Wednesday, September 28, 2016


I think it can be safely said that the real winner of the Clinton-Trump set-to at Hofstra University was Howard Stern. There was a time that he was considered a pariah outside of his radio audience. Now his name was spoken in a presidential debate. All Lester Holt had to do was shout "Baba Booey!" and the evening would have been complete.

Trump wonders how much stupider he can look.
Among the pundits, however, Clinton was the champ of round one, while Trump was strictly from Palookaville. Oh, he did OK for the first half hour, some conceded, with a few even mentioning the word "presidential." Yes, the President of the Toledo chapter of the Kiwanis Club after a few rounds of Labatt's. 

"Take me to your leader...
so I can smash him into
atoms and take over your
And Clinton? You know, she's probably pretty smart. I know this because I've had that meme shoved down my throat for longer than I've been married. From the moment her husband finished his first swearing-in, America has been told that Hillary Clinton is going to be president some day, goddammit, so you might as well get freaking used to it, because if you're not, you're a right-wing sexist fascist (and whatever other "-ist" fits the bill). 

I know how you feel, Gary.
Unfortunately, I can't properly operate a voting machine when my arm is twisted, so I'm afraid Gary "I Only Sound Stoned" Johnson is my go-to choice. Those above-mentioned pundits warn outliers like me that I'm throwing my vote away, that third-party candidates never have a chance of winning. 

These are the same people who said Donald Trump had no chance of getting the Republican nomination. Did it ever occur to them that third-parties never have a chance because newsfolks are always telling voters the same thing? That's known as "discouraging the turnout," a phrase I just made up but sounds official. 

But if you're still among the undecideds sticking with the two major candidates, here's a handy comparison chart to help you choose.

                                      CLINTON                        TRUMP
                                Sinus Headache               Migraine
                                Chlamydia                      Syphilis
                                Diarrhea                         Projectile Vomiting
                                Liver Disease                   Lung cancer
                                Undercooked Chicken       Bad Shellfish

If the idea of the two most loathed candidates in the history of presidential politics isn't enough to make you recoil in horror, there was a so-called "trigger warning" placed at an MTV-sponsored political event at Hofstra the day of the debate:

This is the state of America in 2016. To me, "trigger warning" is to prevent me from blowing my brains out.                       

Wednesday, September 21, 2016


Look carefully at this faded, damaged photo and you can
see one of the cats on the left holding me hostage.
I love my wife, but never felt the same toward her two cats. I use the past tense not because of a change of heart, but a change of life -- theirs. They clawed their way to the Eternal Litterbox within a few months of each other at least a decade ago. 

My negative feelings toward them wasn't personal. I just don't like cats. They're ungrateful, needy, and snobbish. And I don't want to hear anything about "projection", OK?

In fact, the federal government just backed me up. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention released a study on the rise of Cat Scratch Disease in the U.S. The takeaway:

My spellcheck went bananas when I pasted that paragraph. I can't even pronounce half those words. And even if you don't understand it, it just looks frightening. The staff of USA Today thoughtfully provides a handy translation:

To put this in perspective, an average of only 19 shark attacks happen every year in the U.S. That means you have only a 1 in 3,700,000 chance in becoming selachimorpha prandium (that's "shark lunch" for you non-scientists) in your lifetime. 

In comparison, it seems like there's an excellent chance of coming down with some kind of brain disease from the stray kitten you see today. If the odds for getting attacked by a shark were the same, every damn beach would be shut down in perpetuity.

Not that cats are entirely without use. Claire Hobbes of New Zealand kept a cat in her freezer for three months after finding it dead on a road. That in itself might seem strange, until you learn that Ms. Honnes is a taxidermist by trade. When a search for its owner proved fruitless, she went the fashionista route and turned it into a handbag. Or is it a pawbag?

The only accessory that wants to make you feel guilty.
Plenty of sensitive people find this thing repellent, even if Ms. Hobbes assures us, "I don't kill animals for my work, it's not as though I go around snuffing out animals thinking this'll make a nice handbag." She might change her mind if she gets enough money for it; the opening bid at the auction site Trade Me is $1400 NZD. 

Isn't your little lady worth the investment? Not only is it (for now) a unique item, you'll still be able to enter any "No Pets Allowed" establishment -- the late Mr. Mittens won't pass along any brain disease, or even piss in the corner of the room. 

