Hollywood Serial Killer Strikes Again

A serial killer terrorizing Hollywood for over 40 years has struck once again. Known to authorities only as "Natural Causes," he struck again Monday, leaving Richard Widmark the ninth victim in his wake. Until now, no motive had been established, but all share one common denominator: guest-starring roles in I Love Lucy's legendary 1955 Hollywood trip episodes. Natural Causes strikes seemingly at random, rarely using the same disease as a weapon twice.

Why he suddenly struck yesterday after an 18-year hiatus is even more of a mystery. Until Monday, authorities believed that Natural Causes had himself died. Yet today, the streets of Tinseltown are gripped in fear as Natural Causes seeks out his next victim, as if they weren't gripped enough with the likes of O.J. Simpson and Robert Blake loose.

The Los Angeles Police Department stands by their motto ("To Protect and Serve") in denying that they have minimized the threat to the stars of yesteryear and have never covered up that these deaths were all linked to Natural Causes. A MoCo Lotion exclusive documents for the first time the trail of death left in Natural Causes' wake. Let's have a look:

Episode 114, "L.A. At Last." Eve Arden (cancer, heart disease, age 82, 1990) and William Holden (bled to death after presumably falling headfirst, drunk, into the corner of a coffee table, age 63, 1981). Alright, maybe Holden's a stretch, but in my book, that's pretty much natural causes for Hollywood.

Episode 117, "The Fashion Show." Don Loper (punctured lung, age 66, 1972)

Episode 118, "The Hedda Hopper Story." (pneumonia, age 80, 1966)

Episode 122, "The Star Upstairs." (Cornel Wilde, leukemia, age 74, 1989)

Episode 123, "Lucy In Palm Springs." (Rock Hudson, complications from AIDS, age 59, 1985)

Episode 125, "Harpo Marx." (Complications from heart surgery, age 75, 1964)

Episode 127, "The Tour." (Richard Widmark, complications from fractured vertabrae, age 93, 2008)

Episode 128, "Lucy Visits Grauman's" and Episode 129, "Lucy and John Wayne." (cancer, age 72, 1979)

Monday's slaying of Widmark has left many Hollywood stars on edge, particularly Van Johnson, who is now the only surviving guest star from the Hollywood episodes (Episode 124, "The Dancing Star") . A psychological profile of the killer suggests that he has the mentality of a hunter, and will not be satisfied until he completes his task and adds Johnson to his trophy room, much as Widmark attempted to do with Lucy as she hid under his bearskin rug.

Sleep loose, Van.

MoCo Lotion's calls to the LAPD seeking comment have not been returned.

The Great Texas Brisket Chase (Part III)

This is Part III, click here for Part II or here for Part I

Day 2 of our great barbecue hunt began on our way back from a morning excursion. Again, Giles found two rednecked-named options along the highway. Again, my pride got in the way as I refused to call ahead. Again, neither was there. And again, Mom grew impatient with Giles.

The expression “those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it” does not only apply to monumental events such as the Holocaust, apparently it also applies to searching for barbecue in the Lone Star state via satellite navigation.

So I took a chance. “Let’s just get off at the next exit and see what’s there.” Sure enough, just off the exit, we came across Bone Daddy’s, a newer place about which Giles knew nothing. True to form, Mom remarked about the size of the place and the crowded parking lot. We managed to secure a rock star parking spot and headed in not knowing to expect, but confident that we couldn’t go wrong with a place so popular.

What we immediately realized was why Bone Daddy’s was so popular. Texas is chock full of attractive young women willing to dress in an outfit that would violate health codes in 49 other states to serve male patrons food, beer and Dr. Pepper. No Hooters location could possibly be big enough to hire all of them, so Bone Daddy’s picks up the slack.

To give my parents and sister an easy way out and prevent embarrassment, I asked if they were too hungry to wait the estimated ten minutes for a table. Nobody jumped at the offer to bail out, and my pseudonym ("Maurice DuBois")'s table was quickly announced as ready.

