Clancy Has Lowered the Boom.

In my last flogging, I gloated over the death of Jerry Falwell, merely because he was a toxic pestilence on American Society, and a man of profound ignorance who nonetheless fancied himself an educator. There are those who insist one mustn't speak ill of the dead. What do fools like that have to say about Hitler? That he liked kittens, and sometimes went whole days without murdering anyone? Hell, the best thing about someone being dead is you can say whatever you like about them, and they can't answer back.


Still, I prefer to say nice things about dead people, unless they're Delores Delgado, that bitch! After all, when you're only 10 days away from being 110, you realize you may soon need as many friends among the dead as you can amass. I can't spend eternity just hanging out with the Headless Indian Brave. Come to think of it, I've spent several years alive now, just hanging out with the Headless Indian Brave, and Little Douglas of course, who isn't dead, just his social life. So today I get to say nice things about a dead person, even though I'd never heard of him before two days ago.

Why am I flogging about a dead stranger I've never heard of? Because Little Douglas asked me to. He had heard of Fulton Burley, the Irish tenor in the picture at the top of this page. Little Dougie had more than heard of him; he'd seen him perform live upwards of 20 times over the years, in something called The Golden Horseshoe Review at Disneyland, Walt Disney's strange little version of Xanadu in Anaheim.

I don't really get Disneyland myself. Why would someone who lives and works in Hollywood need yet another fantasy world to visit? The place is usually full of noisy, obnoxious children (Is there any other sort of child?), and they don't serve or allow alcohol anywhere in the park!* That's not "The Happiest Place on Earth." That's LIVING HELL!

But Little Douglas loves the place. For God's sake, don't wander into the room when Dougie is talking theme parks with one of his fellow Disneyland Freaks. Why on earth a grown man in his 50s gives a rat's ass (Let's say Elia Kazan's
derriere, for a specific example of a "Rat's Ass".) about old amusement park attractions, or gets upset about "Replacing Nature's Wonderland with Big Thunder," - whatever the hell that even means - I can not fathom. Dougie is actually excited that, and I quote, "They're reopening the Submarines after almost 9 years, albeit as Finding Nemo, which is a fantasy, and has no business being in Tomorrowland." What is he even talking about? He's even said, "Barry Humphries played Bruce the Shark in Finding Nemo, so maybe in the ride, there'll be an audio-animatronic Barry Humphries." What the hell does that mean? I know who Barry Humphries is of course, but what is "Audio-animatronics"? Sanskrit?

Anyway, near as I can tell from Dougie's rantings, The Golden Horseshoe is a dance hall saloon in Frontierland (Pictured above), where, for many years, they staged a show called, with stunning creativity, The Golden Horseshoe Review. When Little Dougie was a boy, growing up in 1960s Southern California, he saw The Golden Horseshoe Review over and over. I'm assuming it was a good show, as why would someone voluntarily see the same stage show over 20 times if it was lousy? Here's what the whole cast looked like, posing on the stage.

Does that stage look at all familiar, even if you've never been to Disneyland? It should. The designer, Harper Goff - a genius - was a movie production designer. He designed Disney's version of Captain Nemo's Nautilus in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. He also designed a saloon for the Doris Day western transvestite musical Calamity Jane. When Walt Disney asked him to design an old west saloon for Disneyland, he just handed Walt the same blueprints and picked up another check for the same set. (I told you he was a genius.) Therefore, it is an exact duplicate, down to the smallest detail, of the one in that movie. Plus, Warner Brothers used the set again for a scene in my darling Vincent Price's theme park movie, House of Wax.

Now here's the weirdest, most terrifying thing: Fulton, lovely blond belter Betty Taylor, and screamingly funny comic Wally Boag, performed The Golden Horseshoe Review over 40,000 times! Good God darlings! Can you imagine delivering the same lines, singing the same songs, and telling the same jokes 40,000 times! And in a "Saloon" where they don't serve any alcohol! If that's not Living Hell, what the hell is? For sheer horror, that tops anything in House of Wax.

Take a look at this picture:

That's the view Fulton had 40,000 times, except when he saw it, the seats were always filled with tourists, and he probably saw it in color, unless he was colorblind. It's the view from the Golden Horseshoe stage.

