Your grandfather's Robin Hood (Image via Wikipedia)

I sing a song of Hoodly Robin

So all folkes let ye heads start bobbin’

He robbed the rich

–Ain’t that a bitch?

Methinks I can still hear ‘em sobbin’

–Traditional English ballad

Robin Hood is perhaps the greatest historical figure there ever was. How great was he? I’ll tell you how great:

We still remember and revere Robin Hood today, a millennium or so later, even though we don’t even know if he really existed.

Now that’s greatness. And it’s the kind of greatness Hollywood adores. You make a movie about Abraham Lincoln, some smartass critic is bound to say, “Well, yes, Brad Pitt was energetic and attractive, if not exactly Lincolnesque, but the scene where he beats up Mary Todd Lincoln for spending $10,000 on a designer snood? I don’t think that really happened.”

You don’t get this kind of second-guessing with Robin Hood. A filmmaker could show him opening an Indian-Pakistani restaurant and nobody could say boo about historical accuracy. We have no idea what the real Robin Hood, if there was one, did. Maybe that’s why Ridley Scott felt inspired to do his remake, which hits the multiplexes in May and is wittily titled Robin Hood.

But I have to warn you, Ridley: When it comes to Robin Hood, I have my standards.

I do approve of your casting Russell Crowe, of whom it must be said: This is a man who looks comfortable in old clothes. Russell Crowe you can dress in a toga, a suit of chain mail or a brocade jerkin with total confidence. Maybe even a codpiece, should the need arise. Whereas you put sandals and a toga on Brad Pitt and you risk hearing snickers from the back of the theater. That’s why no one in his right mind would ever cast Brad in an epic about, say, ancient Troy.

Though I’m not sure even Crowe’s gravitas could withstand the bright green tights and cute feathered caps worn by Errol Flynn and company in the 1938 classic The Adventures of Robin Hood. Many people of my generation still regard Flynn as the definitive Robin but you can’t watch the thing today without thinking, “Hmm, merry men? Friar Tuck? Will Scarlet? Bright green tights? Is this Brokeback Forest or what? Who’s their next recruit, Peter Pan?”

There may not even be a forest in the new Robin Hood. I saw the trailer and it looked very…medieval. It looked dark, actually, which seems a bit literal-minded for a story set in the Dark Ages. The phrase “Before Sherwood Forest” flashed onscreen. So where is Robin hanging out now? Downtown Liverpool?

Rather than the usual displays of brilliant archery in old-fashioned Robin Hood movies, I have a feeling we’re going to be witnessing lots of large, spiked iron balls and war axes staving in people’s skulls like muskmelons.

Nor do I anticipate seeing Robin’s boys playing collegiate-style pranks on each other or a stooge-like sheriff of Nottingham. Should they even attempt it, I fear Robin Crowe will shout, “Awright, arseholes, cut the grab-ass and start staving in people’s skulls like fookin’ muskmelons!”

I don’t see a whole lot of Oscar-grabbing opportunities for Maid Marian in this production, either, even though the redoubtable Cate Blanchett is on hand. Perhaps she will be raped, murdered, drawn and quartered by King John and his evil henchmen so Russ can glower as only Russ can and avenge her as only Cate Blanchett deserves to be avenged.

But in my mind the biggest question is: Will this Robin Hood rob from the rich and give to the poor? That’s the shtick everyone remembers from the Robin Hood legend. Yep, I doubt if he existed but he did rob from the rich and give to the poor, I often hear people say.

In today’s highly charged, partisan political atmosphere, this gets us into a very sensitive area. The right wing, which is already pissed off about Avatar being anti-corporate America, is going to start yelling “communism!” The Beck-Limbaugh-O’Reilly rantomatic will blow a gasket.

Frankly, I’m worried that Ridley Scott may cave in to the pressure and merely have Robin Hood battling oppression. Hell, anyone can battle oppression. Jimmy Stewart did it constantly and he wasn’t even an action star. But redistribution of wealth? That takes a real man. I’m sure Russell Crowe is up to the job but the truth is he can’t accomplish economic justice unless his director, producer and screenwriter let him.

Will Robin Hood be allowed to follow his traditional liberal inclinations? Will the miserable medieval masses ever get some kind of health-care reform, with or without a public option? I nervously await the reviews.