While I wasn’t able to take the actual measurements to back this up, my ballpark analysis indicates the uniforms at Bone Daddy’s are at least 12.4% skimpier than those at Hooters. Dad, who had experienced a partial loss of vision several weeks earlier, showed signs of a complete recovery.

Guys who go to Hooters find the need to rationalize to one another—not to mention their wives and girlfriends—that the food alone is good enough to justify a visit, always citing the wings. (If I recall, the 3.8 billion of us guys on earth held a secret meeting about 20 years ago where it was decided the excuse would have more merit if we all stuck to universally praising the same menu item.) I offer my apologies to my brethren in advance for spilling the beans, but the food at Hooters truly sucks, including the wings. And if anyone has ever taken the time to actually read them, the articles in Maxim suck, as well.

But at Bone Daddy’s, the food excuse has actual merit. It was the best meal we had the entire trip, including the fancy country club affair that was the centerpiece of the weekend. The smoked brisket wasn’t completely dry, with just the right amount of sauce on top. Again, incredible cole slaw and mac-and-cheese. The service wasn’t great, but that was something we managed to forgive as our server continually dropped things and bent over to pick them up.

What's Your Number?

Another good reason to file your taxes on time this year (and choose direct deposit if you have a refund coming): The IRS released the schedule for distribution of stimulus checks. If you're lucky enough to have won the Social Security numbers game, you'll be among the first to get economically stimulated. Or if you choose direct deposit to receive your refund.


I'm hampered by a high-ending SSN. And with no regular tax refund coming this year (which I'd normally take via direct deposit), it looks like it'll be Ramen noodles and ketchup until July 4th in our house.

The Great Texas Brisket Chase (Part II)

(This is Part II, click here for Part I, or risk becoming total disoriented)

Having packed my suit and my portable GPS navigator (“Giles,” as I’ve nicknamed it thanks to the British accent on which it's now set), we took an early flight Friday morning, arriving in Dallas around 10 a.m. and picked up our rental car. Our internal clocks were still on Eastern time, and we hadn’t eaten since grabbing something at the airport at 6 a.m. Between my dad’s diabetes and the uniquely Jewish proclivity to always have your next meal planned, lunch became priority one—it was the main topic of discussion while eating our breakfast in the airport. What was the name of the place where we had the good barbecue on our last trip to Dallas many years earlier? Oh, yeah! Sonny Bryan’s! It was in the city, but we’re headed out to the ‘burbs. The opposite direction from where we needed to be, going into the city during the workweek didn’t appeal to me.

So just for smiles, after powering up Giles and acquiring satellites, I typed in Sonny Bryan’s, and was excited to find they’ve expanded from their one or two locations downtown. And there’s even one along our route. So off Giles led us onto the Texas highways. My children (whom I wisely left at home with MoCoSpouse) have reached an age where they no longer do incredibly annoying things as backseat passengers, but in a warped circle-of-life realization, I've found Mom has somehow managed to pick up the slack. First, she felt compelled to call out the name of every business along the 20-mile commercial strip of highway and remark on whether or not it was one we had back home. And how big everything in Texas was as we passed by...from the width of the highway, to the McDonalds, to the carwashes built to accommodate pickups, to the roadkill.

Mom and the automobile always had a funny relationship. To the outside world, we were this normal ‘60s middle-class suburban family. But we harbored a dark secret that few people to this day can fathom—Mom had neither the courage nor desire to drive, so she never had a car nor license to drive one. In conjunction with Dad's grueling work schedule that often made him unavailable until evening, we somehow managed to get to all the things kids needed to get to. And even at a fairly advanced age, Mom still manages to get wherever she needs to via a network of friends who can still drive and public transportation when Dad is unavailable to play chauffeur.

