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He Loves The Honeymooners

5 Apr

April 5, 2014

A little over three years ago, on January 11th, 2011, I wrote a blog around this letter, which appeared in the New York Daily News.

kramdenmania

Frankly, I felt sorry for the guy, he was 63 after all. I didn’t even imply that he might have gone a little senile.

I fail to see the problem here. They aired The Honeymooners at one in the afternoon on a day when most people are home and sleep late. Should channel 11 have shown it at one in the morning and forced an old man to stay up to the wee hours of the night? Did he really want to be up, at age 63, watching TV at 4 am? Is this an overreaction, or can someone explain this to me? And while you’re at it, explain to me why this guy felt the need to write to the newspaper about it.

Now flash back to  the present. I’ve pretty much given up on The Daily News. Never a bastion of journalism, they’ve resorted to doing little more than calling out random people as jerks on their front page. In the three years since that letter appeared, it is fair to say that I’ve seen The Voice of the People less than a few dozen times. So I’ll leave it to you to calculate the odds that earlier this week I should run across this letter:

the honey mooner

Three years later, same guy! Still loves The Honeymooners, in fact moved so deeply by it that he had to let the world know with his letter. I can only imagine the orgasmic letters he sends to the station that actually airs the show. But my favorite part of the letter? “I even have my lovely grandchildren imitate them.”

“Grandpa, I’m hungry. Can we eat now?”
“Not until you do the “can it core a apple” skit!”
“Grandpaaaaa!”
“Bang! Zoom! To the moon, Timmy!”

How many letters did he send in that I missed over the years? How many love letters has he sent Audrey “Alice Kramden” Meadows? And how many times has he bitten someone’s hand when they tried to change the channel?

 

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Hollywood Russell and the Hotel Hustle, Part Two

31 Mar

March 31, 2014

If you missed part one, you can read it here.

In a nutshell, Hollywood Russell, private detective, has taken his current female arm candy on an off-season trip to Atlantic City, but the hotel, located on a nearby island, seems utterly deserted. Stella, the aforementioned arm candy, is not impressed.

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The Brigantine, as it appeared in Hollywood Russell's era.

The Brigantine, as it appeared in Hollywood Russell’s era. (Obviously not off-season.)

Hollywood Russell had hoped that this trip to Atlantic City would be quiet and uneventful and so far it was all that and less.

The front door opened and the wind blew more sand into the lobby, caking it into the well-worn, and in some places worn out, old carpet. Tracking in even more sand as he entered with Stella, Hollywood tried to remember if the old adage was about a chill wind or an ill wind. Deciding he didn’t care, he dropped their bags and looked around.

The large front desk was empty. Hollywood, whose professional instincts never took a vacation, peeked behind it to make sure no one had offed the bellboy and dropped him back there.

There was no one in the lobby at all, dead or otherwise. It was well furnished with the chairs and drapes of an earlier era. There were framed photographs of some distinguished patrons on one wall, and on another was a large, smudgy mirror. In fact, along with the tables, lamps and old ferns, the lobby had everything up to and including the kitchen sink. It stuck out oddly from the wall with the photographs and Stella was struck by the fact that it had three faucets. One was hot, one was cold, and the middle one, a handy card tacked above the sink on the wall explained, was for seawater.

While Stella tried to turn the knobs, and was disappointed that no salt water came out, Hollywood examined the pictures. Some of the people in them were familiar, many not, and most were no more recent than a few decades past. Hollywood saw one man, an actor, famous for playing Indian roles and pointed him out to Stella. He died back in 1929.

Hollywood walked back to the front desk, knocked three times, and sang out “Call for Phillip Morris!”

Ten or fifteen seconds went by, then a door near the desk, partially obscured by a curtain, opened and a man who looked as if may or may not have just come up from cleaning the basement came out and asked “can I help you?”

Hollywood, who was not at all sure he could, judging by the man’s sooty clothes, said “I hope so. We have reservations. Name’s Russell.”

“His name is Russell. My name is Warren, Miss Stella Warren,” she said, emphasizing the Miss.

The sooty employee riffled through the pages of an old ledger, filling it with grimy fingerprints. “Russell… Russell… hmm… oh, here it is, Russell, party of two, one suite, overnight. Room 108, just down the hall.“ He put a key on the desk and turned the book around to face the detective. “Please sign here, Mr. Russell. Last name, first name…?” He left the unspoken question trail in the air.

Russell took the key, signed the book and looked the man in the eye. “First name is Private, middle name’s Investigator. Most people call my Hollywood, but you can call me a bellhop to carry these bags to our room.”

Startled, the man rushed out from behind the desk. “I’ll do it myself, Mister, er, Detective Russell.” He made a grab for the bags but Hollywood beat him to them. “I’ll carry them myself. You can have this.” Hollywood thrust his handkerchief into the man’s dirty, outstretched hand. “Keep the change.”

Hollywood and Stella walked down the hall, counting rooms until they found 108.

 

To Be Continued

 

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Hollywood Russell and the Hotel Hustle, Part One

27 Mar

March 27, 2014

hotel hustle

The beach was windy and cold, but more importantly for Hollywood Russell’s bank account, it was off-season. The beach was part of Brigantine Island, just a short hop from Atlantic City, and if you had a car and a mind to do so, you could drive around the perimeter of the island, see the sights, and be back where you started in about fifteen minutes.

Hollywood had been promising Stella Warren, his current not-a-girlfriend, a trip to Atlantic City for what Stella said had been months. Hollywood was sure he had mentioned it off-hand once, and only once (and while distracted by a case, at that) but a promise was a promise and in a P.I.’s line of work, it was important to keep promises. However, for Hollywood Russell, work always came first, and what he was hoping would come next would be a case where he could somehow put this trip to the capital gaming capitol on his expense account. But all of his recent cases were local and Stella was about ready to walk out on him, hence this off-season escape to the shore.

The Brigantine Hotel had seen better days, and Hollywood suspected that those days were around the 1890’s. It was a very tall building, easily the tallest building on the island, and impossible to miss since the rest of the buildings topped out at two stories. Add the fact that this pocket skyscraper was right on the beach, literally, with no other buildings even close, and you had a hotel that screamed “late night horror movie.”

brigantine 2

Sand from the beach had blown all over the parking lot, the front steps, and into the lobby. Water from large waves came all the way up and into the back entrance. While Stella oohed and ahhed over the location, Hollywood wondered what kept the hotel from sinking into the ground.

The vacationing detective got their bags from the trunk while Stella turned up her collar against the wind. “It’s too cold out here!” Hollywood grunted something about wearing more clothes and less makeup and led her through the front door.

There was no one there.

 

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To Be Continued

 

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