That’s what Mel Brooks yelled at a nun one day when he was walking down 57th street (get Kenneth Tynan’s book, “Show People” or “Profiles”  for his great piece on Brooks).

Here’s a 1982 Rolling Stone Interview with Brooks conducted by Michael Sragow:

How did you first react to ‘My Favorite year’ ?

Brooks: I said, “Wait a minute, you’re singing my song. What is this – the story of a little Jewish boy from Brooklyn and a guest star on Your Show of Shows? I lived this life.” I looked at Joe Bologna and I said, “That is Sid Caesar.” There’s a certain primitive energy that Joe Bologna and Sid Caesar share, a very basic animal energy . Eat. Go. Sleep. The first thing I wrote for Sid was about a jungle boy who’s been captured and taken to New York City as an experiment to see how he will survive in the big city. He’s interviewed by Carl Reiner. “What do you eat, sir?” “Pigeons. Crave pigeons, go in park, many pigeons in park. Eat pigeons.” “What do you fear?” “Buick, Big, yellow, very danferous. Wait, wait till lights, eyes go out – smash in grille, all night, with club. Kill Buick.” Joe Bologna has the same thing going int he movie.”Send the girl some steaks,” he says, “I’ll send her some steaks.” Nothing romatic, no flowers. To make up with a writer, he sends some tires’ his borther owns a tire store. But they’re very real. I love all the tlittle touches int eh movie. I love when Peter O’Toole realizes that he’s going to be working in front of a live audience. That is the essence of the movie – when he says, “I’m not an actor , I’m a movie star.” There’s a big difference.

It ain’t cool in New York today, it’s cold. Here’s the latest from Michael Schmidt, the man who never sleeps:

There’s always time to dip away on Thanksgiving. Watch the game, go online, sleep. Here’s some sticky You Tube treats, for the one you love.

Michael Keaton’s big screen debut:

Don Juan DiMarco:

The great Selma Diamond:

Sid Caesar, Carl Reiner and Howard Morris lay it on the only the way they knew how: thick.

I Spy:

Two pals…

If there’s one man that can save a show, the Candy Man Can. And I mean that.

From a terrific WFMU piece–The Early Woody Allen:1952-1971:

Rollins and Joffe’s assertion that Woody could be the Jewish Orson Welles, a triple threat of writer, director and performer, persuaded him to take to the stage. Allen spent several months preparing an act and his debut was at a coveted headliner’s room, arranged by his management. Woody stood up at The Blue Angel in the summer of 1960 after comedian Shelley Berman’s Saturday night late show. Berman was gracious enough to introduce Woody after his own act, an unconventional procedure to be sure. “Here is a young television writer who is going to perform his own material. Would you please welcome a very funny man… Woody Allen.” Larry Gelbart was in the audience that evening and described Woody as “Elaine May in drag,” as Woody lifted several of her mannerisms. Despite what was, at times, a lack of stage presence, Allen’s material shone through and various showbiz job offers came in. Rollins turned them all down. Woody wasn’t ready yet, he said. He needed to grow. He needed to polish. In the meantime, he stunk.

“I always thought the material alone mattered, but I was wrong,” says Woody, “I thought of myself as a writer and when I was onstage all I could think about was wanting to get through the performance and go home. I wasn’t liking the audience … I was petrified. Yet there was no reason the audience wouldn’t like me… they had paid to see me … But then I went onstage with a better attitude and I learned that until you want to be there and luxuriate in the performance and want to stay on longer, you won’t do a good show.” Jack Rollins recalled that, “He knew zero about the art of performing and bringing the material on a nice silver platter to the audience. He was successful with a segment of the audience that had the brainpower to know what was there. But he didn’t help himself because he didn’t know anything about pacing his material, or stopping for laughs.” Joffe added that, “He was arrogant and hostile … If the audience didn’t get it, he had no patience … the pain in those first years was terrible.” Allen was often despondent. “It was the worst year of my life. I’d feel this fear in my stomach every morning, the minute I woke up, and it’d be there until eleven o’clock at night.” Nearing the end of 1960 he told them, “This is crazy. It’s killing me. I’m throwing up, I’m sick, I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I can make a big career as a writer. We’ve tried it with me as a stand-up and I’m not good. I can’t handle this anymore.” Rollins and Joffe never stopped reassuring Woody and constantly encouraged him. They knew he’d gain his chops but Joffe also admitted in retrospect, “Woody was just awful.” Jay Landesman who booked Allen in his club said, “Woody was terrified of an audience. He used to pace the dressing-room floor muttering, ‘I hope they like me. I hope they like me.’ They didn’t.”

A childhood favorite…

Patton!

Joe Girardi, his team, and Yankee fans everywhere are living the Artie Fufkin Dream this morning: Kick My Ass, Please.

This one hurts but the season isn’t over yet and self-pity won’t get us anywhere. CC goes at 4, and there is hope. Let’s not act like those so-called fans who fled from the Stadium early the past two nights. Win or lose, rain or shine, we’ll be here, root-root-rootin’ for the home team.

