Tag: netflix

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Moving To A Place Where No One Knows My Name


Not Momo or Me or a celebrity

Don’t misunderstand me; Momo and I are happy with the election result. I feel bad for all the self-serving celebrities who publically promised to move from this country because of the election. Where will they go? Canada or Europe may be their only hope for survival. If they were smart, and there are plenty of them that are not, they would seek to find the magical land of Nirvana. You know, the elusive country hidden in the Tibetan Mountains, a stone’s throw from Xanadu, which would also offer a safe harbor.

Of course, there would be drawbacks. The Monks who run these places don’t care much for Hollywood folks. There wouldn’t be movie studios, movie houses, fancy restaurants, Mercedes dealerships, or elections. In fact, there would be no work for them at all except for pruning the bushes and flowers. They might find true inner peace and illumination by spending the rest of their days there, wearing a flowing white robe as they stroll the mystical gardens accompanied by a mystical grasshopper.

Momo and I gave it some serious thought. Moving to Nirvana or Xanadu sounds warm and fuzzy, like new Christmas pajamas. After many nights of kicking the idea around, she announced that there is no way she can move to a place that doesn’t show “The Wheel of Fortune” and doesn’t have her H-E-B.

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Comedy Gone A ‘Foul


I love Mark Twain. I revered him to the point that when I was a child of ten, becoming Mark Twain was my life’s ambition. Sadly for me, it didn’t work out, but he still inspires me to this day, not only with his witty writing but his keen eyes focused on the human race. Not much has changed since his days on the big river, or so I thought.

I attempted, and somewhat succeeded, to watch portions of a streaming salute to the black comedian Kevin Hart on Netflix. Filmed at the bastion of liberal theater, the elitist government-funded “The Kennedy Center.” He was being awarded with the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor.

I like Kevin Hart; he’s a funny guy who is not afraid to dig into squeamish subjects. But he is strictly adult comedy: crude, foul-mouthed, racist, and mean at times. He has his place in clubs, streaming specials, and R-rated movies, not on the stage of the “Sacred Cow Kennedy Center” in front of a mixed audience of wealthy Hollywood folks jiggling their jewelry and rich old ladies who were clearly put off by the humor he and his roasting guest comedians spat out. The F word seemed to be the most favored of the night, and they all used it for maximum value.

Jerry Seinfeld, the king of clean comedy, introduced the show and praised Kevin for his body of work. Kevin, in the king and queen box, yuked it up, kissed his kids and wife, and wiped away a few tears; it was a touching tribute until Seinfeld left the stage, and that is when the show went to comedic hell in a “Jackie O Handbasket.”

I know how to cuss, learning it from my father’s side of the family and from my sainted Cherokee mother, who could string some of the better words into a formidable tirade. The F word and a few more, are in my vocabulary, and lately, watching the maddening news on television, I find myself screaming adult language at my set. But that is in my home, in front of Momo, who can cuss as well as I can, sometimes better. We don’t dare say bad words in public or in mixed company or around our family, especially the grandkids. So why is filthy, foul-mouthed thuggish language acceptable for an audience at “Jack’s Palace?” You could see Jerry Seinfeld cringe when the camera panned to him. I’m certain he has used those words, especially dealing with Kramer, Newman, and maybe the Soup Nazi.

When Hart finally took the stage to thank everyone and show his stuff, it was a recitation of F you, F this, F that, and so on: all his comedy buds in the box seats roared with approval, showing me that you can be funny, make a butt-load of money and have folks idolize you, but you that doesn’t give you class.

Hollywood and its ilk have taken what was once a reverent, respected, cherished, and Homeric award and turned it into another cheap-assed participation trophy, like the Oscar. Mark Twain deserves so much better.