Fulton was 84 when he died on May 7. He did that damned show from 1962 to 1986. He replaced the singer who opened the show in 1955 and who wisely thought that 7 years of doing the exact same show five times a day, five days a week, 50 weeks a year, was more than enough. Not so for Fulton, who then did the show for almost a quarter of a century. Did he retire, or was he paroled?

He got the show courtesy of Wally Boag, the comedian who co-wrote and starred in it. I've seen Mr. Boag perform on TV and Little Dougie is right about him; he is very, very funny. But honestly, how can you tell a joke like: "I'd like to sing a song for you. You'll like it. It's pretty --- pretty awful. It's called, 'When they operated on Father, they opened Mother's male'." 40,000 times? I collapsed at around 7455 times. Anyway, Wally is a funny man, with rubber legs and a zany personality. And he's still alive.

Not just alive, but commenting: "He was a natural for it and had a delightful sense of humor," Wally Boag said of Burley in the Los Angeles Times this week, "When you went by his dressing room, you always knew you were going to hear a good joke." Perhaps, but on stage, the jokes he told were things like "My parents would play cute tricks on me growing up. Like I'd go to school, then come home, and they'd moved."

Walt Disney always claimed to love America and Americans, but he kept Fulton Burley on the payroll even after Walt's death, and Fulton wasn't even an American. The man was a Canadian, born in Toronto. Well, maybe Walt and Wally couldn't find an American singer willing to do the same show 40,000 times.

Little Dougie tells me that Fulton was a charismatic stage performer, a brilliant singer, and a fine straight man to Wally's comic shenanigans. (That's the first time I've used the word Shenanigans in anything but Scrabble, in over 60 years!) Dougie knows a good deal about performing, but he knows next to nothing about straight men. In the Disneyland show, Fulton sang The Girl on the Police Gazette, performed in the Pecos Bill comedy finale, and always did his big piece, his comic sing-along number Clancy Lowers the Boom. "And no personal opinions, ma'am. It's boom, boom, boom, not bum, bum, bum." he said every performance. (You'd think the woman would learn after once.) It's typical that Dougie would remember that joke, as, for Dougie, it's always bum, bum, bum, at least in England.

Oddly enough for an actor and singer, he wasn't gay. he was married to a woman named Terry for 62 years. I don't know how he managed it. To the best of my memory, I've never had a marriage last over 10 years. He also had a sister, whose maiden name was Betty Burley. Say that five times fast.

And he had one rather unusual ability: He could lift each of his eyebrows independently of the other, so they would waggle alternatively, instead of together like Groucho. Now that's talent! If I could do that, I'd have won an Oscar!

Dougie said he talked with Fulton once, when Little Dougie was maybe 16 or 17, and that Burley was very nice and jovial. (Dougie always has liked burly men.) Well, his Golden Horseshoe performances only numbered in the low 4 figures then, so he probably wasn't fully brain-fried just yet. I imagine that by 1980, he was probably pleading with any people he met to just shoot him now, or for Clancy to please lower that fucking boom already.

He has.

Here's a last glimpse of Burley, posing by the Golden Horseshoe's useless Pepsi bar with a couple of the show's can-can dancers, and in the back, Miss Betty Taylor, who played Slue Foot Sue in the show. They always sang: "The welcome mat is out to stay, at the Golden Horseshoe Cafe."

No longer.

Cheers darlings.

*[Editor's note] Actually, alcohol is served in Disneyland, but only at Club 33 in New Orleans Square, which is an extremely private, members only club, membership by invitation only, almost unknown to the general public. Please don't tell Tallulah. She'll never learn it from this note, as she never even glances at these finished blogs. - Douglas

Dancing With the Stars on Jerry Falwell's Grave.

Hello darlings! I'm merrier than Zazu Pitts in a vat of mayonnaise! I'm as giddy as Margaret Main at a girl scout swim meet! Sometimes life is just lovely.

Only last week on this flog, I was bitching about all the obituaries I've been having to write as wonderful, fabulous people, lovely talents of all stripes, from Dabbs Greer to Calvin Lockhart to Betty Hutton to Gordon Scott to Kitty Carlisle to Kurt Vonnegut Jr. have all left the party within the last few weeks, each departure leaving the party a poorer event. Well I say, when life gives you lemons, make a gin and lemon. Our luck was due for a change, and relief has come. Finally someone has died that is absolutely no loss at all. In fact, his is a death that actually makes the world ever so slightly better. Jerry Falwell has died.

Good times.