As for the rest of you who shudder at the kitty clutch, remember: if it's good enough for the alligator, it's good enough for the feline. If nothing else, we now have a new slang to replace "the cat's pajamas." 


Monday, September 19, 2016


Let's not jump to conclusions here, folks.
Contrary to popular belief, sometimes rushing to judgement is a good thing -- or at least not a bad thing. Let's take, for example... oh, I don't know, a bomb. A homemade pressure cooker bomb wired with a flip phone that blows up in a Dumpster.

And let's say, just for laughs, a second unexploded bomb of similar make is found a few blocks away. And then, taking this absurd scenario to another level, that this happens in a happenin' section of New York, which just happens to be ISIS' عدد هدف واحد (that's "number one target" to you non-Arabic readers) on a Saturday night.

I, for one, wouldn't hold it against you if you thought, Huh. I might be off base, but that sorta, kinda sounds like terrorism. Not necessarily of the ISIS variety -- I read one internet commenter who opined that it was the work of a Trump supporter trying to stir up Islamophobia -- but terrorism nonetheless.

James O'Neill and Bill de Blasio
Ah, but you're not New York's Mayor Bill de Blasio or Police Commissioner James O'Neill, who initially refused to call two pressure cooker bombs an act of terror. Nor did they speculate that the two incidents might, just might, be connected. 

Oh, and the bomb found in Elizabeth, New Jersey on the same weekend? Eh, who knows? A bomb's a bomb.

Let us be grateful that de Blasio and O'Neill weren't running things during other historic moments.

WASHINGTON, DC -- APRIL 14, 1865: Bill de Blasio and James O'Neill aren't calling the shooting of President Abraham Lincoln an assassination attempt, nor are they saying if the stabbing of Secretary of State William Steward is connected to it in any way.

DALLAS, TX -- NOVEMBER 22, 1963: Bill de Blasio and James O'Neill aren't calling the shooting of President John F. Kennedy an assassination attempt, nor are they saying if the shooting of Texas Governor John Connally, who was riding in the same car as Kennedy, is connected to it any way.

NEW YORK, NY -- SEPTEMBER 11, 2001: Bill de Blasio and James O'Neill aren't calling the destruction of the World Trade Center by two hijacked passenger planes an act of terror, nor are they saying if similar attacks at the Pentagon and in Pennsylvania are connected to it in any way.

But hey, de Blasio has a cool family, though. Let's re-elect him next year! 

Oh, and someone show this to His Honor and the Commissioner. They still might be out of the loop:


Thursday, September 15, 2016


The survey was taken shortly after the presidential conventions.

As he stepped to the podium, Kristal said, "Today, I am a man... in need of a nap."

Upon hearing the news, husbands across America yelled, "I told you my wife was crazy!"

However, The Flinstones remains forbidden for "glorifying the curse of the proletariat who can only afford to live in caves."

As the internet service was shut off at one kiosk, an unidentified man was overheard muttering, "Well, at least Huma will be out of the house soon."


Monday, September 12, 2016


Hillary Clinton stars in a remake of Catch Me if You Can.
At the same time Hillary Clinton was doing a Raggedy Ann routine in New York yesterday due to "overheating" -- like she was a '57 DeSoto -- my wife and I were walking around the Upper East Side, commenting on how comfortable the morning was, and speculating that we might have needed jackets.

Oh, Hillary was diagnosed with pneumonia on Friday you say? And it was made public only because she did a face plant into her limo? Ah, thanks for the facts, if that's what they are. 

"My devious plan worked again!"
You know how B-list celebrities are forever referring to "my truth"? When Hillary and her hombres do it, it's in order to differentiate it from "the truth." 

Yes, all politicians fiddle with facts. They wouldn't be politicians if they didn't. But Hillary & company's default position to any possible problem seems to be, at best, opaque, like a properly sauteed cod. Which is why everything in her campaign smells fishy. 

Yeah, I so trust this guy to give me
a rectal exam.
Donald Trump's not much better. We've got the statement from Trump's physician, Dr. Harold Bornstein, which reads like something that you'd expect either from a five year-old playing doctor, or Hillary's campaign. Describing a patient's health as "astonishingly excellent" doesn't sound like something they teach med school. 

