Just sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the NBA Finals to depart Sodom and Gomorrah and get back here to Siddown and Begorrah.
How awful was that Tuesday night? You turn on the TV to watch some of the world's greatest athletes, and just as Kobe starts defying gravity and Ray Allen starts draining jumpers, the camera cuts away to . . .
Dyan Cannon? Not to be cruel, but I thought she died, like, 15 years ago.
The words "aging gracefully" and "Hollywood" have never appeared in the same sentence. They can do amazing stuff with makeup on the West Coast. But then so can my pal, the great Bill Lawler, a West Roxbury mortician.
Honest to God, when was the last time you saw Dyan Cannon in anything besides a Lakers game? I think she was in that movie, "Bob & Ted & Carol & Lakeesha," the publicity shots for which showed four people in bed together. The movie was made in 1969 and so that was considered risqué. Four people in a bed today is what BU and BC call off-campus housing in Brighton.
Watching a Lakers game on network television is like watching an old Pavarotti concert on PBS and just as the big guy hits the first of nine consecutive high C's in "La Fille du Regiment," the camera cuts away to . . .
Pauly Shore at Wolf Trap!
Opera singers often say "In boca del lupo," or, into the mouth of the wolf, to wish each other luck as they go onstage. The Celtics should say "In boca del pazzo" as they head up the tunnel in the Staples Center, because they are walking into a sea of lunatics. I can't take two more nights of this, but given that KG and Paul Pierce couldn't hit the side of a barn on Tuesday, there's no alternative.
I don't know about you, but I couldn't get enough of the plugs those paragons of sports journalism at ABC and ESPN gave that new movie, "Wall-E." I like money as much as the next guy, but those announcers and their shameless pitching and cringe-inducing segues reminded me of hookers who take cash from the wallets of sleeping clients and count it on the way out of the hotel room.
Speaking of hotels and hookers, the last time I was in L.A., I ordered room service and turned on the television. Over a lovely plate of huevos rancheros, I laughed hysterically at what I assumed was a comedy show until I realized it was . . .
THE LOCAL NEWS!
It was summer and the lead story was very original, a live remote about how hot it was outside. A "reporter" was shown dousing passersby with a hose. It was the kind of broadcast journalism that would have made Edward R. Murrow weep with pride. Or something.
Back in the studio, the weather lady was wearing an outfit normally worn by hookers in Chinatown. Her midriff was bare, so instead of paying attention to the area of high pressure moving in from the Rockies, I kept staring at her stomach, trying to determine if she had an innie or an outtie.
Back to the Staples Center, which, for all you hayseeds, does not refer to a store where you buy ink cartridges. Contrary to conventional wisdom, the arena where the Lakers play is actually named for a surgical device used to hold together the impossibly preserved faces of the people they keep showing on TV.
I know the celebrity cutaways at the Garden can't hold a candle to the Staples Center in terms of star power.
But you know what? I'd take that big lug Schilling and his wife, Shonda, over those Left Coast phonies in a heartbeat.
Besides, when's the last time Dyan Cannon pitched a World Series game with her ankle looking like an aging starlet's face before the plastic surgeon puts the staples in?
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at email@example.com