ZO VS CUO

I got this thing wrapped up... right?

 Just to show you how fast things can change in politics, five months ago I noted a
young, unknown upstart named Zohran Mamdani was the only "semi-serious" challenger to Andrew Cuomo in the race for Mayor of New York. And even then, he was polling 20 points behind the former Governor. My unspoken belief was This guy has zero plus zero chance of winning this thing.

Who's laughing now?

By September, the guy with the beard and funny name had flipped the table, running 20 points ahead of Cuomo. Upon recalculation, my prediction was more on the order of, This guy is going to crush Cuomo like a trash compactor at the city dump.

 One month later, that lead has been cut in half, with current mayor Eric Adams now out of the race (and in the pockets of billionaire Bill Ackman). Doing further calculations, I have arrived at the answer, I think Mamdani will probably likely possibly win. Maybe. 

Mamdani supporters can take heart that the poll is based on only 500 respondents in a city of 4.7-million registered voters. Cuomo fans are all in by their guy laughing when a radio show host claimed Mamdani would cheer another 9/11. 

No wonder why Republicans prefer Cuomo over their candidate Curtis Sliwa. He's been believably accused of sexual harassment, doesn't contradict anti-Muslim remarks, and is running strictly to rehabilitate his tattered image. He's just like Trump! Yay! Trump even supports him! So it's OK if we do, too!

Cuomo is even vowing to move to Florida if Mamdani wins. Just like Alec
"Deadeye" Baldwin swore to move to a gated community in Beverly Hills to escape the New York paparazzi and tabloids nine years ago. Hah! Once you've tasted the fame (positive or negative) and power that comes with being a celebrity in New York, there's no going anywhere else. Unless, if you're Donald Trump, that anywhere is Washington, DC.

Yeah, let's give it a nepo baby like Andrew
Cuomo. By the way, who are Mamdani's
parents anyway?

My latest prediction: Mamdani wins in relative landslide (which these days is over 1%). Republican bigwigs will continue to spend their time calling him a Communist, trying to deport him, and predicting Muslims will take over the country. And Mamdani's voters will be disappointed when he can't keep most of his promises. Sounds like rather than being a Commie, he's a real red white & blue American politician. 

PS: Yesterday, I was almost prevented from early voting because my current signature wasn't identical to my original one from 30 years ago. I offered to show them my recently-renewed driver's license, but that isn't allowed. Fortunately, I was given a do-over. Voting in New York can be a funny thing, but I'm not laughing.

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GO JUMP IN A SHARK TANK

Pete begs not to be
replaced by A.I.

One of the most annoying movie trailer tropes of the last 20 years is a dog tilting his head while making a Huh? reaction to a stupid remark, something that was funny when Pete the Pup did it in an Our Gang short over 90 years ago. 

Soon, that hoary old gag may become even more annoying. And as usual, we have A.I. to thank. With each day, more of our furry, winged, and bristled friends are being outsourced to computer wizards to save a few kibbles, bird seeds, and acorns. Which isn't much different from the craft table at low budget movie shoots. 

Just listen to what Benay Karp, the owner of an animal rental company, has to say. “I don’t think I’ve had a call for a woodpecker in probably three or four years, maybe five years. I have a flock of seagulls. I think I’ve only gotten one job for them in the last year, where they used to work all the time.” 

Welcome to the club, my animal colleagues! That A.I.-generated dog in the latest Superman movie proved that you're even more expendable than humans, even if the latest technology didn't convince anybody with the IQ of a chipmunk that it was real. And as I noted in a previous post, neither did A.I. humans in a Disney+ movie.

Try telling that to Kevin O'Leary, who you may know from the series Shark Tank, where budding entrepreneurs do a 21st-century version of Oliver Twist's "Please, sir, may I have some more?" O'Leary was cast as Gwyneth Paltrow's husband in the upcoming movie Marty Supreme starring Timothy Chalamet. His takeaway from the experience: too many extras!:

“Almost every scene had as many as 150 extras. Now, those people have to stay awake for 18 hours, be completely dressed in the background. [They’re] not necessarily in the movie, but they’re necessary to be there moving around. And yet, it costs millions of dollars to do that. Why couldn’t you simply put AI agents in their place? Because they’re not the main actors. They’re only in the story visually. [You could] save millions of dollars, so more movies could be made. The same director, instead of spending $90 million or whatever he spent, could’ve spent $35 million and made two movies.”