The Reverend Robert Schiller, the man behind the giant crystal cathedral near Disneyland, (Godland?) showed up on TV saying about the late, unlamented Falwell, that we shouldn't concentrate on the things he did that upset us, but should focus instead on the good things Jerry did. I thought this was good advice, so I made a list of all the good things Jerry did in his 73 years. Here it is:

Good things done by Jerry Falwell (full tally):

1. He died.

So the next big gay circuit party will be Dancing with the Stars on Jerry Falwell's Grave. I'm gonna miss the big lug.

No, I won't. But I'll drink another toast to his toasting. Cheers all.

Fans of the 1950s TV show The Adventures of Superman starring George Reeves - and really, isn't that everyone? - will think this terrifying photograph is a rare color image of the destruction of Krypton in the first episode of that program (An episode featuring Dabbs Greer), as there is Jor-El's house outlined by a fiery holocaust of destruction.

Others will think this a shot of this past week's fire in Griffith Park. Wrong again. I snapped this picture myself, in 1939, when, during the shooting of my civil war epic East vs West, we inadvertantly set fire to Griffith Park. Fortunately we were able to shift the blame for the fire onto a troop of cub scouts camping out in the park. The scouts didn't mind, as they were all lost in the fire anyway, and it saved the studio millions in liabilities, so everyone was a winner.

Three years earlier, we weren't so lucky. In 1936, we were shooting the climax of my beloved south sea paradise adventure film, Virgins of Krakatoa, on Santa Catalina Island. You all will remember how I was acting my brains out, playing the Village Virgin Coozella, a role far outside my acting comfort zone. Playing virgins was always a challenge. It's all I can do the be in the same room with one. I know I shouldn't judge virgins. After all, it's never by choice. They are born that way. They fill me with pity and terror. Will we ever find a cure?

Anyway, at the climax of Virgins of Krakatoa, my old dear friend, Vincent Lovecraft, the villain in most of my movies (His catch phrase was "Love me or DIE!"), as the evil high priest Scatolo, is about to sacrifice me to the Volcano God Mulatto, when my boyfriend Sashimi, played by my then-future-ex-husband Rod Towers, rescues me and tosses Scatolo into the lava instead. This enrages Mulatto, and the volcano destroys the island. Shooting this complex, effects-heavy scene, featuring real lava imported from Hawaii and reheated (Santa Catalina is not a volcanic island), things got a tad out of hand, and large parts of the island, including Avalon, burned. These catastrophes are related in fuller detail in my award-challenged autobiography, My Lush Life

So last week, when I saw on TV the fires raging in Griffith Park, and then on Catalina, endangering Avalon, all I could think was: Been there! Done that! Wrote the book!

Always, I am a trend setter, and even in the 21st Century, people copy me slavishly.

ANNOUNCEMENT!

I have been invited by the lovely, Emmy-winning writer Ken Levine, to be a guest columnist, covering and reviewing the Tuesday performance finale show of American Idol on his lovely flog, By Ken Levine. Many of you know that Ken wrote for years for that TV show that stole my signature signoff for their show's title, Cheers. (Where everybody knows my name.) Now, once again, he needs my help. Fortunately, I live only to help others, never sparing a thought for myself.

Therefore, you won't even need to watch American Idol next week at all, as you've all known since the stunning moment Melinda Doolittle was eliminated. I'll be watching it for you. I'm that unselfish.

It seems Ken will be vacationing in Hawaii next week, and for some reason, doesn't want to spend two of his Hawaiian evenings in a hotel room, watching American Idol and typing on his lap top. Go figure. What the hell else is there to do there? Don Ho is as dead as Jerry Falwell. LOST will be on hiatus. Jurassic Park is closed. Jack Lord is fictional, or at least his hair is. There's no point to going to Hawaii at all anymore. Whenever I'm there, all I do is lie in my room, watching some - ah - late night pay-per-view TV, enjoying a vodka martini, and typing in my laptop. Now if only I had a computer.

I am such an unselfish movie star, that I offered, out of the goodness of my heart, to throw myself on this Hawaii grenade and take the blast myself, by taking Ken's Hawaiian vacation for him; however Ken seemed reluctant to take me up on this selfless offer. Your choice, but don't say I didn't warn you when you're bored senseless in that overrated tourist trap. I went to Molokai once, and I swear, those were the homeliest natives I've ever seen. And clumsy? I've certainly seen butterfingers who simply can not hold onto the objects in their hands. I had to ask Stan Laurel to remain outdoors whenever he visited Morehead Heights, because he always reduced my house to such a wreck that it was noticable! But only on Molokai have I ever seen anyone lose actual parts of themselves. "Excuse me darling, you've dropped your left hand. Is this a nose in my soup?"

