Vautrin

Naturally it would be in the basement of an old house. They never hide it in the family room of a brand new ranch house. That would be so unnoir.

I'm auditing a course in Personal Growth at the local community college to get help in that area.

Some poor kid who wanted to do his homework had to wait while DGF did one liners on this forum. Kind of strange to do it at the library, but to each their own. I also enjoyed his stories about the senior condo he lived in.

Not to be morbid, but I tend toward the big sleep theory too. At first, I thought DGF might be on a vacation, but after a month or so that seemed less plausible. And being the prolific poster he was, it seemed unusual he would stop so suddenly. Maybe my memory is bad, but didn't he post from the library, and libraries rarely go out of "business." On a sunnier note, he's still number one in posts by a fairly large margin.

Very true. They are almost always of a very dubious character. Never did trust that Arthur Godfrey guy. And that landlord's skimpy mustache is another red flag.

Yep, Rhonda is looking out for...Rhonda. That's what makes the first viewing of the movie a bit more interesting. I wasn't really sure if she was on the level or not.

I love that pic of Carlin. He looks like he's playing the friendly alien from some 1960s TV show. I bet Robbie Douglas wore a swingin' medallion. Yeah man.

My, my, my.

And it seems there was not much of it in the communal shower either. And the landlord didn't exactly inspired confidence. The south of France looking better and better.

That's what femme fatales do. I saw this movie a few years ago. Outside of the trailer park setting and some of the supporting characters it's a fairly routine flick, though still an entertaining one.

Rhonda's place was nice enough, but that thing the two men had to share was pretty awful. No wonder they spent so much time out driving around and drinking. (And it seems the communal men's shower wasn't much to brag on). Every few years I see an article on upscale trailer parks that look very good, but I doubt the trailer park will shed its home of last resort image anytime soon.

Plus, Jim was the host of a swingin' singles game, whereas Bob was the host for the ball and chain crowd.

Yep. Compared to Bob Eubanks, Jimmy was one hep cat.

Q: Do you think the fingerprints found at the scene may help you solve the crime? A: Yes, the fingerprints should help us solve the crime. The stories are usually interesting, but she sure isn't. Maybe she is the producer of the show and gets a better deal from ID.

Whereas, Rhonda didn't seem to be holding much of a torch for hubby and whereas, $50,000 is almost $500,000 today, if I were her I'd be on a flight to the south of France, far away from that crummy trailer park.

I didn't even think of Paula Zahn until you mentioned her. The ID schedule isn't exactly one you can count on. I'm hoping the series about the deadly feuds between neighbors comes back. That was one of my favorites.

Yes he is. I too likely saw it on an ID show, just didn't recall the details. His appearance on The Dating Game is on YT, not the original version but one of the later syndicated ones, though Jim Lange is still the host.

If I were a bright boy I could figure it out, but I'm not.

Thanks for the information. I had forgotten the details. She certainly got some bad vibes from him and made the right decision.

I wish I had a nickel for every time Bob Eubanks used the phrase make whoopee. One of the serial killers in a true crime show I watched was a contestant on The Dating Game. Can't recall if he was picked or not. He likely had more important things to do anyway.

Come to papa Mink, bennie baby. I'm flying tonight, daddio. Don't give me the slip, I'm hip, waiting for that cool mothership. Hey honey, you see my bongo drums around? Death In Small Doses (1957) Peter Graves, Mala Powers, Chuck Connors. It's 1957 and a specter is haunting America, the specter of...DRUG ABUSE. This time it's truckers hooked on amphetamines, bennies, happy pills, truckers' friend. (Jack Webb did this better in his rapid fire style on the 1960s Dragnet). It's a serious problem that calls for gov't investigation. Peter Graves, with his usual non-modulated performance, plays the gov't agent who heads to LA to go undercover as a truck driver to bust the bennie ring. He finds lodging at the house of a trucker's widow who rents rooms to truckers between hauls. Mala Powers plays the widow, a gal with a nice pair of headlights as a truck driving man might put it. It is there that Peter meets fellow truck driver Mink, played by Chuck Connors. Mink is a hoot, a bennie gobbling guy who spouts endless hipster chatter. Mink loves nothing better than to get in his benniemobile, head down to the local gin mill and grove to some cool jazz. He's no square, daddio. Not exactly the usual image one has of Connors. Without Mink the film would be a pretty pedestrian tale. Graves eventually discovers who is peddling the bennies and to his sorrow Mala, who he was getting serious with, is involved. Ouch. As the cops lead Mala away, the audience is relieved to know that the bennie ring has been broken up and they can travel the highways and byways of the good ol' USA without having to worry about hopped up bennie goblers out on the road. Not a bad little Allied Artists low-budget flick with a few nice touches, but nothing very special. By far the best part is hipster Mink, who elevates this thing slightly above the average.

What a dump.

Escapism was baked into the studio era years. Expecting a lot of realism at the movies from that period would be like going to the circus and expecting the ringmaster to recite Chaucer. So knowing more or less what to expect, I just sit back and enjoy it for what it is. And what was never great in the first place can never be made great again.

So I gather. I think I may have heard of Art Bell, the radio personality, but probably forgot about him. I don't listen to the radio much anymore. Sometimes, I don't want to believe.

The only Art Bell I recall is a gay dude who wrote a gossip column for The Village Voice called Bell Tells, but he's been dead for decades.