O'Leary laughs at the how the extra on the right
will be replaced by A.I. one day.

O'Leary misses a few important things. Like, as I've said before, today's A.I. "actors" don't look like real, honest-to-gosh humans, even in the background. Second, there is no way hiring those extras cost an extra $35-million. And third, since O'Leary probably tells inventors to do their research, he should do the same. The reported budget for Marty Supreme was $70-million -- still a lot but 20-mill less than his guesstimate. And perhaps a quarter of that budget went to Chalamet alone. Funny how O'Leary doesn't accuse rich actors of contributing to bloated movie budgets. 

O'Leary's favorite character from
It's a Wonderful Life.

But that's how the well-heeled roll (or walk). O'Leary -- estimated to be worth at least $400-million -- probably applauded Amazon's plans to lay off 600,000 human beings in favor of robots because it increased the company's stock value. You can bet he'll turn around and bitch about those same 600,000 collecting unemployment and voting for politicians who want to lower the price of healthcare. And fatcats wonder why young people are embracing socialism!

Bob the Duck, Maude the Squirrel, background actors, Amazon workers -- they're all the same to Kevin O'Leary. As long as he and his brethren can watch their bank accounts swell like the Goodyear blimp, life is good. Hey, wonder how much he made for being in Marty Supreme. Whatever it was, you know he wasn't worth it.

    

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 58

One of these selections proves how even the most talented people can fall on their butts, while another is a warning that just because you've got a title everybody has pleasant memories of doesn't mean it's going to work again. As for the other two -- don't judge a movie by its cast, and pay attention to your feet. Sounds interesting, right?

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON (1934): Three of the four movies made by Ben Hecht & Charles MacArthur for Paramount ranged from good to great. So perhaps it was inevitable that the fourth would miss the mark. But that would put it gently, for Once in a Blue Moon is the kind of shockingly bad, amateur-night debacle of a mess of a misfire that appears once in a you-know-what. 

And it's not like it doesn't have a good idea for a comedy, as it follows a group of post-Revolution Tsarist royals hiding out with a one-man traveling circus run by a magician named Gabbo the Great. Unfortunately, insipid subplots including (but not limited to) a sick horse, a counterfeiting machine, and children saving the day toss whatever chance Once in a Blue Moon had as an offbeat political satire right into the samovar. And that's not including blah dialogue, terrible acting, and overall dismal production. If wasn't for the Paramount logo, you'd have no idea it was released by one of the majors. 

The only interest that Once in a Blue Moon might generate today -- and it's pretty thin --is that it's the only starring feature for the once-acclaimed, now-forgotten comedic stage actor Jimmy Savo, whom Charlie Chaplin hailed as the world's greatest pantomimist. But this being a talkie, Savo's pantomime is tertiary to his irritatingly cloying delivery and relentless pathos-with-a-capital-P. (The love he shows for his horse borders on bestiality.) Maybe his shtick worked onstage, but it's insufferable onscreen unless you're between the ages of three and four. And there weren't enough of them, as the movie lost $350,000 -- the equivalent today of almost $7,000,000. 

Locked up in the Paramount vault for two years until its 1935 general release (1936 in New York!), Once in a Blue Moon's 67-minute runtime, sloppy editing, and occasional explanatory intertitle suggest a whole lot was left on the cutting room floor; the promo ballyhoo promising "A CAST OF 600" was obviously an act studio desperation. I'm glad I watched it, though, just to see just how far off the rails a couple of talented guys like Hecht & MacArthur could fly. The answer: very. 

BONUS POINTS: Once in a Blue Moon marks the movie debut of future movie mainstay Howard DaSilva as a Communist revolutionary. A couple of decade later, DaSilva would get caught up in the Hollywood Red Scare. C'mon, guys, it was only a movie!

BLIND ALLEY (1937): If you've seen it once, you've seen it a dozen times: A killer and his gang are on the run when they make themselves at home with a nice family until the coast is clear. Blind Alley shakes things up, as the captive dad is a shrink who begins an ad hoc psychiatric session in order to figure out how the killer got this way and have him surrender to the authorities. Sort of like Bogart's The Desperate Hours meets Montgomery Clift's Freud, only with Chester Morris and Ralph Bellamy. Sound like a letdown? Eh, not really.