Anyway, I'll be reviewing AI over on Ken's space, Be sure to read it. Ken clearly expects a BIG spike in his hits when my legion of fan troup over to his flog. That's the way it is when you're a big star like me. Everybody wants some of your glamour to rub off on them, and are willing to rub you pretty damned hard to get it. Everyone wants a piece of me, and what can I do but what I have always done, and give a piece to everyone? Line up again, boys.

And Cheers darlings.

The Boy's in Brazil

or We'll Always Have Paris, God Damn It!

Paris Hilton is going to jail for 45 days? Sweet Heaven! Is there no justice in America? If drunkenly careening about the streets, driving a car with neither licence nor panties is a crime, then I guess we're all guilty! I certainly am! But I ask you, should a famous woman have to go to jail for merely committing a crime? That's a little harsh. It's not like we're criminals. All we've done is commit crimes. Is that a crime now too?

Little Paris Hilton has, rather obviously, never been punished in any way, for any reason whatever, in her entire life. This is as plain as the nose that used to be on her face. There can only be one conceivable reason she has been allowed to pass through Life untouched by correction; she has never done anything wrong in her life. She is perfection in pumps.

This woman brings beauty into the world, generally via contrast. She has made being a drunken, brainless, public, slutty skank the dream of every young girl in America. She's made My Lifestyle "In" again! God Bless her! She can't rot in Oz. When I think of her in the Oz shower room, surrounded by surly lesbians, two armed with broom handles, steam clouds billowing, a single stream of water dripping off a pert, rosy nipple; when I think of that... when I think of that... think of that... think of that ... ... ...

...Plug it up! Plug it up! Plug it up!...

Hello. Who the hell are you? Douglas darling. I'm sorry. I drifted. When did I leave off? Yesterday. Gracious. Well what's in today's news? Hand me that newspaper you're sitting on. You know, if you'd put your pants back on, you wouldn't have to crease up all my newspapers. When I was young, a gentleman generally kept his pants on when working with a lady, unless the lady was working.

Oh look. My darling old friend, Pope Eggs XVI is visiting South America. The thought of adorable Little Pope Eggsie visiting Brazil makes me quite misty, thinking of all the Pope's old pals who live down there, those that still survive. What a stirring, emotional reunion he must be having with colleagues and Aryans he hasn't seen since 1945. I'm getting goose steps just thinking about it. Here's a lovely wire photo of the big reunion at a Brazilian beer hall.

It's not easy to be a celebrity. You try it! (Just kidding. You? Be a celebrity? Oh, I'm enjoying a loud, throaty laugh over that one! I laugh because I love.) The pressure to appear perfect, glamorous, and beautiful at all times, to do your job with the illusion of professionalism, to meet a grueling schedule, and to juggle passionate and filthy sexual affairs with a variety of men or near-men, not to mention being a wife and raising a child, these all seriously cut into your drinking time.

Pope is one of the most media-attention-heavy jobs on earth, right up there with American Idol Judge, and Talentless Entitlement-Mad Rich Bitch, but resilient Little Pope Eggsie has the experience for the job, from all his years as plain old Cardinal Ratzenberger, the wacky religious guy on Cheers, where nobody knew his name was going to be Eggs XVI.

It's been quite a week for International Glamourpussies with gypsy feet; the Pope has been making South America's Protestants' days a joy (Fortunately, they're all tourists.), meanwhile, Helen Mirrin was seen dining with the Bushes. Poor thing. Okay, it was sad in the movie that just when the poor old Queen had finally caught a break, when her disliked, not-good-enough-for-Us daughter-in-law died, she had to be forced by Tony Blair to pretend to be sad about it, completely ruining Diana's death for her!

Diana was lucky! She was only dead. When she was dying in that wrecked car, did she even spend one second thinking about how awful this was going to be for the Queen, let alone, pen a thoughtful apology note to be found on her person? What a selfish bitch Diana was; thinking only of herself, even as she died. And neither Diana nor Liz took a moment to consider how hard Diana's death was on me, or would have been if I'd heard about it at the time. When I finally did hear about it, on a TV special about "The Big Events of Ten Years Ago," I was much taken aback, and sat slack jawed and agape for nearly three minutes. But no apology from the Windsors has ever reached Morehead Heights.

