The Three Stooges "He Cooked His Goose" (1952)

"When the writing divides them, they lose their comic dynamic." Jon Solomon

"I'm not gonna steal your wife, I'm engaged to three beautiful girls." Larry assures Moe, and we must be watching one of those Shemp era adult shorts. What thoughts I have of you tonight, Benny Hill - as a scene finds Larry in the office of his Pet Store, smoking an enormous, and enormously phallic, cigar. His secretary enters, and he tells Miss Lapdale to take a letter - she assumes a business as usual bussiness-like position on his lap.

I'm not even in a supermarket, let alone California. I, like you now, are securely in the aforementioned Shemp's Era.

Lo, tho we might be in Shemp's era, there is no mistaking this is a Larry short. He takes center-stage for a rare glimpse at the top spot. Interestingly, Larry was the lead in the first ever Stooges short, "Woman Haters," prior to Moe's probably eminent emergence, and also in 1946's "Three Lone Wolves." If you're keeping track at home, Larry-in-the-lead works none-to-well as compared, at least, to boss Moe. The more natural lead, is the man in the lead.

Moe went so far as to in real life file Larry's taxes (and Curly's too). The Top being a stay-at-home-dad to the Bottom's bread earning. But I become overly personal here as the cheap-o stogie in my mouth loosens my fingers --

In fairness, I believe Larry's go at lead had less to do with this lesser Three Stooges offering than did the advancing age of the Stooges; coupled with a production value that sadly left much to be desired. We see tentative pratfalls here that editing does not lend aid too.

Crisp has left the building, and is half dead on the toilet - speaking in terms of physical comedy alone. Dialog-wise there are a few glimpses of gems, such as Moe's knock at clean-living, "I'll have a little bird seed if you don't mind," upon turning down philandering Larry's offers of a cigar, then drink. Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do? Stuart Goddard, are you still awaiting this answer - it's been since '82. Apparently you become a bird. Or a faygala.

Still, that only covers the tip of what went mildly wrong here - age and/or editing. We'll file that all under technical difficulties. More importantly at off-putting issue, I feel, leads us back to our onset quote from keen-eyed Saturday Night Live writer, Jon Solomon. I'll begin with an echoing...

I've never been a fan of divisiveness amongst Stooges.

One last word on difficulties of a technical bent before I advance further: the tinkling of a glockenspiel associated with Larry's bright ideas, I found it sci-fi odd to the point of sci-fi unnerving. Perhaps that was its goal?

[Full digress]
Divisiveness in Stoogery

It simply but not so simply plays poorly with/and against the all important 'we the Stooges vs the Them' strangers in a strange land feel, which I've cited before here. Separate characters, per say, are not the issue here - competitiveness, however, is.

As Honest Abe ably put it, "A house divided against itself cannot stand." Least of all a house that is built on exposing being on the wrong end of othering to comedic effect. Perhaps that is why this all hurts me so, my fellow others, othered me, by othering one another. Oy vey! Which of us will assimilate first, and buy a Subaru? Or shop at Whole Foods. Or crack middle management. Or not be a black enough first black Commander-in-Chief...

All told, while there have of course been better shorts, "He Cooked His Goose" is not without its charm. A rapscallion charm which comes by way of a certain circa 1952 naughtiness in both subject matter and gags. Perhaps, if I might be so bold as to offer yet another tangent:

this is where Shemp gets his bad rap. His slap-stick is not his claim to fame, his ugly mug and naughty dialog fill that spot. It's like aging fine wine in a boiler room, to the untrained eye. Just as Lenny Bruce is no longer bluest of blue. It all makes sense to me now.

As far as tangents go, that was mercifully abbrevia --

Final Grade: C+

Cigar Review - Hugo Cassar

Cigars have their own unique personalities. Some are wallflowers, and, while perfectly respectable in construction and palatable in practice -- we part ways and our brief affair of leaf, is simply left. 

Transversely, a personality that jives with my own in any number of growing and often surprising ways, can compensate some for lack of quality, and just keep me coming back again and again. Sometimes against my better judgement.

