The top of the list is obvious. We all know that there’s fun to be had in Vegas, Orlando, Miami, The Big Apple, The Big Easy, Austin, etc.

What I’m interested in is the bottom of the list. What is the least fun place in America? According to their metrics, the not-hot spot in the Lower 48 is South Burlington, Vermont. That’s hard to believe, because while you’re there it is only a ten-minute drive to the World’s Tallest Filing Cabinet. (Adjoining Burlington, the actual location of the Filing Cabinet Extraordinaire, is also ranked in the bottom quarter.)

The absolute lowest is Pearl City, Hawaii, which is just around the corner from one of the most fun cities, Honolulu. That’s kind of the story of America, isn’t it?

There are plenty of places larger than South Burlington that simply are not on the list, for whatever reason. The place that I call Wisconsin’s dullest city, Fond du Lac, should be able to match South Burlington for sheer boredom, but was not evaluated.

God-awful grade-z horror film from Full Moon Features, which also brought us Bad CGI Gator this year, and have been churning these cheapies out since the 1970s. Bad CGI would have been an improvement over the movie magic in this film, which consists mostly of bad Halloween masks. The legendary producer/writer/director Charles Band is now in his 70s, but shows no signs of slowing down. He is hoarding IMDb credits like Eric Roberts. His producer credits alone number 423.

Mercifully, this one is only 56 minutes long and has some OK nudity to salve the pain.


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Eric Roberts update: 766 acting credits on IMDb, including 85 in “upcoming.”

This film is so obscure that the nude scene is rarely capped. Although it is a 1970 film starring Michael Douglas, I had never seen nor heard of it before today.

Meg Foster, in a minor part, had a brief topless scene:


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And of course, Meg got a good opportunity to show off those famous, spooky blue eyes:

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MY REVIEW OF THE FILM INCLUDES TOTAL SPOILERS:

Continue reading “Meg Foster topless in Adam at 6 A.M. (1970)”

Shock!

It is difficult for the committee to drop an undefeated team from a major conference, but they manned up and did it. We can infer from the final rankings that the committee doesn’t respect the ACC, which may give Florida State and Clemson an incentive to try to sneak off into the Power Two eventually. For the record, the final computer rankings place FSU 12th (and Washington 10th, I might add – still four and a half points worse than a team they beat twice!).

The final rankings worked out perfectly for my Longhorns. They not only made the playoffs, but they got the softest opponent! I was thinking they might get the fourth seed and have to face Michigan right away. The opening line: Texas by 4.5 over Washington, Michigan by 1.5 over Alabama.

My only quarrel is that the committee still placed FSU ahead of Ohio State and Georgia on the full list. Really, guys? Is that really what you think? I doubt it. As long as you were recognizing reality, why not go all the way and drop FSU down where they belong? The good news about this ranking is that FSU will have a good chance to prove the committee wrong, because they will face Georgia in the Orange Bowl. (Georgia is favored by 12 in the opening line.)

Another interesting bowl match-up is undefeated Liberty against Oregon. A good showing for Liberty would be a vindication for the conferences outside the Power Group. Oregon will be favored by two touchdowns.

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Here is the full bowl schedule

This year the Bad Boy Mowers Bowl will be in Yankee Stadium. I have no idea who’s in it. I just like the name.

Still no Ty-D Bowl.

Too many bowls?

To quote the wisest of wise men, or at least one wise enough not to give myrrh to a newborn:

When I was a fresh-faced lad, mankind had made almost no progress beyond fire. There were only four bowl games, and there was no cable TV nor streaming computers to view the action. Phones were decades away from becoming “smart.” We would sit by the telegraph with our hungover, racist uncles on New Year’s Day and listen for the short and long clicks that brought us news from the faraway Rose, Cotton, Sugar and Orange Bowls. Aunt Elsie would bring us body temperature milk she had just squeezed out of ol’ Bossy, and regale us with tales of how she had once seen the real Orange Bowl in a black and white postcard. Uncle Florian would take out his squeezebox and play some tunes for a private halftime show, often after he had emptied a pint of hooch into his glass of milk. It was difficult for those uncles to impart the proper racist attitudes toward “negroes” and “DPs,” because they only had a few minutes on a single day to share all of their wisdom, so they had to hold on to our sleeves and continue to mumble drunkenly as we stood in the doorway and tried to take our leave.