Dig this most classic National Lampoon bit from the ’70s featuring Bill Murray and Christopher Guest.

01 I went out of my nut. I fell on my bum.

ss

…I would just like to point out that:

Puppies. Are they cute or what?!

You know who loves puppies (probably)? Mariano Rivera. He is a talented closer.

Tomorrow’s post will tackle either the true meaning of abortion in America today… or why I like pretty flowers. Haven’t decided yet.

It’s not about a salary it’s all about reality.

Hey, speaking of gangsters, remember this fargin corksucker?

of accents…

The classic routine.

Dave Itzkoff interviews the Wood Man in the Times:

Q. How do you feel about the aging process?

A. Well, I’m against it. [laughs] I think it has nothing to recommend it. You don’t gain any wisdom as the years go by. You fall apart, is what happens. People try and put a nice varnish on it, and say, well, you mellow. You come to understand life and accept things. But you’d trade all of that for being 35 again. I’ve experienced that thing where you wake up in the middle of the night and you start to think about your own mortality and envision it, and it gives you a little shiver. That’s what happens to Anthony Hopkins at the beginning of the movie, and from then on in, he did not want to hear from his more realistic wife, “Oh, you can’t keep doing that — you’re not young anymore.” Yes, she’s right, but nobody wants to hear that.

Q. Has getting older changed your work in any way? Do you see a certain wistfulness emerging in your later films?

A. No, it’s too hit or miss. There’s no rhyme or reason to anything that I do. It’s whatever seems right at the time. I’ve never once in my life seen any film of mine after I put it out. Ever. I haven’t seen “Take the Money and Run” since 1968. I haven’t seen “Annie Hall” or “Manhattan” or any film I’ve made afterward. If I’m on the treadmill and I’m scooting through the channels, and I come across one of them, I go right past it instantly, because I feel it could only depress me. I would only feel, “Oh God, this is so awful, if I could only do that again.”

[Photo Credit: Suzanne DeChillo, NY TImes]

Because today we need to laugh.

I can get you a cheeseburger.

Dude, I couldn’t stay awake last night, missed the end of the game. When I woke up and saw the box score, I was like this:

Now, since I didn’t actually stay up late for the second night in a row to see Mariano lose that Texas Horror Show, I’m trying to remain hopeful. Yeah, even though Cliff Lee pitches today for the Rangers. This is Lee’s first game back from the DL and he hasn’t been his usual dominant self since joining Texas. I could see him shutting the Yanks out for seven innings but I could also see the Yanks touching him up some too. Maybe Derek Jeter has a great game.

It’s all up to that Mystery Man Moseley:

C’mon, son, make like Aaron Small and shut-shut ’em down.

Never mind the hankies, Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

Is Joaquin Phoniex a put-on artist? Manohla Dargis reviews “I’m Still Here”:

For a twitchy, perversely funny stretch, he mumbled and fidgeted, softly, often monosyllabically, responding as Mr. Letterman’s formulaic jive grew testy. “What can you tell us about your days with the Unabomber?” Mr. Letterman asked at one point. Mr. Phoenix looked down while the audience roared at a joke few seemed to grasp.

More than a year later the joke continues, sputters, occasionally hits its target and finally wears out its welcome in “I’m Still Here,” a deadpan satire or a deeply sincere folly (my money is on the first option) about Mr. Phoenix’s recent roles as an acting dropout and would-be hip-hop artist. Directed by Casey Affleck (who’s married to Mr. Phoenix’s sister Summer), the movie, which is being unpersuasively sold as a documentary, is a gloss on the mutually parasitic worlds of celebritydom and the entertainment media. Those are worlds Mr. Phoenix knows well, having fed the beast since his breakout role as Nicole Kidman’s poignantly thickheaded lover in “To Die For,” Gus Van Sant’s 1995 comedy about the tragedy of fame.

“I’m Still Here” isn’t as merciless as “To Die For,” which was etched in acid by the screenwriter Buck Henry. Mr. Affleck and Mr. Phoenix have been involved in the movie business long enough to be disgusted (or maybe just irked) by it, but they don’t appear to have surrendered to cynicism. Whatever else their movie is, and whatever their actual intentions, “I’m Still Here” does take on, at times forcefully and effectively, the pathological fallout of the Entertainment Industrial Complex. Much of the movie involves Mr. Phoenix’s having, or more likely pantomiming, a meltdown, for which he puts on a really good show. (He snorts white powder, hires a hooker, abuses his assistants.) But the programmatic nature of his antics strongly suggests that he is self-consciously playing a role in a narrative, one that isn’t simply about him.

Here’s the TV theme song of the night. Remember this short-lived Dabney Coleman vehicle? Played a sports writer? Wish they had it on DVD, man.

That cool, refreshing drink.

From the cool blog, Former Chef.