The Guy Who Liked Rocky One Through Five–Not Five So Much– But He Would Go See Rocky 6 Even If It Was About Rocky Breaking Out Of A Retirement Home To Help His Grandson Become World Champeen.

He liked Rocky, (Duh!) DeGrassi, Doug and his newly minted Library of Congress catalog number but not necessarily in that order.

Not so long ago he liked doing his local show, SB Uncensored. (Especially reading the e-mail responses that didn’t trash him or question whether he had officially gone through puberty.)

He liked to mock trials among other things he liked to mock. (A Team Steinkellner tradition.)

He liked fistfuls of popsicles and running through the house like a blind banshee.

He liked going to bad movies if they were as bad as a good movie is good.

He liked to be surrounded by a million things in his room. He liked them even if he had outgrown them years ago. (Full disclosure: he really hadn’t.)

He liked everything about the WWW. And texting. And Tivoing. And The Twitter. And whatever the Next Big Thing was going to be.

He liked cuddly clothes and was not averse to wearing a Slanket at LAX.

He liked Watership Down. (Finally!)

He liked Fatburgers, Costco pizza, sushi, orange cream soda and Subway “sammiches”.

He liked to have things just the way he liked them and wasn’t very flexible about the opposite.

He liked to stir up the “shit” (as he called it) on long family car trips. And he was quite good at it.

And he liked bonding with his dad.

Ya gotta love a guy like that.

Which Came First: The Lady or the House?

Acme Home Inspection’s Report on the Aspell Home:

This house is up to code in regards to plumbing, wiring, foundation and pest control. It is a very fine home. However, it is incumbent for the Seller to reveal one unusual aspect of the property. A rather substantial visage of a middle-aged woman occasionally appears on the left front wall (as you face the building) of the establishment.

The vision seems to be Ukrainian or possibly Serbo-Croatian. She could be Armenian or Polish or some other eastern European female. Further research is outside of ACH’s purview.

Annually, her “visits” number no more than eighteen and sometimes as few as a dozen. The dates vary but she always shows up on the feast day of St. Phoef and on July 26th which the Aspells assume is her birthday because on that day she wears a party hat.

Her arrival and presence in no way harms the house. Not even the exterior paint.

The first few times the sight of her upset the dog but now he begins wagging his tail before she is even visible.

Mrs. Ghost (as the Aspells have dubbed her) spends her time with them quietly watching the neighborhood goings on with a barely audible tsk tsk from time to time.

The one time she did speak at length she didn’t reveal the purpose of her visits but she did give an excellent recipe for apricot kolaches.

End of disclosure.

The Day That Show Biz Bit the Dust

The world of show biz took a hit in 1939 that it never recovered from. The day they shut down the Hippodrome in New York City.

The Hippodrome that grand gee-gaw of a monstrosity. Filled with Fairs and freaks. With rubber neckers and rubes. With the wide-eyed and the jaded. Like a wedding cake made of stone. Like a castle in the clouds that the Gods made solid.

Silly spires and huge tracts of wasted space. Flags unfurled. Heart abeating and dreams shooting like sky rockets. Enough immenseness to make a farm boy tremble. Enough majesty to make a king think of switching jobs. (But just for a second, I mean come on, he’s a king!)

Plunging horses with maniacs on their back. (You don’t think they’d plunge on their own accord, do you?) Clowns in duds to make the rainbow green with envy. And guys in cheap hats (no Trilbys here unless they are made out of felt). Gunsels in high collars with a death grip on their wallets but a greedy eye on yours.

Everybody chasing the American Dream. (The real plunging horse.)

And what have we got to replace that Dreadnought of Show Business? Guys whose job it is to Tweet and 1.2 billion apps. America, you got punked

Saint Phoef: Blessed Man of Hollywood

Patron Saint of entertainment memorabilia collectors, detective fiction and deli food.

While still a lad St. Phoef (then called Robert by everyone outside his clan) heard that a local movie theater had come under the influence of organized crime and their acknowledged Master, Satan. That very day they were handing out (free of charge) lascivious and violent movie posters to grade school children to entice them to occasions of mortal sin.

Saint Phoef rushed to the theater. (Not even stopping for the almost sinfully fresh popped popcorn.) Without hesitating he began casting the blasphemous one-sheets into the gutter. (Though, his detractors would later claim that this would only enhance the value of his own collection.)

A halo appeared above his untrimmed beard. A poster from a zombie movie began to bleed from assorted wounds. (It has never been determined if the blood was zombie or human.) Old women in tattered babushkas dipped their scarves in the pools of blood and cried out that it was a miracle.

They searched for the young saint so that they might carry him through the streets in triumph but alas he had left to return some phone calls.

Years later St.Phoef it was reported that he had been martyred by some thugs possibly associated with Duck Dynasty who impaled him on one of his own Emmy Awards.

Why Phoef was the patron saint of deli food has been lost to obscurity.

How to Make Up to a Billion Dollars Writing Popular Songs.