Today I can conveniently pass down that racism at a leisurely pace to my own nephews during 40 bowls on several weekends. It’s truly a tribute to mankind’s eternal progress.

For no special reason other than to take it out of the comment section, here are the opening pages of “Trouble On My Agenda,” the final chapter of the long-forgotten 1930’s noir trilogy about the hard-boiled detective team of Rocky Fist and Big Dick Agenda. It completes the story established in the first two Fist-Agenda mysteries, “Forbidden Agenda” and “A Fistful of Knuckles.”

It was a cold night in a cold town. I was weary from the day and ready for a drink. I poured one, then another, and through a haze of cheap hooch, my glance turned to the name on the door. It still said “Agenda and Fist.” I smiled to myself, remembering that Rocky Fist’s real name was Chad Pfister. That doesn’t matter now because he’s taking a dirt nap, thanks to some cheap mug unloading a roscoe in his direction. There’s no more Pfister, no more Fist. The agency is just me, Dick Agenda.

I was alone in the office, as I always am now, when she walked in. The light isn’t good by the doorway, so I couldn’t see her face, but I could make out her shape, even in the dim light, and I got a whiff of her from clear across the room. She meant to show me she was a classy skirt.

“Mr. Fist, I need your help.”

“Fist can’t help you. He’s … retired. I’m Agenda, Dick Agenda.”

“I need help, Mr. Agenda. If you can do the job, I don’t care about your name.”

“That’s good, because I was thinking of changing it. What do you think of the name Sherlock?”

“Are you going to help me, or are you going to pretend to be witty?”

“Depends on what you need. If it’s too messy, I’ll go with the bad jokes.”

“My name is Hortense Troublé, and I think my father is trying to kill me. Is that too messy for you, Mr. Agenda?”

In my line of work I don’t meet a lot of dolls named Hortense. There are mostly a bunch of broads named after flowers and months, and maybe a Trixie or two. Hortense – I don’t know. But trouble – that I know when I see it. She may have pronounced it “Troo-BLAY,” like a fancy dame, but I knew she was just plain Trouble.

Again inspired by some new Defoe footage from an entry in the Vertiges series (Dormir avec le Diable, 2001, which members may find in the Saturday Fun House), here’s a look back at her nudography in French TV:


Mediterranee, s1 (2001)

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Vertiges: Dormir avec le Diable (2001)

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Dolmen, s1 (2005)

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La Taupe, s1 (2007)

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La Main Blanche, s1 (2008)

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She’s 50 now, so her nudity days are probably over (it has been 15 years since her last nude scene), but French TV viewers may still watch her every weekday as the aging doyenne of Tomorrow is Ours.

Inspired by some new Defoe footage from Accords Et A Cris, a 2002 entry in the Vertiges series (which members may find in the Saturday Fun House), here’s a look back at her nudography:


La Femme du Boulanger (1999)

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Commissaire Moulin, s5e1 (2000)

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72 Heures, s1e2 (2002)

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Vertiges: Accords et a Cris (2002)

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La Tempete (2006)

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Hold-Up a l’Italienne (2008)

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I guess getting naked on the internet is much more lucrative than singing Gershwin standards in smoky clubs, because the former sitcom star had a pretty good career as a vocalist for a while, performing with jazz superstars like Chris Botti, with her vocals causing her to be compared to giants like Sarah Vaughan and Ella Fitzgerald.

Or was it Vince Vaughn and Barry Fitzgerald? I can’t recall now.

Either way.

OK, let’s be honest. She’s no Ella Fitzgerald, but then who is? She really sounds nothing like Ella except that they both scat. She is, however, pretty good.

But the bills have to be paid, and jazz vocalists don’t ride first class.