Actually, I'm concerned.
And while we're at it, did this guy even go to grammar school? If he's not able to construct a simple salutation -- one that wouldn't be proper on a medical statement even if he got it right -- I think writing a prescription is out of the question.

People might not have gotten thin,
but Oz's wallet got really fat.
Perhaps Trump will finally reveal all this Thursday when he discusses his "health regimen" with Dr. Oz, the guy who admitted under oath in front of a congressional committee that he shilled for a diet product scam. I guess Trump needed someone to make Trump University look legit.
Trump O'Lantern.

Maybe during their little chat, Dr. Oz can bring up Trump's orange skin, which can be a sign of one of 14 illnesses, ranging from jaundice to Marchiafava-Micheli disease to Bronze baby syndrome. (Considering his temperament, the latter seems most likely.) Of course, this controversy could be laid to rest if he released his official tanning bed regimen.

Yes, folks, in a country with a population of 322,000,000, the primary voters, along with the two major political parties, decided that Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump were the only ones qualified to be president. Forget about their health. It's the rest of America that's sick.


Wednesday, September 7, 2016


"Of course," Ivanka admitted, "he admits I have a hot ass."

Gutierrez told reporters, "I have always patterned my life after Mr. Trump's."

A Trump spokesman added, "And we're still trying to lock down Herman Goering and Francisco Franco."

"How could it?" Trump added. "I was on TV saying that, and everybody knows blacks don't have TVs unless they steal them from stores."

In related news, Donald Trump was seen sneaking out of a pig pen in China with his pants around his knees earlier this year.


Tuesday, September 6, 2016


Hillary Clinton, 69, held a $25,000-a-ticket fundraiser in the Hamptons featuring Paul McCartney, 74, Jimmy Buffett, 69, and Jon Bon Jovi, 54.

A spokesman for Clinton said this was a good way to bring out the youth vote.

Fortunately, Love-Robinson had enough time to provide Hillary Clinton's medical records before his arrest.

Informed of the auction, Hillary Clinton said, "That's almost $200 to wipe your ass. I can get the same service from the press for free!"

In related news, historians have discovered that Hillary Clinton made a donation to replenish the squirrel population in Fort Marcy Park shortly before Vince Foster's death.

Asked for a comment on their findings, a Clinton spokesman admitted, "It was easier than putting squirrels around the country, know what I mean?"


Saturday, September 3, 2016


"And by that," added Rev. Franklin, "I mean intercourse between two non-white people."

When asked why he made it all up, Pastor Burns replied, "Once Trump said he was going to build a wall and make Mexico pay for it, I thought, 'Shit, anything goes!'"

His current Facebook status is listed as "Total Fucking Moron."

As the aide explained, "I took my cue from Hillary's management style."

According to its website, an app called uPMS is for men "suffering the monthly Psychotic Mood Shifts from their better halves," in order to "track their PMS cycle, allowing you to quickly know in advance if it’s that time of the month again."

A rival designer wanted to sell an app that let women know when the men in their lives were most likely to behave like adolescent boys having their first beer, but decided it would be redundant.


Thursday, September 1, 2016


As with a few other movie misfires on this blog, Son of Dracula has a good premise. What if the legendary vampire's son was born of a human mother -- and, over time, acquires human feelings, such as empathy and love? Does he submit, or continue to live the life of neck-biting immortality?

Really, not a bad idea. The problem is everything else.

When you think of vampires, singer/songwriter Harry Nilsson probably isn't the first person who comes to mind. Nor is Ringo Starr as Merlin the Magician. But since Ringo was the producer, and Nilsson his drinking/snorting buddy, you have no other choice. Except to avoid it.

He shoulda stayed in bed.
Dracula's son, "wittily" named 
Count Downe, has returned to London for his coronation as Overlord of the Netherworld -- what we in America call Speaker of the House. Unbeknownst to Downe, Baron Frankenstein covets the title for himself. 

But Downe falls in love with Amber, the assistant to Dr. Van Helsing, triggering his desire to become fully human. While Van Helsing offers to perform a vampire-ectomy, Baron Frankenstein plans to make the surgery go fatally wrong. But unlike other Dracula movies, Son of... features a happy ending for the lovers. And audiences, too, because it finally ended.