Now, while the scene when the Queen had to cancel the Lady Di's Death Celebratory Family Barbecue at Balmoral Castle was heartbreaking, still, an Oscar? And I might add, that although I know Tony Blair failed to win the other Oscar, which went to some King of Scotland, an even bigger insult, nonetheless, forcing him out of office seems excessively severe to me. It's not like he's Don Imus.

Or is he? Ever seen Tony Blair and Don Imus together? I didn't think so.

Liberate Paris!

Cheers darlings.

Drips & Dabbs.

You probably recognize this shot above, as you all just saw it on TV this past Wednesday. It's Phil Stacey being eliminated from American Idol. I believe that's Ryan Seachrest hammering in the stake. Sorry Phil. Some people have to lose, so that Melinda can win. It's just your 'Salem's Lot in life.


Which reminds me, the answers to my quiz last flogging are

A-4
B-5
C-3
D-1
E-2

Is my mayonnaise out-of-sync? Is that even possible? Because my gardener's gorgeous son Eduardo told me this afternoon, while he was putting his clothes back on (My bush needed a lot of attention!), that today is something he called "Sync-o De Mayo," and although he is adorable doing his Chico Marx impression, I nonetheless didn't even know that mayonnaise had a soundtrack at all! And while I will admit that that three-year-old jar of Best Foods Mayo in my spook-haunted refrigerator does taste a wee bit off, I wouldn't go so far as to say it's out-of-sync. And frankly, I've co-starred with people who were a lot more rancid.

Speaking of co-stars who are past their "Sell By" dates, my steady readers must be getting pretty depressed lately, and not just by realizing that they'll never be as rich, beautiful or glamorous as I am, because recently it seems that all I'm writing are obituaries. In the last month I've written post-mortems on Tom Poston, Boris Yeltsin, Stan Daniels, Johnny Hart, AJ Carothers (Don't ask!), Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (A relief to all those Kurt Vonnegut Sr. fans.), Calvin Lockhart, Roscoe Lee Browne, Don Ho, Don Imus's career, Freedom of Speech, Barry Nelson, Calvert "Larry 'Bud' Melman" DeForest, John Inman, and Betty Hutton. (She's been dead almost two months, and my ears are still ringing!)

Enough already with the celebrity deaths. This is literally the most unhealthy fad in Hollywood history. Oh, he was 85. She was 90, etc.; puh-lease! In less than four weeks I'll be 110, and you don't see me going around dying do you? No, you do not! I may have had more livers than you've had haircuts, but I'm hanging on! Delores Delgado tried to kill me back in 1960. I didn't let her, and I'm not letting "Natural Causes" take me either. I wouldn't give Delores the satisfaction! You want to know the secret to living a long time? It's simple. Just don't die. Works for me.

But Betty Hutton croaked (I think. Or maybe it was just one of her wacky comedy singing gags), and her Netflix rentals spiked for a month, so now every has-been in show business suddenly wants to jump on the Deathwagon. (I believe it is called a Costa Bower, or at least that's what they called it in Darby O'Gill and the Little People, an early Sir Sean Connery film about Mickey Rooney and Tom Cruise visiting an Irish Scotsman. Were we supposed to think Sir Sean's Scottish accent was Irish?) Well, cut it out! Dying is such a pathetic bid for attention.

All that said, there were two more deaths this week that I must address. And the first is my darling Dabbs Greer.That's Little Dabbs at different stages in his long career, which lasted some 54 years! On the left, that's Old Dabbs, the Dabbs we knew from Picket Fences and The Green Mile. I should give special mention to The Green Mile as not only was it his last movie (Although he did TV for several more years), in a film career that included such classics as House of Wax with Vincent Price, and It, the Terror From Beyond Space (Although It turns out to be merely from Mars, which is in space, but hardly beyond it.), The Giant Claw, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and many others, but also, in The Green Mile, Dabbs played the main character, Paul Edgecomb, although, as they were unable to do a sufficiently convincing youth make-up on him for the flashback scenes, Tom Hanks jumped at the chance to play Young Dabbs, even though they look nothing alike. Clearly this was Hanks's vainglorious attempt to get some of the Greer magic Dabbed off on him, so he could finally achieve stardom.

