Word: harpo
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There's this friend of mine, let's call him Harpo, who's on a streak of bad luck Jimmy the Greek wouldn't believe. Not much is going right for him. He is in debt. He doesn't know what he's doing. He enters contests, he never wins. Cars break down on him during first dates and across from 125th Street. And he tells me he just took a beating in the weekly poker game last night. Everyone folded on his best hands...
This grim streak started with the NCAA basketball playoffs this winter. Harpo just wouldn't give up when he was ahead. That's the thing about betting, no one ever knows when to give up. How would bookies stay in business otherwise? Well, in the quarter finals Harpo went out and bet a bundle on North Carolina, UNC-Charlotte, and for good measure, Nevada-Las Vegas. He had this strange feeling it would be a Carolina spring. The weekend came and went, his teams all won, and Harpo was a rich man. So did he quit? Do lemmings stop drowning...
...when one of Harpo's friends, we'll call him Long John, opens up People Magazine this week and finds a hype for the Great White Hope, Duane Bobick, he knows someone who'll be very interested. Long John remembers the Olympics a couple of years ago, he remembers a Cuban heavyweight who provided Bobick with a closeup view of the canvas. Now he sees Bobick posing with his Italian girlfriend, with his dog, running on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Like Rocky. This is all because Mr. Duane Bobick is going to fight Mr. Ken Norton...
Comedians are supposed to shtik to their lasts: Harpo could never speak and Groucho could never be at a loss for words; Fields could never seem to draw a sober breath or a sunny moral. What, then, is Woody Allen doing starring in, writing and directing a ruefully romantic comedy that is at least as poignant as it is funny and may be the most autobiographical film ever made by a major comic...
...Gael Greene book, vantz!" she rasped. "The Gael Greene book! It's my guide! My road map!" She began to heave up and down like the crazed Harpo Marx, baring her canines and incisors and crossing her eyes. Moving toward the wall she commenced chewing he wallpaper. "Mm, roses! I love roses!" chortled this human vegematic as she chomped on a particularly dainty pattern. Then she steamed, pirouetted thrice, keeled and passed out hissing. Exhausted by the afternoon's trifles, I too shuddered, convulsed and in a moment had made like a light...