Trick or treat!
It's difficult to know what exactly Son of Dracula's creators had in mind. The poster sells it as a rock & roll horror comedy, but is played almost completely straight. Downe walks the streets of 1970s London just so he can gaze at the Nilsson album Son of Schmillson in a record store window. Creatures like the Wolf Man, the Mummy, and Frankenstein's monster make appearances, wearing make-up out of a high school play. Son of Dracula is a horror movie, alright, but not in the right way.

David Baille (left) looks for a way off the set.
Further muddying the waters is the cast. Nilsson plays his part very seriously, as if planning on a future in the movie business, but is hopelessly outclassed by British co-stars Freddie Jones, Dennis Price, Suzanna Leigh, and David Baille, who are all way too good for this picture. 

Then, of course, there's Ringo Starr as Merlin, who proves that being an ex-Beatle can take you just so far as an actor -- like playing Ringo Starr in A Hard Day's Night and Help!.

Admittedly, it's kind of clever that the movie is willing to upend the Dracula legend by making Van Helsing the vampire helper rather than hunter. (SPOILER ALERT: It turns out Van Helsing is really Merlin in disguise.) And whether intentional or not, Son of Dracula is something of a (very) slight remake of the great 1934 Fredric March movie, Death Takes a Holiday, only with a second-rate script, cheesy monsters, and Keith Moon on drums.

Roll over Beethoven, and tell Bram Stoker
the news.
Son of Dracula's excuse for being a musical is that Count Downe has been studying music for the last century or so, allowing him to occasionally break out in song. Of the seven numbers, only the goofy "Daybreak" was written for the movie; the others originally appeared on earlier Nilsson albums. 

Shot in 1972 but bound & gagged on the shelf for two years, Son of Dracula -- one of eight releases from the Beatles' Apple Films -- is one of those productions that screams "midnight movie," i.e., low budget, badly-made, and meant to be watched under the influence. 

But no amount of insomniac stoners in college towns could make it a cult favorite (another dubious cinematic term), and it soon disappeared into the Netherworld. A faded, slightly damaged VHS copy can be yours to behold on YouTube. 

Or you can just listen to a playlist of Son of Dracula's songs and skip the movie entirely. Otherwise, you'll probably wind up driving a stake into your own heart.


Tuesday, August 30, 2016


There's been a lot of loose talk lately about "diagnosing" presidential candidates from a distance. I have no problem engaging in such behavior myself, however. 

Now, I'm not a psychiatrist, nor do I play one on TV. My diagnoses of such disparate groups as women, kids, husbands, and memorabilia collectors comes strictly from experience.

Hello, ladies!
With that out of the way, let us turn to the case of Anthony Weiner. I need not go into the details of the disgraced former Congressman/ disgraced former Mayoral candidate/disgraced former (as of yesterday) contributor on New York's NY1 news channel/celebrated current and future punchline. 

We all know what happened. And, if you had been paying attention from the beginning, what was always going to happen. Anthony Weiner was never going to be cured of his photographpastime anymore than I ever will of DVRing any 1940s movie running under 70 minutes.

When Weiner was last caught sexting on the fly -- and by fly, I mean his zipper -- veteran CBS newsman Bob Schieffer wondered why friends and family hadn't done an intervention with this "ill" man. 

Allow Dr. Fish-Eye to give a second opinion. To understand Anthony Weiner, you need not engage him in six months of analysis. All you need to do is look at his high school graduation photo.

This was not the 1981 Brooklyn Tech High School Prom King, nor was he voted "Most Popular." His name was Weiner, for Chrissakes. He probably spent more time getting slammed into his locker than he did sitting at his desk. In fact, the reason he's posing like that is because his neck was temporarily paralyzed from receiving the most recent punch. And as for getting laid... well, let's not go there. Certainly no girl ever did.

And all that time, that dopey-looking schmuck in the blue turtleneck was thinking, Some day, I'm gonna be a big shot. And when I am, I'm gonna be powerful, tell those assholes what to do, and get all the girls. Just watch. 

Yup, that's the way to win over voters.
At the risk of sounding like Donald Trump, believe me. When Weiner was a Congressman -- and, later, running for Mayor -- there was no more obnoxious prick in New York. Every time he stepped up to a microphone or sat down for an interview, within 15 seconds I'd start muttering, This is the biggest fucking asshole I've ever seen. 