But I get ahead of myself. Please, allow me to introduce

The Cigar
Hugo Cassar
Sumatra Wrapper

Nicaraguan Blend Binder/Filler

Churchill

"They say she's a little retarded, but those titties ain't retarded!"
Dave Attell, "Skanks for the Memories"

Pre-light, my schnoz is surprised by a more clear delineation of spices and sweetness than I'd expect in a sick of this price, this price being a couple and a half bucks. There are veins and upon close inspection a seam, but nothing egregious. I draw through the cap, still pre-light and am surprised at the amount of action I get. Sharp sweetness prevails. The stick is packed evenly and moderately firm.

On the bite off, there is more of the same, but not actually a lot more. It seems to have already shown its hand. The spice goes to pepper and to my palate, but finishes almost immediately. The sweetness mutes a bit. I light to begin the first third

...and the light is an unholy mess. There are sparks and there are sputters. There is fire and there is brimstone. It all ends in an uneven burn at the onset. I feel as though I've parachuted to safety, but have not been on terra firma long enough for the adrenaline to have subsided.

The smoke now leaves that pepper on my palate in near spices. Sweetness goes to dwell at the back corners of my tongue. The stick burns hot in my hand, uneven, and peppery. I just need to stay on for eight seconds, I rest myself assured, and wait to see how it all plays out.

The smoke it gives off is wispy and not overly kind. A tad more like wet spicy incense than cigar smoke. Still, I bravely forge ahead. I am a trooper and

the burn now relaxes between pulls but still heats up like a fire as soon as I next pull. Active. It feels very active and lively and almost crisp on account of the pepper. The sweet stays in one place, the almost spice, another. Balance. Barbara De Angelis says that,

"Women need real moments of solitude and self-reflection to balance out how much of ourselves we give away."

I flick the ash at 3/4" before it winds up in my lap. It flakes, doesn't clump. I'm pulling none too often but the hot ash cones out from the stogie as if I'm over smoking. It simply burns too darn hot. Also very unevenly and too fast to correct. I made it, I say aloud. As off in the distance, the plane meets the mountain in an inferno not unlike the one I stick into my smoke-hole and pull. I made it.

The pepper and the sweet continue to stay their respective grounds on my palate and tongue. (That classic sitcom bit where warring roommates draw a line down the apartment's center.) That counts for something. I begin to putter about, clear the yard of sticks and leaves, replace tools in their proper places, and lament the loudness of my drunken neighbor. I cannot believe Sears won't honor his warranty, it's criminal.

The smoke thickens and the bite does not increase nor mature to spices, but does threaten the back of my throat. I pour a cup of coffee, and embark upon

the second third sees some mellowing all around and a general dry tobacco/hay note. Some sticks take a long time to settle. I feel like I'm first now being introduced to the real cigar. As if it spent its first third impressing me at a party by tying cherry stems with its tongue and now, post party, we're headed to Sonic for shakes. Pinkies up.

Neither sweet nor packing bravado, it is simply what it is. And what it is seems to be a nice enough cheap-o smoke, although perhaps shy of a serviceable everyday a la Casa de Garcia's fine-ish offerings.

A crack forms but does not leak and a decent enough chew starts setting in. Ash gets flakier and I've begun to simply flick it off as I see fit, or rather in quite a willy-nilly fashion.

The wrap threatens to come a bit undone now as if it has loosened its blouse over our milkshake and has designs on luring me back to its place in the

final third. Nuttiness and all it entails, in each of its meanings, enters here. And then the flirtatious hint of unbuttoned button switches to off the shoulder brazen hussiness - as the vulgar striptease of a wrapper come undone...

I'm not really hating it.

I'm back at her studio apartment. There is no bed so much as there's a kind of pile of blankets on the floor, and the TV is on a milk crate and the dishes are dirty - stacked high in the sink.

The stogie looks now like Curly's did when Moe smacked it all into his mouth.

There is cigar stuff everywhere and there are clothes strewn everywhere and her cat won't look away so I do. I look away and notice a pair of men's work boots.