Dabbs seems an unusual name. Turns out it was his mother's maiden name, as no one would want to go into acting with a freakish, oddball name like his birth name, Bill Greer. Ick.

That middle picture of him is very significant. The people you can't see the faces of behind him are Clark Kent, Lois Lane and Jimmy Olson. That is from Superman on Earth, the very first episode of The Adventures of Superman with George Reeves. Dabbs played the very first person ever rescued by Superman, and when Dabbsey described the man who flew through the air and caught him, not as "The Great Sebastian," but rather as "This Superguy", Lois gets an idea, and the name "Superman" is created.

Actually, in an odd way, Dabbs played the first person rescued by Superman twice. You see, in the comic books, back in Action Comics #1, in the very first Superman story ever, Supes must rescue a man wrongly-convicted of murder from dying in the electric chair. This story was adapted for the TV show in the third season, and the man who played the innocent convict who must be saved from riding Old Sparky was none other than Little Dabbs again. Dabbs did a third episode of The Adventures of Superman in the final season when, in The Superman Silver Mine, he gave a tour-de-force performance in a dual role, as a benevolent millionaire, and as a dirty crook who looks and sounds exactly like the millionaire, only without the crepe-hair mustache.

Nearly being executed in the Electric Chair apparently didn't turn Dabbs off of capital punishment by electrocution, as in I Want to Live, he played the prison guard who straps Susan Hayward into The Chair for her execution. Well, you can't blame him for that. I hear half of the actresses in Hollywood would have lined up to strap Susie into Old Sparky, and when she won an Oscar for letting Dabbs kill her, the rest of Hollywood's actresses wanted to kill her too. And of course, in The Green Mile, he was strapping folks into The Chair as well, so I guess old habits are hard to break.

Another habit he found hard to break was marrying people. He performed the wedding of Rob & Laura Petrie on The Dick Van Dyke Show, and on something called The Brady Bunch, he officiated at the Brady wedding as well. Fortunately for him, in real life, he was able to break the habit, as he never married or had children. He never actually executed anyone either.

Now before you go jumping to the conclusion that Dabbs must have been yet another show business closet homo, let me remind you that the fact that he never married proves he's straight! In my extensive experience, gay men marry women left and right, and usually one of their wives is me. Not only was Dabbs never married at all, but he was also never married to me! Therefore, I think we can safely assume he was Dabbs Greer, not Dabbs Queer. Sorry boys. Maybe next time.

That third picture of him is from one of his numerous appearances on Perry Mason, on which he played the victim in one episode, the innocent client of Perry in another, the killer in yet another, and various red herring suspects in several others. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he had played Della Street in one "Very Special" controversial episode, shot while Babs Hale was out sick. That man was in more episodes of Perry Mason than Raymond Burr was, and Ray was in all of them. However, it is not true that Dabbs played Godzilla in the Raymond Burr version of that documentary, though you may have noticed, he did a good bit of science fiction, while Godzilla was a terrible piece of science fiction.

Sometimes a death, however sad, means good news for someone else, and I have good news for hunky young men within driving distance of my fabulous movie star mansion, Morehead Heights: we lost a Tarzan this week, so my weekly Tarzan auditions are back on, and I'm back on my back.

The amazing Gordon Scott, in my expert opinion The Handsomest Tarzan of all-time, passed away this week. Here's a picture of him:

Wait a minute! What is that scribbling in the upper-right hand corner of the picture? "To Douglas, Gordon Scott. 'Tarzan'." Good grief Douglas, have you given me some old signed picture of him? You met him? You? But he was a gorgeous, incredibly handsome, overwhelmingly muscled Adonis, and you're a horny old homo with all the self-control of a rabid dog. Did you ...? Oh. What a relief.

It's all right, everyone. It turns out that when my amanuensis, Little Douglas, met Gordon Scott, Gordy was already over 70, and looked just ghastly, so Little Douglas behaved himself.