And living in New York, that's saying something. The 1998 Anthony Weiner was the 2016 Rudy Giuliani -- nasty, vindictive, insulting, sarcastic. Progressives ate it up like chia seeds atop a kale salad.

Anthony Weiner finally showed them alright. He wasn't "that skinny asshole with the weird hair" anymore. He was Congressman Weiner. And soon, he was married Congressman Weiner, in a ceremony officiated by Bill Clinton -- everybody's go-to guy for a spiritual leader. 

Congressman. Husband of an important woman. Friend of an ex-president. And, to hear many local Democrats say, future Governor of New York... and beyond. Anthony Weiner showed 'em, alright. 

Yet during his time in Congress, guess what avatar he used for his Twitter account. His high school graduation picture. Sense of humor? A sharp poke in the ribs to his teenage tormentors, reminding them again how far he'd come?

Or, deep down, did Anthony Weiner still see himself as that geeky bastard with the funny hair? 

What a man, what a man, what a man,
what a mighty fine man...
While his wardrobe improved and he managed to slick down that sheep on his head, Anthony Weiner was as homely as ever. But that kind of power -- not to mention being married to Hillary Clinton's #1 sidekick -- made him look awfully attractive to women, or, at least, certain women. And that, as countless men have proven throughout history, was better than simply enjoying what fortune had dropped on his lap.

While his original sexting scandal would have been enough for feminists to hang him in effigy -- or reality -- Congressman Weiner had one important thing on his side: a 100% rating from NARAL Pro-Choice America. It took a hint from a man -- President Barack Obama -- for Weiner to finally resign from Congress.

You see, "sisterhood," stops at the bedroom and the voting booth. Until it doesn't. Like when the wife's boss is one cackle away from the White House. 

Now it's time for Anthony Weiner to walk the plank, especially as the texts he exchanged with his cyber girlfriend have been published in the New York Post:

Imagine if social media had existed when Bill Clinton was president. He would have taken up more broadband than a streaming 4K Imax movie in 3-D. And feminists still would have given him a pass.

But Anthony Weiner is a supporting player, not a leading man. You could replace John Randolph with Jerry Stiller as George Costanza's father. But there would have been no Seinfeld without Jerry Seinfeld.

Better not walk past any lockers, Weiner. Your former tormentors are warming up for another go-round -- just as you've been begging for. 


Saturday, August 27, 2016


The late 1960's saw a strange mash-up of psychedelic counterculture with the nostalgia craze. Every band, from the Beatles to the Rolling Stones to Moby Grape felt obliged to cut at least one 1920s-style song. Stoned audiences attended midnight shows of Marx Brothers comedies, '30s musicals, and the like.

Always sniffing for the latest trend to cash in on, corporate show business entities tried to give the kids what they wanted. Instead, they made The Phynx, a movie that wasn't released so much as allowed to stick its head out of the Warner Brothers gate, before being quickly yanked back in. Forty-two years later, it finally made its official video debut. Too soon!

So what is the titular Phynx? It's a rock band created by the U.S. government, whom it trains to rescue "world leaders" that have been kidnapped by the Albanian military, because their own agents are too inept to do the job. 

The joke is that these "world leaders" are a veritable "Where Are They Now?" list. To name a few: Xavier Cugat, Rudy Vallee, Ruby Keeler, Butterfly McQueen, Johnny Weissmuller, Dorothy Lamour, Joe Louis... 

Oh hell, just look at the ad in the upper right. The only "current" celebrity was Col. Harlan Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame, while Edgar Bergen was the one entertainer still regularly working. And other than Georgie Jessel (you knew he had to be in there somewhere), nobody gets more than one or two lines of dialogue. They were probably grateful.

"I feel good!... Except for appearing in this
But wait, there's more! Clint Walker, Trini Lopez, James Brown, Dick Clark, and Richard Pryor play themselves as government operatives whipping the band into shape. The only explanation for Pryor's sorry 10-second appearance -- he's actually shamed by one of the Phynx -- is that he must have been paid with a 16-ounce Mason jar filled with cocaine. 

Look fast, folks, you'll never see them again.

The Phynx band members, on the other hand, were unknown musicians playing themselves, hired to fit certain stereotypes. Nervous (Michael A. Miller), intellectual (Dennis Larden), soul brother (Lonny Stevens), and stoic American Indian (Ray Chippeway). Everything but "talented."