Image via Wikipedia

That would have to be the Orthodox billionaire, Ron Perelman, if there’s any truth at all to a recent story in the NY Observer. (Sue them, not me, Ron)

Not content with the array of world-class, all-star shuls scattered over his swanky nabe, Perelman, the Solomon of his generation, built his own sacred Upper East Side temple.

Beth Perelman nestles in the garden between his back-to- back Upper East Side townhouses, one fronting on 62^nd Street, the other on 63^rd.

It gets better.

Ron has his own minyan.

I am not kidding. He has his own private minyan. According to the Observer, “He takes nine Jewish men with him wherever he goes, the French Riviera or East Hampton.”

Which means that somewhere there are nine guys, all duly circumcised and bar-mitzvahed, sitting around, their yarmulkes and talleses, oops, sorry, kippot and tallit, doubtless ironed and packed in wheelie bags, awaiting the call of the shofar ring tone.

Hark! Cometh a text!

ron feeling urge 2 knock off a birkat ha-gomel. Maybe a kaddish if he has a sec between big deals, for ron is some macher. Come hither, O ye rental prayer posse, come & daven. Ye be summoned.

On the high holy days, Ron’s lady of the moment, not Ellen Barkin any more, I don’t know who, comes and sits upstairs alone in the balcony section and falls asleep…

No, sorry, I’m getting carried away here. I’m making things up again. Someone stop me before I bring Yahweh into the picture to give Ron an ironic blessing before turning him into a gigantic matzoh ball which He then feeds to the poor.

Must be a dybbuk got into my kop.

Questions for investigative reporters to pursue: Can anyone (Jewish male, of course) apply to be an RP minyan minion? Is there a waiting list? Does it pay? How about backup minyan minion? Do you have to really pray or can you just sit there mumbling and nodding now and then? Do you get health insurance? Is there a rabbi? A cantor? Are refreshments served after the service? Are they glatt kosher? Why is this night different from all other nights?

(Thanks to Carole Stuart for sending me the Observer story)

Yeah, tell him that. (Image via Wikipedia)

This is the worst health news ever. It’s worse than eating and drinking things you like will kill you. It’s worse than smoking will kill you. (mainly because I don’t smoke) Now they’re telling us sitting will kill you.

Sitting is what I do best. And most.

I sit to eat. I sit to read and write. I sit in cars, taxis, trains and planes. I sit to nap. I sit to …OK, there’s no need to go there.

Sitting is what I’m doing right now and what I will be doing later and what I’ll be doing after that.

And when I’m finally done, I plan to sit down and rest for a while.

The sitting story is No. 1 on today’s New York Times most-read list. It is headlined “Stand Up While You Read This!” Well, I refused to and I hope you did too.

I am taking a strong stand position against the no-sitting extremists. I ask for your support, my fellow sitters. And I know there are millions of you. I’ve seen you on your sofas, your couches, your love seats and divans; I’ve seen you leaning back in your Aeron chairs, your feet up on the desk.

We will organize a sit-in. Maybe even a national sit-down strike.

Our slogan: Sit happens.

Our icons: Sitting Bull and Whistler’s Mother. Someone start making posters.

This isn’t just about laziness, although laziness is underrated. It’s about our economy. Just for two examples, what happens to the chair industry? What happens to baby sitters?

I’ll probably be accused of conspiracy-theory-mongering but it seems to me a question has to be asked: Might not the podiatry lobby be behind this thing?

Now I believe in freedom of the press as much as anyone but I tell you that this article in the Times goes too far and the writer should have been executed upon submitting it.

Or at least chastised. An editor should have told her: “Siddown, you’re rocking the boat.”

What she did is almost literally like crying fire in a crowded theater. Because when you do that, what happens is people stand up, the precondition to panic and mayhem.

When people remain seated, they don’t commit as many wrongs. If you want to kill or rob someone, you usually have to stand up first. History tells us that sooner or later, standing will lead to a fall, especially in winter, with all that ice around.

Sitting, on the other hand, is restful and nice.

The idea of giving it up, even for a few minutes…well, I just can’t stand it.

George Herman Ruth, Jr. (Image via Wikipedia)

News item: Spring training under way.

In honor of baseball and its magical propensity for generating meaningless arguments, I hereby present the All-Nickname Team.

Ground rules: The nickname must be so powerful that in effect, it became the player’s first name, replacing his given name. Modifier monikers and parentheticals, though treasured, are disqualified: Sorry, Shoeless and Joltin’ Joe, Hammerin’ Hanks Aaron and Greenberg. Abject apologies to Mordecai “Three-Finger” Brown and Wade “Chicken Man” Boggs. Regrets to Wee Willie “Hit ‘Em Where They Ain’t” Keeler and Poosh ‘Em Up Tony Lazzeri.