1) Pick a theme that appeals to a lot of people. Good themes: missing your sweetheart over a long summer vacation or falling in love with your best friend’s girl friend or boy friend. Bad themes: the eventual death of the solar system or the impending implosion of the European market.

2) Be sure that the tune is catchy but still simple-minded enough so that anybody can sing along, be cut off in traffic, flip the other driver the bird and still not miss a beat of the song.

3) Put awesome looking girls of all creeds and colors in as little clothing as possible in your music video. (Do not stick in your cousins or the drummer’s girl friend just because they will do it for free and even bring huge sandwiches from Subway.)

4) If all else fails buy a guitar, grow a gnarly folky beard and do whatever the hell Raffi did. (Being a citizen of Iceland is also a major plus.)

As your advisor/manager don’t forget to send me my 15%!

What’s the First (and last) Thing People Remember About You? — A Tale of Reluctant Reality

“Everywhere I go people see me and say –What a beautiful head of hair!” And then I’m dismissed from their mind. They’ve got a way to remember you. Something to bring up if the conversation starts to lag.”

“My uncle won a blue ribbon for canoeing when he was ten. That’s the only thing people said about him after that. He was the canoe champ. Game, set, match. Even when he was old and fat and couldn’t have moved a canoe with a stick of dynamite.”

“My mom makes the best cheesecake. She never won a prize for it or anything but it is mmm-mmm good. Total strangers are always begging her to make it. And so that’s who she is. The cheesecake lady.”

“So, that’s how it is with my hair. I’ve thought about chopping it off but then I’d look plain stupid. And I’d just be known as The Girl Who Won’t Eat Broccoli.”

Bill Steinkellner’s Life as Sung by an Asian Pop Star.

I remember beds that must be made before the day can truly begin.

Scripts that must be titled before they can go on.

Characters that must have names before they can spring to life and say and do funny things. (Not just funny peculiar… Oh, you’ll never understand.)

I remember dogs that must stay on leashes forever.

And barking from a distant room.

Scratching on the door from a half-wild cat.

And a hamster wheel going squeakdy squeak, squeak in the middle of the night, long, long ago.

I remember not so small and yet not so large feet running at all hours.

Through the house, past the puzzles, past the put away basket and into the garage.

Hands running with fistfuls of Popsicles, paperbacks and drawings of kooky girls.

One, two three they run.

Red light, green light except without the red light.

I remember them all with a half sly smile as I stand looking at you with my hands folded just so in front of my pants.

What a #1 Network Ratings Hit Looks Like from the Actor’s POV.

In the days of comedy fire power when all the big guns would line up and go kablaam, kablaam, kablaam it was a wonderful thing. The jokes whizzed by like tracer bullets. The scenes exploded with high I.Q.s. The bon mots sizzled the sky like flares.

The jesters would jump and beep. The Kings and Queens would make their pronouncements. The courtiers would scurry about with drinks and snacks. The crafts and services table would groan almost audibly. It was a crazy carnival. Only the best and brightest could attend. And they thought it would go on forever…

But then the little grey men in their little grey suits with their little grey hearts came along. (As they have since Men fell out of trees, I’m told.) And the world went dull and quiet. Like a never ending rainy day. It drizzles still.

And yet every so often late at night you can hear the faint echo of fire power. Followed a moment later by waves of laughter from ordinary people.

On Reading the Measuring Your Own Bra Size For the First Time (August 2005): A Father’s POV

O cursed be you little scrap of cloth that could barely cover a newborn’s head.

To Hades with you thin strip of cotton posing as the cloth gateway to womanhood.

To the depths of hell hasten thee, Maidenform and Licensee Delti Galli USA Inc. Peddle your almost lady duds elsewhere!

Be gone from the vicinity of my angel divine with cherub lips and cheeks of peachy cream. My skipper down the street. Walker on Daddy’s shoes. My boon companion on the reluctant journey from school to car. My constant reader of all thingsArchie. My queen of all Princesses. My –gasp, shudder, sigh, sniffle, choke –slim creature surging to the precipice of Young Womanhood.

All right then, Maidenform etc. do your worst. Like the first “come to Daddy” steps that bid farewell to crawling this too shall pass. For as long as you live, our baby you’ll be. Sweet as a Spring morning. Soft as a baby blanket. Bursting with light like the sky after a storm. My baby. Baby, baby oh baby.

Kit Steinkellner: Mistress of the Spoken Word at 36 Months Old

(While being forced to put on socks and shoes.) “No, I don’t want to go to school. I want to stay in da beautiful white house.”

(When she won’t leave the extremely warm car in the equally warm garage to go into the quite pleasant air-conditioned house.)
“No, I don’t want to go in da beautiful white house to see Boris. I want to stay in da white car.”

(While being made to try and go to the bathroom before a long car ride.) “Don’t tie me up!”

“You go away, now.”

“No, thank you, I don’t want to take a bath.”

“No, I want to go to Camp Snoopy.”

“I want to see the cousins on da airplane.”

“I want to watch da Judy movie.”

“You be quiet.”

“I want a little swallow, pink bottle with apple juice.”