Maureen O'Sullivan, Georgie Jessel, and Edgar
Bergen & Charlie McCarthy decide how they're
going to kill their agents.
As with most of Hollywood's attempts at alleged counterculture entertainment, The Phynx's creators had absolutely no connection to their intended audience. Its middle-aged scenario writers and producers, Bob Booker and George Foster, were best known for mainstream comedy albums like You Don't Have to Be Jewish. Their 1968 release, Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts, satirizing Jackie & Aristotle Onassis, is prominently displayed in a scene set at a record store. That piece of self-promotion is more clever than anything else in the movie.

Pat O'Brien weeps at what his
career has come to.
First- and last-time screenwriter Stan Cornyn was, in real life, a 37 year-old Warner Brothers Records PR guy. Not coincidentally, The Phynx is a Warners release. This wouldn't be the only time somebody got a movie gig they were totally unqualified for just because of their connections.

Joe Louis, Col. Sanders and Johnny Weissmuller
think, "I got out of bed for this shit?"
Then there are the songs, written and produced by the legendary Jerry Leiber & Mike Stoller, who were responsible for some of rock & roll's greatest hits... of the 1950s. The psych/pop sound required here, however, was way, way out of their league, with only one song of the bunch rising to the level of mediocre. Ironically, The Phynx proves how much better the studio-created Monkees' repertoire was.

Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall yearn for their days
on the Bowery.
And speaking of the Monkees, The Phynx seems to be influenced by that band's silly TV show, rather than their trippy movie Head, written and produced by Jack Nicholson. The Phynx's idea of wit includes a government agent named Mr. Bogey, who talks like Humphrey Bogart; eyeglasses that allow the Phynx to see through clothes in order to find secret maps drawn on the stomachs of three women in Europe; and Martha Raye playing a spy. Fortunately, she's immediately shot.

Otherwise, the writers seem to have given up on an actual story by page 20, depending on blackouts, music performances and montages in order to pad it out to 81 minutes. Stills and continuity problems suggest that a lot of footage wound up on the cutting room floor, so be grateful for small favors.

Dennis Larden, Michael A. Miller, Ray Chippeway,
and Lonny Stevens in their government-
supplied groovy clothing.
It's difficult to tell if the disgust that the bandmates display throughout The Phynx is acting or genuine. Larden in particular appears especially contemptuous of the entire proceedings. Perhaps he remembers being on the cusp of success when his previous band, Every Mother's Son, released the top 10 hit "Come on Down to My Boat" three years earlier, and were never heard from again.

To be fair, there are a couple of amusing moments. One of the military trainers barks at Ray Chippeway, "We're gonna make a real American out of you!" And after Lonny Stevens shoots a beer commercial, the director replaces him with a white actor for TV stations in the South. Oh, and Ed Sullivan being forced at gunpoint to introduce the Phynx, rather than a Dutch elephant act as promised. That's three chuckles, so, technically, it's not a complete washout.

Busby Berkley and Ruby Keeler go from
Gold Diggers of 1933 to Crap Shovelers of 1970.
What's really infuriating, other than the lazy script and unlistenable music, is that there's an intriguing idea lurking inside The Phynx: the CIA is manipulating the idiot masses via celebrities who are secretly on the government payroll. Now that movie, done right, would be worth seeing. In fact, every time I turn on the TV, I think it's for real.

Instead, The Phynx seems to exist only for a climactic reunion of old Warner Brothers stars and their friends, most of whom do nothing but nod their heads in time to terrible music that was dubbed in later.

World premiere at a shopping center in Glendale --
that's really all anybody needs to know.
And if Warner Brothers' record division intended The Phynx to be a launching pad as a real band, it was in for a big disappointment. The soundtrack album, if it even existed, probably appeared in fewer record shelves than it did boxes marked RETURN TO SENDER

It would be easy to write "The Phynx stynx." It's probably already been done. But it's worse, being cynical in its own way as Triumph of the Will. And at least that gave you a chance to cheer Jessie Owens. The only thing to cheer in this movie is that you never have to see it again. In fact, you can just skip it the first time.

Trivia: Leo Gorcey died before The Phynx was released. The official cause was liver disease, but I think it was shame.