While it seems naive some nine decades later, Blind Alley is actually fascinating, seeing that it takes seriously the idea of psychiatry, including dream analysis, getting to the root of a criminal's behavior. (Wilson's bizarre nightmare, shown in a solarized negative, is unique for its time.) Morris gives an in-your-face performance as the psycho killer, although he often sounds like he's aping James Cagney. Bellamy probably has the more difficult of the two roles, as he's playing a shrink calmly analyzing a criminal with a chip on his shoulder and a gun in his holster.  And he's not getting paid for it, either!

The who-the-heck-is-she Rose Stradner makes zero impact as Shelby's wife, so it's up to Ann Dvorak to carry the femme portion of the show. Possessing a distinct beauty and style, Dvorak (pronounced VOR-zhack) had a good start in movies before being shunted into lower-budget pictures like Blind Alley. Watch her carefully here -- you can feel she's better than the material she's been given. Yet while you may not find Blind Alley any more believable than Dvorak does, you'll be surprised just how entertaining a movie with a well-worn story can be. And if you don't believe me, Columbia shot a remake 11 years later as The Dark Past with William Holden and Lee J. Cobb as the killer and shrink respectively, and it was still good. Just not as good without Chester Morris and Ann Dvorak.

BONUS POINTS: Pre-TV fame alert: Milburn Stone (Doc on Gunsmoke) and John Hamilton (Perry White on Superman) briefly sit together in the front seat of a car. 

SHAKE HANDS WITH YOUR FEET (C. 1949): Have you ever given a thought to
your feet? And why not? Maybe this 15-minute educational short from the American Podiatry Association will put you on your toes. 

By the way, did you know that people spend more time on their hair than their feet? That's what the narrator says, although I've never met anyone who stands on their hair. But I stand proudly with the 72% of the population over the age of 2 who, over 75 years ago, had a foot disorder (for me, it's plantar warts, in case it's slipped your mind). Although I bet many of that 72% can't stand at all. And to that, I'll posit that 99% of today's population won't stand to watch anything called Shake Hands with Your Feet.

These medical shorts have always mystified me. Where were they shown -- classrooms, town halls, carnival tents? And since this particular one was released during National Foot Health Week -- God, how boring was life then? -- this film had an even shorter than usual lifespan. But as with these mini-documentaries, there's plenty of real people to remind us that only movie stars looked good in the late '40s. Oh, and don't get me started on those close-ups of gross-looking feet. As for fashion -- there's a five year old boy dressed like your grandfather. And, like grandpa, he's going to podiatrist. Damn, kid, get rid of those old man shoes and put on a pair of sneakers!

There's another piece of information that I found more interesting than any advice offered (like wash your feet). And that is, there was a time -- like circa 1949 -- foot inspection examinations by the local Boards of Health were compulsory in many public schools. These days, MAGA would probably doxx those docs. 

BONUS POINTS: Thanks to the narrator, we can hear that "chiropodist" was pronounced with a "ch" back in the day. 

SOME LIKE IT HOT (Unaired TV pilot, 1961): For every movie comedy made into a hit TV series, there are a half-dozen flops. One that never even made it past the pilot episode was Some Like it Hot, based on the Billy Wilder farce. 

Wait a minute, I hear you ask, how were they going to make a series out of two guys in drag on the run from the same hoodlums every week? See, that's why you're not a TV producer. Jerry and Joe -- the characters played by Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon -- undergo surgery to give them new faces. Home free, right? No way. Now the feds make them get into drag again and send them undercover to get the goods on the same hoods who pulled off the gangland killings they witnessed in the movie. And once they do, they go on the run again. Rinse, lather, flip the channel. 

In one of television's more blatant bait-and-switch tactics, Curtis and Lemmon repeat their roles in the first scene while awaiting both their surgery and obnoxious laugh track. (They must have been paid a bundle for their five minutes on screen.) Post-op, singer Vic Damone and journeyman actor Dick Patterson take over for them, while Tina Louise is in the unenviable position of trying to make people forget Marilyn Monroe. (A brief appearance by Rudy Vallee seems to be based on Joe E. Brown's role.) You can also spot supporting actors from the Some Like it Hot movie and The Untouchables TV series. For anyone who was around in the early 1960s, it's like a reunion of your favorite relatives.