What Mom lacks in courage to get behind the wheel, she makes up for in her confidence as a navigator. Mom’s navigational skills (I refer to her as Dad's GPS—Global Positioning Spouse) are not based on abstract concepts such as north, south, east, west, or maps—they are based on instinct. Dad is the stereotypical stubborn won’t-ask-for-directions guy who still goes to AAA for Triptiks and traveler’s checks.

I also stubbornly refuse to ask for directions, but have the advantage of being the technogeek who was the first in our family to embrace Mapquest in the mid ‘90s and satellite navigation in the current millenium. Put the three of us together in a rented Grand Prix in a strange place, and it's "fasten your seatbelts—it’s going to be a bumpy night."

For years, I’ve been extolling the wonders of GPS to Dad with the hope that I could convince him to get his own, thinking it would be especially easy since prices have come so far down in the last year or two. No go. He still refuses on principle, but I know that he respects the technology and I'll catch him sneaking a curious glance each time Giles announces the next maneuver.

Mom, on the other hand, has little patience for technology. To her, answering machines were an evil invention specifically designed for the sole purpose of allowing children to screen their mothers' calls in the days before Caller ID and cell phones. She would refuse to “talk to a machine,” and then we'd get an earful the next time we'd call for not being clairvoyant enough to know that she had tried to call earlier. Giles is apparently just as evil, and Mom believes she can somehow do better. She continually asks over and over if I know where I’m going on this strange, big highway in this strange, big state. “Not a clue,” I tell her. “But he does,” I add, cockily pointing to Giles on the dashboard. Mom is skeptical.

As Giles tells me we’re within a mile of Sonny Bryan’s, my mouth is watering. “Arriving at Sonny Bryan’s on the right,” he proudly announces. Except that there’s no Sonny Bryan’s on the right, just a few chain restaurants along the ring road encircling a huge shopping mall. I intentionally make a wrong turn onto the ring road, hoping Giles will automatically re-route me to the correct location. Sure enough, he re-routes me, but to the same incorrect location. As an experienced car GPS user, I’m not incredibly frustrated as it’s not all that unusual for this to happen. Usually it’s one of two reasons:

1) Sonny Bryan’s used to be there, but I’m too cheap to cough up $100 for a database update

2) When you’ve got an address that’s not exactly at an intersection, Giles (as well as web mapping programs) gives an approximate guess as to where an address is located. Sometimes this is way off. Sonny Bryan’s is likely buried in the food court of the gargantuan shopping mall where every business shares the same street address.

Mom appreciates that I’ve taken the time to explain this, but doesn’t particularly care and counters with her trump card, the last thing any GPS user wants to hear from a backseat passenger:

“There’s a gas station, go ask somebody.”

All the while, Dad knows to remain quiet and uninvolved, held captive in a navigational Switzerland.

Refusing to swallow my pride, I called an audible. This is Texas, there’s got to be barbecue everywhere. Sure enough, I ask and Giles shows me all the barbecue places near our current location and there's one 1.2 miles away with a really good, rednecked name that happens to escape me at the moment. This time, all the restaurants are along the highway. But once again, no barbecue. Mom’s patience and Dad's blood sugar are both approaching alarming levels. We'll try for one more before settling on the readily visible TGIAppleRubyChilisFridays dotting the landscape.

This time I wised up, and called the phone number Giles provided of the next-closest place to ensure they were still in business and easily accessible. Lo and behold, we land upon Dickey’s Barbecue Pit, a cafeteria-style chain currently expanding nationwide, right where it’s supposed to be. Mom sees the empty parking lot and has concerns about going into a restaurant that's empty at the 12 noon lunch rush; I explain that it’s 11 a.m. and she should think about setting her watch back an hour in a new time zone. She never did; "too much work" since she'd just have to change it back again at the end of the weekend.