There's more I want to smoke, but it might all fall apart first. There is more of her I want to feel, but I wait for a key in the door. The races, they are on and the cat tells me its name is Buzz. Or maybe I just have a beauty of one. I knew all along - no matter what - the end would come quickly.

I promise myself never again, knowing I fib.

Final Grade: B- (but if my pals ask, she's a B+)



(She's probably really a C+)

The Three Stooges - You Nazy Spy! (1940)

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.” - Mark Twain

Loosely, Special Interest Groups (SIG) operate as smaller communities within larger movements. When you hear someone refer to them thusly, it is often in anger or at least in disagreement to their agenda. Transversely, when people who are in agreement with whichever statement a SIG stands by, they do not use that term and instead cite it as a "Duh moment." In other and less wordy words, A SIG seems to then be what you disagree with, whereas a 'group' seems to be something you endorse. Never mind, they are the same damned thing in an objective view.

Propaganda plays the same way. One man's propaganda is another man's should-be mandatory information. What does this have to do with The Three Stooges? We commence.

You Nazy Spy! was the first American comedy film to satirize Adolph Hitler and Nazi Germany. It beat, by nine months, Charlie Chaplin's The Great Dictator, out of the starting gate. It also helped in the making of The Great Dictator in a not-so-subtle digs aimed at those trying to censor the Chaplin film.

The Hays Code of that time's Hollywood machine prohibited most political/satirical messages. It required that all peoples world-wide be depicted fairly - this sounds lovely - but it was in actuality used mainly to nurture the isolationist sentiment that was the bent of the public. A bent which well suited the establishment. Short films, like this however, were subject to far less attention than feature films.

Moe Howard, as "Moe Hailstone", thus becomes the first American actor to satirize or even portray Adolf Hitler in a film - Moe Horwitz, a Jew - this can make me smile all the live long. Not to mention, but I will, that it is a splendid portrayal. The opening disclaimer of "Any resemblance between the characters of this picture and any persons, living or dead, is a miracle," has the same feel then of Andy Kaufman's terrible impersonations building up to an ingenious channeling of Elvis.

"Quiet while I think," says the bowl cut leader of our gang, current wallpaper-er and future dictator of Moronika - as he witlessly yet brilliantly transforms into mon fuhrer. Curly hence becomes Field Marshall, and unto Larry is bestowed the title Minister of Propaganda. Moronika. Propaganda. Moronkia for Morons - a clever enough spin off of Germany for Germans - and a calling out to America, to be more than just simply America for Americans. After all, "Loyal Moronikans shouldn't read."

The Jewishness of the Stooges, notably overtly on display in this short maybe more than any other, adds a lot to this for me, not simply for those obvious reasons I'll steer clear of for the purpose of time and to avoid rampant reiterations - but even moreso because Yiddish is hilarious, and Moe, Larry, and Curly use it more in this short than in any other. The much used "beblach!" means "beans," by the by.

"We will now pause for station identification. This is NUTS."

It gives the sense of more than just rallying public opinion in favor of their vested interest - they too are speaking to our own kind, in our own language, and sharing in a very Jewish sense of humor. A rampant fear that like all other fear, is quelled by laughter. Precisely, this is should-be mandatory information, not at all propaganda. Furthermore, it is doled out via "Duh moments," not a special interest lobbier among them.

"The boy's from Syracuse," is a splendid little side gag. "And you shot me in the excitement, you fool," is very good, too. "Your minorities are creeping into our majorities, until you're making our majorities minorities." Is as truly laughably stupid then, as it is now.

Moe: We'll start a Blintzkrieg.
Curly: I just love blintzes especially with sour krieg.
(A reference to blintzes with sour cream.)

As to dialogue, there is the brilliant wordplay --
Larry: If I take Mickey Finlen, I better be rushin'.
Curly: Then quit stallin'.
(A reference to Finland, the Soviet Union, and Joseph Stalin.)

Both Moe Howard and Larry Fine cited You Nazty Spy! as their favorite Three Stooges short. While it isn't my personal favorite, I recognize its genius, and wouldn't argue with the two Stooge mainstays even if I didn't. Because, too, of the simple fact "There ain't no bones in ice cream."

