Hollywood Poop: Least Important Entertainment News

HOLLYWOOD, Today -- Ed "Rascal" Carbone, second assistant gaffer on the 1978 film "The Toolbox Murders" was found alive yesterday morning by David Kenner, 31, of Los Angeles. Kenner, a self-described aficionado of the b-horror genre, told a reporter that he had spotted Carbone, 48, on line at a local In-and-Out Burger. Kenner revealed that Carbone, now a Los Angeles-area home-improvement contractor, "was a genius, totally, when it came to electrician-type shit, like taping down wires and whatnot" and that "the movie would have totally sucked without his expertise, at least according to this guy I know who dated this chick who once babysat for the director's ex-wife."

HOLLYWOOD, Today -- Former actress Barbara Pinchot, 39, known for her portrayal of "woman #8 at restaurant table" on a 1990 episode of "Charles in Charge" recently adopted a small, male kitten from a animal shelter run by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in San Dimas, CA. "He was just so darn cute," Pinchot said, "I just couldn't resist his little face." Pinchot, who shares a Los Feliz apartment with Tony, a 6-year-old Calico cat, had worried that Tony wouldn't accept the kitten, known by shelter personnel as "Dude." "Only time will tell," Pinchot said.

HOLLYWOOD, Today -- Steven Wright, 38, of Los Angeles, an enterprise financial planner with AZA Capital Investments, an LA-area firm, was recently introduced to comedian Stephen Wright, whose name is pronounced exactly the same as Wright's. "It was weird," Wright said, "I was at this party, and my friend Dave, who does corporate MI for Dreamworks, introduced me to [the comedian]. I didn't even know he was still around." Sources said that Wright, the comedian, known for his deadpan delivery of dry humor, such as "I used to work in a fire hydrant factory. You couldn't park anywhere near the place," considered pointing out to Wright, the financial planner, that his own first name was spelled with a "ph," but by then, Wright, the financial planner, had lost interest and walked away.

Behind-the-Curve Rant of the Day: Dennis Miller on CNBC

Can someone explain to me the odd career trajectory of Dennis Miller? Not long ago, it seemed the comedian was sipping Johnny Walker Blue Label in the gilded corner office of Middlebrow Observational Humor, Ltd. Today, he’s playing strip Scrabble with the likes of John Stossel in the basement headquarters of Media Pricks of Minor Significance, et al. What in the deepest vacuum of hells has happened?

Is it that his CNBC show “Dennis Miller” feels more awkward than the Twister semi-finals at the Convent of the Sacred Heart? Where’s my HBO-period Dennis Miller? I’ve heard more agile moderators in the dementia wing of my local assisted-living facility.

I suppose it’s hard for even an “edgy” (rhymes with “wedgie”) entertainer to meet Fox News on its own Yahtzee board. Fox’s confrontational voice is so natural, so finely hewn, that Roger Ailes should be as highly lauded (by those of all political stripe) as the creators of “The Daily Show” are for constructing a plausible counterpoint to the tired-assed conventions of TV news. Notwithstanding the network’s political leanings (or, wink, its unbiased POV), good, solid conflict may be the blood coursing through its veins, but on-air talent is its brain stem.

We shant forget that Miller is a master of his milleu: written comedy. Having constructed such rants as, “America's ripe with slobs who won't drink any wine unless it's so sweet, every time they take a sip they look up to see if the Kool-aid man is crashing through the wall.” But point me to the programming genius who thought Miller was as good on his feet as, say, Bill Maher, and I’ll show you someone whose wishful thinking has taken him out back and beaten him unconscious. Miller's recent ad-libbing reminds me of an uncle at some backyard BBQ who can't quite synch up the pulling of his finger with an actual fart, thus ruining the joke.

Miller's rants are about his writing, which is often as brilliant as his delivery. But, and I say this to Mr. Miller with the utmost respect, get thee to an improv class.

40-Second Action Movie

Pang. A bullet pierced the Trans Am’s quarter-panel. “Jesus, they’re shooting at us,” Brian said, a giddy lilt overturning his empty pie plate of a voice. He wrenched the steering wheel, pale knuckles lined up like piano hammers, as the car broke across lanes and back. Derek, eagle-alert in the passenger seat, turned back to look. He squinted through the fog lamps of a heavy jeep tracking the Pontiac’s every veer like a coal-car coupled to a runaway locomotive. “Think it’s the Albanians?” he said. Brian didn’t answer. The Northern Parkway’s twilight array streaked past like strands of molten glass. “Bitch better have been worth it,” Derek thought.

Google Ads Target Bunsen Readers: Rord Rav Rercey!

In keeping with this week's theme of ham-fisted media analysis (gosh, that sounds naughty), we turn our attention to the blog-oh-sphere. Specifically, we're eyeing up those targeted ads splayed like a savior all over such playa-tastic sites as that of our homeboy Bunsen. (That is, if Google's team of censorship bitchez didn't reject them for sauciness, as they did to you-know-who.) Judge their targeting effacacy for yourselves. These ads showed up on Bunsen today. Also, go to Bunsen and click on them -- or our ability to drive traffic will be called out.

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No Schtick Zone -- O'Franken Factor Show #1: Advertisers

LasagnaFarm puts on its media-analysis hat for a moment, providing the first look at the advertisers supporting Al Franken's first Air America Radio network broadcast of the O'Franken Factor. Out of character for us not to make fun of stuff, you ask? Yes.