Dickey makes a pretty darn good brisket (along with a portion of smoked turkey), sliced to order, damp but not swimming in juice, fork-tender and slightly sweet. I chose some great sides (cole slaw and mac-and-cheese) to accompany my platter, and the first of the many Dr. Pepper I would consume over the long weekend. Unlike other parts of the country where Dr. Pepper is just another choice on the soda dispenser alongside Sprite, it's a culture all its own in Texas. Dr. Pepper was born here, and it seems to carry the same sort of marketing clout as Coke or Pepsi, with its own branded machines and restaurant signage.

We made our way to the hotel, exhausted after the 4 a.m. (Eastern) start to our day, and got some much needed rest before the first official event of the weekend, a (non-barbecue) dinner for the out-of-towners. In the interim, Giles led me back to the airport to pick up my sister, who flew in from another part of the country for the weekend festivities. The best was yet to come.

Next up in Part III: Brisket...with an added bonus

The Great Texas Brisket Chase (Part I)

In most if not all of the Eastern U.S., when you talk “barbecue,” it’s generally understood that you’re talking about pork unless you specify otherwise. Sure, most Eastern barbecue places also offer chicken and beef brisket, but usually it’s the pork—ribs and pulled—that’s the star attraction.

In spite of my apparent Judaism, I’m not exactly kosher. I’ll justify wolfing down a few slices of bacon or a sausage every now and then by claiming an oversight by those who wrote the kosher rulebook 6,000 years ago--forefathers who didn’t have access to a really good hotel breakfast buffet with piles of greasy, crispy bacon just waiting to be rescued from atop a piece of bread in a steamer tray. But I draw my kashruth line in the sand with "pure" pork or ham.

Beef is perhaps my biggest dietary guilty pleasure. If eating it three or four times a week somehow shortens my lifespan by a few months, in the end I’ll be able to say it was well worth it. And in my book, there’s nothing you can do wrong with a beef brisket, whether it’s served braised, sweet and wet (as is tradition for each of the 437 major Jewish holidays that occur each year), smoked and on the dry side when it’s barbecued, or chopped/pulled and mixed with a nice, rich sauce for a sandwich.

The good news on the beef front arrived in the mail back in January in the form of an invitation to a family event in Dallas. Ahh, Texas. When you say “barbecue” in the Lone Star state, beef becomes the default, the main attraction. Images of cattle herds on the endless prairie danced through my head…cattle with no purpose in life but to sacrifice their briskets for my insatiable need for red meat. I could barely contain myself. If enjoying good barbecue could be considered sinful, then just think of me as Eliot Spitzer headed for the Chicken Ranch with an Amex titanium card. And much as I love barbecue, I don't get to see my Texas relatives all that frequently and looked forward to that, as well. I’d have to figure out the details to make it all work.

Two of those details were my parents, both of whom are approaching an age that, in my mind at least, magically separates folks from being "older" from "elderly" the moment the age odomoter turns over. 80 is not the new 70 in the way that 50 is the new 40; at best, I figure 80 is the new 77. Mom called the day the invitations arrived to see if I had any interest in going. I could tell by her tone that if I wasn’t going to be there to do the driving and help with other travel assistance, they probably couldn’t make the trip and would be sorely disappointed. How do you say “no” to the woman who went through hours of labor (and has it in her DayTimer to remind you of this daily for 44 years), providing tons of great brisket throughout your life? My RSVP was back in the mail to Texas that day as we booked our flights.

Next up in Part II: Where's The Beef?

Who's the REAL Mr. Know-It-All?

One of the highlights of my daily public transportation commute is the opportunity to work the puzzle page of the Examiner, one of the freebie tabloids available to commuters on Metrorail. Two Sudokus, a Kakuro, and a crossword, to boot.

I'll always tackle the Kakuro first, then move on to the Sudokus. If I'm having a really good morning early in the week (when the Sudokus are rated as 1* or 2* on the 5* difficulty scale), I can get well into the crossword.