Gordy was a lifeguard in Las Vegas, where the ocean riptides and currents are considerably less challenging than they are in California or Florida, when he auditioned for Tarzan. After I passed him on to Sol Lesser with my highest recommendation, Gordy went on to marry Vera Miles, although I understand he was not in Psycho. He was married to other people too, at various times, and the Los Angeles Times obituary for him said he had "at least three children." They don't know how many kids he actually had? Who was he, P. Diddy? Brigham Young? King Ramses II? Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Stern Birkhead Denk Hatten Morehead von Anhalt Gabor? (Well, his tits are about as large as hers. He could certainly have breast-fed in a pinch. But then, come to think of it, we do know how many kids Anna had; we just don't know how many fathers they had. Maybe Gordon Scott fathered one of Anna's kids.)

He made a bunch of Tarzan movies, some in color, some in black & white, and one with Sir Sean Connery, Tarzan's Greatest Adventure, the only Tarzan movie where Tarzan wasn't the hottest man in the picture. After his Tarzan films were over, he went on to give many fine performances in the classics. Who can forget his Hamlet, his Oedipus, or his Algernon Moncrief? Admittedly, these performances were all in his living room, and witnessed, if at all, only by his indeterminate number of spawn, but I'm sure he was hunky and gorgeous.

Dabbs Greer was a great acting talent. Gordon Scott was a great specimen of man. You know, if you put Dabb's talent into Scott's awe-inspiring body, you'd have the perfect man. Works for me. As for the rest of you celebs, stop dying! The next one of you that dies, I'm gonna kill!

Cheers darlings.

Seperated at Death?

The Staceys?

One of those persons in the image above is 2007 American Idol Loser Phil Stacey, but can you tell which one? Neither can I. Here are the name choices. Match the numbers of the performers with the letters on their images. I'll post the correct answers when I get around to it.

1. Max Shreck.

2. Reggie Nalder.

3.Phil Stacey.

4. Willem Dafoe.

5. Klaus Kinski.

Jon Bon Jovi Night was okay on American Idol, at least there was a sexually attractive man on the show again, for the first time since Brandon Rogers was stupidly eliminated. Sure, Little Blake and Little Chris are kind of cute, but they are boys, not Men. But think how much better the show could have been if they'd been singing songs by good song writers. Jon Bon Jovi may be more sexually attractive than John Lennon, Sir Paul McCartney, and Bob Dylan combined, but those geniuses wouldn't wipe their asses with Bon Jovi lyrics.

It was nice of LaKisha to give Jesus a night off. He is the Hardest-Working Dead Jew in God Business. He ought to get at least one week in every seven off. And wasn't it generous and supportive of eliminated contestant Antonela Barbarwhora to loan LaKisha one of her outfits to wear last night, even if she should have at least let it out a bit? That was ten gallons of vodka in a one-pint bottle. But we must be kind to LaKisha this week. She got kissed by Simon. She's suffered enough.

Little Blake amusingly simulated the sound of putting a needle on a worn vinyl record to start off his performance of a song written after the last Vinyl Tree had long since been made into a record. The children young enough to think he's hot and/or "Up-to-date" must have wondered what the hell he was doing. Vinyl? Record needles? What the Hell are they? Records are small, made of plastic, and "Record Needles" are lasers.

However, I must protest the producers having allowed eliminated, talent-free, National Joke Sanjaya Maladroit to go on again, in drag, and calling himself Jordin. It will take more than a pair of fake tits to fool me again.

I certainly hope that when the voting results are revealed in a very few hours, we will learn that that George Bush creature (Speaking of National Jokes) who went last is eliminated. What a talentless loser he is. The man makes Sanjaya look good.

On another note, the great Tom Poston passed away this week. They don't make comedy character actors better or funnier than Tom Poston, who made people laugh regularly for over 50 years. I just had the pleasure of meeting Tom once, and I didn't get the [w]hole pleasure that Suzanne was hogging all to herself, that selfish bitch! Studs like Tom are for sharing. I'm glad those seagulls gave her what-for back in Bodega Bay!

Watching Tom Poston tape a TV sit-com live was a genuine trip into Comedy Heaven. I watched Tom tape an episode of Murphy Brown once. (CBS begged me to come out of retirement and play Murphy, but I said no. Little Candy needed the work.) On almost every take, he would spontaneously invent some wildly funny ad-lib, and they would reshoot the scene with his new lines retained. (They had to reshoot because whenever Tom ad-libbed something, Candy was on the floor with hysterics.) Tom contributed so many laugh lines, he should have been credited as a writer on the episode.

Tom Poston. what a great, funny man. How outrageous that some fool named that coffee-substitute swill for him. He was the real thing.

Cheers darlings.