Ideally, these nonpareils of nomenclature must be both superior players at their position and have the best nickname. Of course, how often does one achieve the ideal?

The lineup:

C: Yogi Berra

1B: Cap Anson

2B: Red Schoendienst

SS: Pee Wee Reese, Rabbit Maranville (tie)

3B: Pie Traynor

OF: Babe Ruth

OF: Hack Wilson

OF: Duke Snider

DH: Heinie Manush

RHP: Satchel Paige

RHP: Dizzy Dean

RHP: Catfish Hunter

LHP: Rube Waddell

LHP: Whitey Ford

LHP: Preacher Roe

Closer: Goose Gossage

Pinch Hitter: Home Run Baker

Pinch Runner: Cool Papa Bell

Up for a cup of coffee: Vinegar Bend Mizell, Cookie Lavagetto, Daffy Dean, Kiki Cuyler, Ducky Medwick,  Schoolboy Rowe. Germany Schaefer, Bobo Newsom, Boog Powell, Chili Davis, Dixie Walker, Mookie Wilson

Manager: Casey Stengel

Commissioner: Happy Chandler

Umpire: Jocko Conlan

Announcer: Red Barber

Sportswriter: Red Smith

National Anthem: Bing Crosby accompanied by the Count Basie Band

Refreshment Stand: Toots Shor

Let the arguing begin!

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Supplementary Notes:

The inspiration for this exercise: When I was a kid and a Brooklyn Dodger fan, the Yankee and Giant fans would always crow about how their CFs were better than ours, even though ours was pretty damn good. Well, Duke, it wasn’t easy but I finally found a way to put you ahead of Mick and the Say-Hey Kid. Got Pee Wee and Preacher in there, too! We rule.

Thanks to my baseball advisory panel: Mort Sheinman, Ben Patrusky, Bruce Weber, Avery Corman, Vic Ziegel, Robert Bazell, Mike Neill

After a week that saw an unhinged tax protester fly his plane into an IRS office, a loony neurobiologist shoot three fellow professors, a crackpot at the CPAC convention call for the hanging of a U.S. senator and Glenn Beck being Glenn Beck, the question must be asked: Is America harboring a dangerously high percentage of nut jobs?

The answer, according to an informal survey I took among three or four friends and a bike messenger who almost ran me over on Eighth Avenue yesterday, is a resounding yes. This country is crazier than ever.

Every few years, the American Psychiatric Association updates its compendium, The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which lists every known mental disorder and each time, it gets bigger. The fifth edition of the DSM is out in 2013 and I’m afraid no one will be able to lift it.

Next question: What are we going to do about it?

We have some of the world’s finest psychiatrists and psychologists here with an absolutely spectacular selection of drugs but they mostly treat the slightly crazy. The totally crazy won’t go. Problem is they’re too crazy to know they’re crazy.

One thing we might consider is bringing back the guys in white coats who carry butterfly nets. I don’t know if they ever really existed but you see them in old movies sometimes.

It would be nice if you could call 999 or something and report A Person Who Looks Like They’re About to Do Something Seriously Crazy and the white coats come running, net them, wrestle them into a straitjacket and bundle them off to an appropriate facility.

The beautiful part is that guys with butterfly nets look comical instead of sinister—you’d have to laugh when you saw them chasing a gibbering maniac–so they don’t up our paranoia quotient any further and make everyone even crazier. In fact, they’d provide comic relief. Bystanders would cheer and yell, “Go, white jackets! Grab that loony!” The laughter would release tension.

We all seem very tense these days.

A big part of the problem is politics. I have reported frequently on the alarming incidence of craziness on the right. But whether the American right wing is actively making people crazy or just serving as a clubhouse for the demented I’m not sure. I do know that right-wing craziness is the fastest-growing segment of the crazy demographic.

Right-wing insanity alone will probably take up about 50 percent of the new DSM.

You probably saw the news item that a significant number of Americans think Joe Stack is a hero.

Need I say more?

Well, I will, anyway. Hey, do you think it’s just a coincidence that a movie titled The Crazies is about to open? Or that Scorsese’s new one, Shutter Island, is set in a dark and scary lunatic asylum?

Our artists are trying to tell us something.