A few weeks ago, a "perfect storm" of circumstances turned me into the puzzle king for a day. Two 1* Sudokus. A nice delay on the Red Line lengthened my commute by 10 minutes. 54 milligrams of Concerta allowed me to focus and tune out the various concerto coming from the supposedly "personal" audio devices across the train. (Here's a hint, folks. If I can hear what's playing from your headphones halfway across a noisy subway car, my guess is it's too damned loud and you'd better learn how to work the closed captioning on your TV).

So, for the first time in my personal commuting history, I finished all four puzzles. Okay, I didn't quite finish the crossword--but I fully evaluated every single clue, and there are some things you simply don't know, or only know from being a crossword fanatic (which I'm not). So sue me for the five squares I left empty.

Then, I noticed something at the bottom of the puzzle page—a new feature, or new to me at least, since I'm usually engrossed with the puzzles. "Mr. Know-It-All."

"Mr. Know-It-All," it turns out, is a syndicated column appearing in newspapers nationwide. MKIA, as I'll call him, answers trivia questions that apparently are keeping folks awake at night or causing huge rifts in their closest relationships.

MKIA's biography gives his qualifications as a Know-It-All. I'm not sure how a career stocking shelves at Kresge's is somehow relevent, but from the looks of it, he's just an average guy with an above-average interest in trivia. A guy being fed questions that may be 102 mph fastballs when you need to provide an answer off the top of your head, but become slow-pitched softballs when fed through a search engine like Google.

In two weeks of reading MKIA, I've found no questions that couldn't be answered by viewing one of the top two returns on Google, more often than not the Wikipedia entry. Often, the answer is shown in Google's brief blurb, and you don't have to actually open the link.

MKIA apparently provides a valuable service by saving his readers (who've apparently been living on Mars since the mid-'90s) the trouble of doing the heavy lifting for themselves, often giving answers and insight remarkably close in content to sites like Wikipedia in the process.

Just for smiles, let's look at a few examples.

Q: My grandfather loved baseball. I'm told that, in his youth, he was an incredible player who was destined for the major leagues, but a farming accident ended that dream. When he passed on a few years back, I inherited many boxes of baseball memorabilia, including 100 autographed baseballs and bats mostly from the early 1920s to the late 1930s. His favorite was a baseball signed "Hack Wilson 1930." I'm not sure about the first name. What can you tell me about him? I know little about early baseball. — W.B., Madison, Wis.

A: His name is Lewis Robert "Hack" Wilson (1900-1948), and he roamed the outfield from 1923 to 1934 for the New York Giants, Chicago Cubs, Brooklyn Dodgers and Philadelphia Phillies. He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1979. In 1930, he drove in 191 runs for the Cubs — a record that many believe will never be topped. He also hit 56 home runs, led the league with 105 walks and had a batting average of .356. This was possibly the best season ever by a hitter. Sadly, alcoholism cut short his playing career — and his life.

Okay, W.B. from Madison, Wis. Try putting "Hack Wilson" into Google (or ask your grandson to do it), and see what comes back. Real tough, huh? I'm sensing Wilson isn't the only "hack" involved with this column. Let's try another.

Q: Many years ago, there was a major earthquake in the United States. I believe it was in the Midwest. Do you have any idea where and when this occurred? — O.E., Bangor, Maine

A: Between December 1811 and February 1812, four earthquakes, estimated at 7.0 to 7.9 in magnitude, hit the area of New Madrid, Mo. These earthquakes were among the largest ever recorded in North America.

Google query: "major midwest U.S. earthquake."

Q: I just received an e-mail trivia list stating that Dick Clark’s wife gave Chubby Checker his stage name. Is this true? — B.H.L., Flagstaff, Ariz.