INTERVIEW WITH AN ITALIAN AMERICAN PERSON WHO IS NOT OFFENDED BY THE MATT LABLANC "FRIENDS" SPINOFF, "JOEY"

Q. We hear your name ends in a vowel. What part of the boot are you from?

A. My grandparents came to America in 1920 from Sfortzando, a small town southeast of San Fillerupwitahitesta, a port city with the most lawyers per capita outside of Washington, DC. It was a very depressed area, economically -- the townspeople had litigated each other into abject poverty.

Q. What about your family?

A. My grandfather was an onion thief by trade, while my grandmother dealt in black kerchiefs. Wearing them, not selling them. The two stowed away on the HMS Winnifred P. Swackhammer as it lay in dry dock, hiding out in a large bushel of fresh hookers, or Putanesca, that was to be loaded on board. The two were never caught and rode in steerage all the way to the Bronx.

Q. Is any of that true?

A. No. But my family and I have moved pretty far, philosophically, from our roots, so we had to make up a story to tell at Knights of Columbus functions. Actually, my grandfather sold earthquake insurance on Staten Island; while his brother speculated on a game he designed called “Slap the Bastard,” which never took hold, though Milton Bradley showed some interest early on. Not exactly a 4-pack of Sylvanias, mia familia.

Q. So, how do you feel about the popularity of Italian American stereotypes in the media, like “The Sopranos,” “Joey,” “Everybody Loves Raymond,” every Tony Danza role from 1979 to 1992, and the dopey friend on "King of Queens" (Yo, Moose!)?

A. I’m not really offended. Since the mid-70s, whenever you set a sitcom in the outer boroughs of New York, you have to have an "eye-talian" for local color. We've virtually cornered the market on dumb-but-loveable alpha-male sexual predators. It’s provided lots of jobs for guys whose prospects were none too good to begin with.

Q. What about George Costanza on "Seinfeld"?

A. That's an emerging market for us; standing in for Jews, so not to tip the Burbank-mandated Jew/Gentile sitcom equilibrium. We're from the same Bronx neighborhoods originally, so it's not much of a stretch. It's actually our pleasure to lend our names to such a cause, since Jewish-owned brokerages hired us on Wall Street when the white-shoe firms wouldn’t even let us run the service elevators; we owe a debt of gratitude. L'chaim, my friends.

Q. So you are not offended by how Italians are portrayed on TV?

A. Why should I be? Everyone loves us, we get loads of chicks. Who the hell would complain?

Q. But don't you want to be taken seriously, respected for accomplishments other than sexual prowess?

A. Not really. Better to operate under the radar.

Q. C’mon, are you serious?

A. Look, we run IBM. Half the front office of American Express is from the old country. Why should I worry about sitcom characters? And we're not even the best at the mafia thing anymore. The Chinese and Russians are much more exciting – at least they're not obese. Anyway, the worst thing about the stereotypes is living up to the false sexual promises. It’s a hell of a lot of pressure for the average guy, let me tell you.

Q. That brings us to “Joey.” You say you’re not offended by the “Friends” spin-off, but the Joey character is quite possibly the dumbest, most ignorant TV persona this side of the White Cop on “Sanford and Son.”

A. He’s just a damn sitcom character. Did the Scotch-Irish community take to the streets over Archie Bunker? You think Sofia Coppola gives a shit about some TV clown? I’d say not. And anyway, I give “Joey” four episodes before they pull the plug. I'ts the same crap that's failed a million times, from "Makin' It" in 1979 with David MacNaughton to Matt LeBlanc's previous failures "Top of the Heap" and "Vinnie and Bobby." He's a one-schtick pony. Being offended by him would be like Pepsi being offended by Sam's Bargain Cola.

Revelations About US Counterterrorism Efforts Free Press Editors Removed from Richard Clarke’s Book Against All Enemies: Inside America's War on Terror as Irrelevant

In October, 2000, during an emergency meeting to discuss possible military responses to the deadly bombing of the USS Cole, National Security Advisor Sandy Berger inadvertently referred to the President as “George Clinton,” to which Clinton joked that the name of his own funk outfit should be the "Congressional Funkedelic." He went on to invite those attending the meeting to make his funk the "C-Funk." Clarke noted that several staffers responded by saying, "Yes, yes. Very funny, sir."

Six months before September 11, 2001, the FBI intercepted a telephone conversation between suspected terrorists Ruth Lessing, of Massapequa Park, NY and her sister-in-law, Doris Oppenheimer of Lawrence, NY, in which Lessing proposed meeting at a local ice cream establishment to discuss plans for an upcoming trip to Boca Raton, FL. Further analysis of the conversation revealed that Lessing, 59, was feeling slightly “headachy” and that “there wasn’t enough butter pecan ice cream on all of Long Island” to satisfy the cravings of husband, Lew, 61.

Prior to military action to depose Iraq’s Baathist regime, President Bush sent a memo to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld to the effect that under US occupation, Iraq’s national anthem should be changed from, "Iraq! Iraq! Irradadadadaq!" to "Bush! Bush! Very, Very Good!" The memo went on to note that, "The anthem should reflect the liberation efforts of our fighting men and women, and those of their leader," and that, "a little God-given English wouldn’t hurt no one, neither." (Are you serious? Next time, call research and find some actual Arabic. Another thing: no more obvious Bush-as-Texas-redneck jokes please, that's older than the fake editorial comments device. In fact, clean out your desk. – ed., LF.com.)