from his mortal wound...then cue the fife-and-drum jingle as his colleagues clumsily administer a poultice and brandy in vain.

Otherwise, Alexander Hamilton is just another Founding Father, as anonymous as Nicholas Gilman or Gunning Bedford, Jr.