"Now, I'm not saying he's ugly, but..."

Don Imus is one to talk.

Lost amid all the hubbub over the mouthpiece's now infamous planting of his foot at the back of his throat is the fact that a man as attractive as Imus has no business commenting on the looks of others.

I mean, this is a guy who is a real looker. Ranks right up there with Otis Nixon, if ya ask me.

Let's examine the frontage of the casing that houses his demented intellect for a moment. What do we really see? Personally, I see a beat-up old bag of punctured leather that looks like its been dragged a mile down a gravel road by a hot rod with its pedal stuck to the floor.

And the hair. Has the man never heard of a barber? Or perhaps some conditioner? You could string a thousand guitars with that dried out, mangy moptop of his. I'm not certain, but I think there might be things living in it.

But that's just my two pennies.

"Dis, dat and de udder ting"

Basement still in progress. The subfloor of the main room is next. Meanwhile, since I haven't said much lately, I'll take a moment now to spout off about nothing in particular:

** Let me start this one by saluting Mr. Robert Clark, the director of the great family film A Christmas Story, as well as the director of the great unfamily film Porky's and its equally bawdy sequel. Mr. Clark was sent into the next realm last week by a dumbass who found out the hard way that booze and a steering wheel are a killer combination. Rest in peace, Bob.

** So, there's finally a winner of the Dannielynn lottery. Apparently Anna Nicole did give good Birkhead. Meanwhile, Hugh Hefner is exploiting the memory of the late bombshell with another pictorial in Playboy. Wait, did I say exploiting? I'm sure I mean't saluting...

** The Toronto Maple Leafs got knocked out of the playoff picture last week because the New York Islanders won a shootout. Not that a lack of shootout and a 3-point win system would have helped the Leafs. Upon further review, Leaf fans have nothing to complain about -- they would have missed the playoffs anyway. But Montreal fans should be pissed.

** Major League Baseball has returned everywhere but Cleveland, where fans and players alike found a 15,000 foot high mountain of winter stuff where their stadium should have been. Crews are hoping to complete a panic melt in time for Friday's opener of a three game series against the Chicago Snow White Sox.

** This season of 24 finally got good this week. Not that I'm complaining, since it only took the writers 17 episodes to hit their stride.

** Memo to NBC -- please don't cancel How I Met Your Mother.

** Ditto The CW Re: Supernatural.

** Paul McCartney has another album coming out in June. Funny, but I don't remember him claiming that he'd still be rockin' out when he was 64. Somebody should sue him for false advertising, but then he'd probably never give us his money.

** Until next time.

"Dude, where's my horse?"

I have recently discovered that I like a good western. The only problem is, outside of anything Clint Eastwood does, there aren't that many good westerns to go around.

Unless we take a trip back, that is.

Last week I went way back -- to 1939. The greatest year ever for motion pictures had it all, including a fine telling of the story of Jesse James.

The film starred Tyrone Power in the title role, with Henry Fonda playing brother Frank. It's a movie that is sympathetic to the James gang and the mayhem they caused, as evidenced by the early scenes of landowners being swindled by the men behind the incoming railway. The railway guys have their con down to a finely tuned science, managing to "persuade" many landowners to sign over their properties for a measly buck an acre.

But when they try their schtick on the James boys, they get more than they bargain for.

And then some. But I don't want to spoil anything for anyone. Rent it and watch it, I says.

Of course, every good movie deserves a good sequel. I don't know yet if it qualifies, but I'll be watching The Return of Frank James, which came out in 1940, sometime this week.

And because I like to keep things light, I might also give Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles another go. I can just hear Sherrif Bart now -- "Candygram for Mongo, Candygram for Mongo..."