As for the leads, Damone is better than expected and Patterson pretty much
nails Lemmon in delivery and physical humor, although they often come off as Martin & Lewis knockoffs. While it never would've been held in legendary regard as the original had it gone to series, the pilot for Some Like it Hot is, objectively, no better or worse than most of the sitcoms of its time: dopey, no real laughs, and overacting standing in for thoughtful comedy. Think of it as Some Like it Tepid. 

BONUS POINTS: Liberace's violinist brother George has a cameo as a violinist. 

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PICTURE THIS

 Most of the updates for my previous phone were unremarkable. Which is why I'm going to remark about my current phone's updates. And oddly, they have nothing to do with what a phone was originally designed for, viz, talking to people. These updates are all about what today's phones are primarily for, viz again, taking photos.

Wait, let me re-viz that viz. The updates can now turn photos into pictures in four styles: 1) Interesting, 2) Is That Me?, 3) No Way Is That Me, and 4) This Is Bullshit. But one constant is that the warning you receive when the art is generating, Results May Be Unexpected, means Nothing Like The Real Thing. I use myself as exhibit number one. 

First, let's examine the selfie used in the experiment:

What a serious-looking fellow! And so well-dressed. Why isn't he getting background work these days? Would the casting agencies prefer an A.I.-generated sketch?

Say, that's a darned good drawing... of someone else. Is my facial hair so white that it's invisible? Jeez, even if it were there, this wouldn't look that much like me, although it possesses a very vague resemblance to my father circa 1970. Let's see what the anime style does for me.

Outside of the jacket and tie, this is remarkably inaccurate. If someone's casting Perry White for the next Superman movie, they've got their man. Otherwise, I'm still out of work. Can I see something a little different please?

Gotta admit, this software captures my inner dullness splendidly, seeing that there's barely any difference from the previous picture.  Still, this particular style tries jazzing me up by including a pocket handkerchief. Got the color of my shirt right, too, so bonus points there. 

Hey, I know what to try next -- what about that "realistic" A.I. style you see in so many YouTube avatars?

Damn, I keep getting older with this thing. It keeps missing the goatee, a well. And it still looks absolutely nothing like me!  In fact, this resembles the unassuming manager of a Men's Warehouse who moonlights as a serial killer.

I'm not sure what the point of this software is if it's going to turn you into a different older person. It reminds me of the episode of The Twilight Zone about a camera that takes photos of what will happen one minute into the future, only this goes a decade beyond. 

Now, there's a very good chance I really do look as old as these faux-fellows, and I'm not picking up on it. If so, I'm starting to believe the cliche that my phone knows about me than I do. To paraphrase Chico Marx, who am I going to believe -- me or my own Android?

 

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CUMMINGS AND GOINGS

I bet Whitney didn't wear this outfit
at her Saudi gig.

Just as we were all forgetting about the Riyadh Comedy Festival -- doesn't the
name itself seem as inviting as the Moscow Comedy Festival? -- up pops Whitney Cummings to give her two riyals on the subject.

Realizing that Bill Burr's They have IHOP, they're just like us!  didn't work out, Cummings decided to make us feel guilty by playing the race card.

Now I know what you're thinking: Isn't she white?  Indeed she is! Cummings's explanation, as given on her podcast, follows:

“I guess I’m this weirdo. I don’t operate under, you know, the idea that every government and their people are the same. Like, you think that the people of Saudi Arabia and the Saudi government all share [the same values]? So you also believe that the Chinese government and the Chinese people are exactly the same? It’s just racism. I think it took me a second, because when people are going like, ‘You’re doing something unethical,’ I’m like, ‘Oh, these must be ethical people, let me listen.’ And then you’re like, ‘Oh no, you’re just racist.’ But these are also, by the way, the same people that would go like, ‘Trump’s not my president! I am nothing like our government.’ But other countries are?”

"Did you hear the one about the
independent journalist? He laughed
his head off, honest!"

Whitney, Whitney, Whitney! Nobody is conflating the Saudi populace with its government, and you know it. Nor would they care if a concert promoter paid you to do a gig at the Jeddah Joke Factory. People are ticked off because their favorite merrymakers took blood-red cash from one of the most repressive governments in the Mideast. 

Ironically, Cummings accuses fans of being complicit in Saudi crimes:

“When you get a second, Google ‘Saudi Arabia Live Nation’ so you can be informed on the fact that anyone who has worked with Live Nation, every stand-up comic, has taken Saudi money. Google that! Just so you know what you’re talking about … or bought a ticket through Live Nation, went to a Live Nation event, all the actors who are represented by William Morris Agency, which is all of them. If you want to send them notes, too.” 