In the end, the fuhrer get his, and I ain't lyin' when I say this short is a must, must see.

Romeo y Julieta 1875 Review

Understated. Subtle. Confident. On this Belmont Eve of a Sabbath, my Sabbath stick is like tomorrow's odds-on favorite, American Pharoah - perfectly fine letting the race play out in front of him and easily and smoothly closing at the end. We hope and we shall see.

The Cigar:

Romeo y Julieta 1875 Reserve Bully Sumatra Robusto
With its Cuban bloodlines, a cult following of celebrities such as Winston Churchill, and a name bearing the greatness of Shakespeare - it's no wonder this stogie has class. If I wasn't already dolled up for the Sabbath, I'd have put on the nines to secure this one in my smoke-hole.

Pre-light the wrap is lovely, the pack even as even can be, and the nose is complex but not ham-fisted. You can find here whatever you have the presence of mind to look for. There is a nice cream that lightly graces my palate pre-bite off.

The First Third begins with an easy light which releases a plume of well medium smoke. It is most welcome and departs before it borders on over-staying. Take note, mother-in-laws everywhere.

Notes of vanilla cream with an undertone of leathery earthiness. There is pepper too, but mainly in the finish, lending it to end crisply on the palate instead of lingering in cheap sweetness.

Sweetness is there, but in a dignified and mature manner. It comes in on the back of earthy tones and leaves in perfect time on the back of those peppery notes that have now evolved into finer spices. As the stick gets heated up, cedar emerges.

The ash is tight and the burn even.

There is a slight catch on my throat but that's probably just the cancer. I find myself not wanting my Sabbath Stick to ever end.

The ash clumps off at the 3/4" mark in much of a surprise, but I'm on my porch and wind might well have played a role. The burn remains even, as the first third comes to a mellow yet uncluttered close with each note clearly delineated and balanced and that has me looking forward to

The Second Third: my brain floats off and I skip a puff or two as I think of the day. A rare Pacific Northwest sunny day that has me well browned and heated into calmness. The undemanding 1875 is there waiting for me at my own leisure and offers up some sweeter tones now which linger on my palate a tad longer but are well welcomed to stay.

The burn is becoming uneven, but wind, man. Also, Jim crack corn I don't care.

The smoke this stick puts out is on the robust side and is absolutely divine. I want to use it as an air freshener in my house, but divorce is a rich man's game - so it's the porch for me and my RyJ. It strikes me that some cigars make you want to talk to a friend. This is not one of those. It's smoke has hung gone fishing signs in both of my eyes.

I am either 140 years or around 40 minutes into this stogie. I figger it ain't quite the halfway point.

Despite the uneven burn, it has clumped off at just once. Whoops! Now twice, as we begin to stare down the

Final third. We near the top of the stretch, I take a sip of Diet Coke, a remnant of my Sabbath splurge supper I eat each week in preparation of the Queen. This stick seems set to finish like any good horse - with plenty of kick.

The draws have grown quite warm and the smoke has grown quite thicker. The catch in my throat has increased. All remains, however, quite debonair. I contemplate an ascot, horsemanship, and a private nurse. Another clump falls into my lap.

The notes now turn from spices back to pepper, which induces some spit. Can spit be seen as debonair? Can wrongs be done rightly? Is that Madefromlucky coming up on our tail? I thought he'd fall back at the stretch to take show at the wire...

Sometimes a cigar lasts too long. Sometimes a horse does not last long enough. Perhaps the Arkansas Derby proved too much. Or, perhaps the last of this Romeo y Julieta is a proud return to sweetness...it is. It similes in cedar as American Pharaoh finds another gear, one for the ages. 

(Alas, I find no chew here, the one lacking item of this fine cigar. It simply crumbles back into history.)

The three races which form the triple Crown were inaugurated thusly in different years, the last being the first, the Kentucky Derby in 1875. I can't help but wonder if I've known that all along. You see, I'm often quite sharp and with spicey tones all my own.

I light two candles, burp up pizza, and soak in the peace of it all.