A: It’s true. Ernest Evans (1941-), who popularized the song “The Twist” in 1960, was raised in Philadelphia. He attended South Philadelphia High School and called future teenage heartthrobs Frankie Avalon and Fabian classmates. At the time, Dick Clark hosted the incredibly popular TV show “American Bandstand,” which originated in Philadelphia. Clark’s wife suggested the stage name Chubby Checker as a spin-off from another popular singer of the era, Fats Domino.

Hello, Wikipedia.

Q: A long time ago, I read a book about the life of Marcel Marceau, "the master of silence." Marceau was not his real name, which is not unusual for performers. What I'm trying to recall is whether there was a reason he changed his name. Do you know? — B.H.L., Flagstaff, Ariz.

A: Marcel Mangel (1923-2007) was born in Strasbourg, France. At the outbreak of World War II, he changed his last name to Marceau to hide his Jewish heritage.

Wait a minute. Marcel Marceau was Jewish? As my Nana might have said, "Who knew? To me he doesn't say a word."

Here's a Wiki for you Nana, wherever you are.

---

So here's what I envision as MKIA's typical day. He's up 'til 3 a.m. partying. At 10 a.m., his private secretary, Susan Camille McNamara, calls to wake him.

Phone rings. MKIA rolls over, badly hungover, knocks the receiver off the hook.

Susie: Wake up, sleepyhead. Max is looking for this morning's column, it was due at 9:30.

MKIA: Uh, oh, yeah. Where is it? I left it around here SOMEWHERE. [hacking cough] I was up all night doing some major editing, let me get right back to you.

By 10:02, MKIA has opened his e-mail, and randomly selected the first few questions.
10:03, the keywords have been selected, Googled and Wikied.
10:05, links opened, copied and pasted.
10:07, a few sentences are restructured and synonyms employed to disguise any relationship to the source material.
10:09, the day's column is sent to the editor, and a call is placed back to Susie.

MKIA: Tell Max this one was a major chore, but it's done and in his inbox. I'm seriously thinking Pulitzer on this one. [Takes a drag off a Marlboro, muting phone so she can't hear him snickering.]

Susie: You know, there's an editorial staff meeting at 1:30 today, they're expecting you.

MKIA: Uh, yeah. Can't make it. Max'll understand. L.R.S. from St. Cloud, Minn. wrote in and needs to know the state motto of Nevada. Can you call travel desk about the tickets to Vegas? I think I can wrap this one up in three, four days, tops. I've got a guy there with some inside information.

Susie: You got it. Word just came down from corporate, you'll have to fly economy. And the Bellagio is out, you've got to do the Palace Station. Per-diem only, no "entertainment" this time.

MKIA: I guess you do what you gotta do. You're the best. Can you transfer me to payroll? They screwed up my direct deposit.

Ka-ching!

There was a time before the 'Net was readily accessible to most homes when I was a genuine know-it-all, the guy in the bar or over the phone who could tell you off the top of his head the name of Lumpy Rutherford's little sister, Archie Bunker's street address, or Gerald Ford's golden retriever. Granted, my know-it-allness was limited to certain specific areas of interest, but these generally coincided with the general interest trivial things folks wanted to know—movies, television, U.S. history, geography. Classic literature, ancient Greeks, Picasso's blue period, not so much so. So while I may not be able to quote Cyrano de Bergerac word-for-word, I can easily tell you off the top of my head of at least a half-dozen sitcoms that borrowed the plotline in the '60s and '70s.

None of this is to say that the supposed MKIA couldn't have given me a run for the trivia money in the '80s and early '90s. But it is to say that MKIA's "talent" is incredibly unimpressive if he's not demonstrating it in front of Alex Trebek or sitting at a barstool, untethered to technology.

What I find most astonishing is that MKIA even encourages folks to send him questions via email in addition to snail mail. Listen up, folks. If you have the ability to e-mail, you most likely have something on that computin' machine you're using that's known as a "web browser" and access to the "Internet." Before you go looking for Mr. Know-It-All, ask the real Mr. Know-It-All—the kid next door—to show you how.