Pete Hesgeth shows Whitney how
it's done.

Well, heck, if you want to play that game, you might as well say anyone who watched Cummings short-lived NBC sitcom Whitney is a lackey of Donald Trump, because NBC News airs his speeches. Sure, it's a stretch, but just as stretchy as Cummings' comparison.

You've heard the phrase "word salad"? Her comments are a word dumpster fire. One can sense Whitney's' desperation and lack of self-awareness. While I didn't hear the podcast itself, I can imagine Cummings speaking this verbal traffic jam very, very quickly (and angrily), the way conmen do, to intimidate you.

And thanks to her and her fellow and sister clowns, she's playing into the stereotype that the rightwing has of left-of-center comedians: They can dish it out but can't take it. These funny folks claim to speak truth to power, but only if the power isn't signing their checks.

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AFTER THE GOLDRUSH

Are you rich enough to be noble? Like, I-will-walk-the-walk-24/7-in-my- homemade-sneakers-while-snacking-on-my-homegrown-kale-sandwiches-on-my-homebaked-bread-made-with-my-locally-farmground-flour kind of noble? 

If so, congratulations. This note is not for you. It's for the rest of us who have sold our souls to The Man -- what we otherwise call living our lives. The ones who make small choices to do good, even when it's not enough for multi-multi-millionaires like Neil Young.

Dressing like a poor slob doesn't fool me, Neil.

In case you haven't heard, Young is taking a stand against corporate America by pulling his music from Amazon. Such sacrifice! (Mr. Heart of Gold pulled a similar stunt a few years back with Spotify, because it platformed Joe Rogan.)

As Neil yells at us on his website (in caps like Donald Trump -- oh the irony!), “FORGET AMAZON AND WHOLE FOODS. FORGET FACEBOOK. BUY LOCAL. BUY DIRECT. BEZOS SUPPORTS THIS GOVERNMENT. IT DOES NOT SUPPORT YOU OR ME." 

Well, of course "this government" doesn't support Young, because he currently lives in Canada. Yes, Mr. Soul can afford to pack up and move back to the land of his birth when things don't quite suit him here. Old man, look at my life, I'm absolutely nothing like you are...

I could be a wiseass -- and I know that sounds utterly out of character -- and say that Whole Foods is local, seeing it's a 15-minute walk from my home. But I understand what he's saying. Unfortunately, the farmers market I buy from is open only on Saturdays, so the other six days it's gotta be at a (gasp!) grocery store.

Don't tell Neil; he might whine like he does
when he sings.

And I choose Whole Foods for strictly financial reasons. Despite its reputation, its prices are often lower than its competitors. Too, I have the Whole Foods Visa card, which gives a 5% refund on every purchase (as it does on Amazon). And at the end of every year, I put what I've saved toward Christmas gifts for my wife and daughter. Hence, Whole Foods helps me be a wonderful husband and father.

As for his other bugaboo, I used into drop into local record stores all the time... until they started vanishing from New York one by one. Yes, Neil, it's easier and cheaper to download from Amazon, especially when I want only one or two songs (alas, not yours) rather than entre albums. 

Neil Young -- who, four years ago, sold half his publishing rights for a tasty $150-million -- likely can afford to drive his refurbished Chryslers, Plymouths, and the like to any "local" greenmarket that he likes. Good for him. All I ask of this phony hippie is to leave the rest of us alone. 

Look, Neil, we all have to mambo with Mephistopheles from time to time. Us ordinary folk try to make up for it in our own ways, like voting for the candidates we agree with and making nutritious meals for our families, even when the ingredients are purchased from stores that a one-percenter in torn jeans and faded t-shirts doesn't like.

When Neil Young admonishes us that "We all have to give up something from the Corporate Age", he's coming from the point of view of a guy who has sold close to 100-million records and has bought and sold more multi-million-dollar homes than you or I will even drive past. What he's giving up is nothing. 

And just to show you how full of it Neil Young is, a year or so after his previous boycott, Young allowed his music back on Spotify, as he probably will do with Amazon, when he realizes only Taylor Swift fans buy actual compact discs. 

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MEDICINE FOR MY SOLE

Or, if you're Errol Flynn, dating a 16 year-old girl
when you're 50 and look 80.

There are moments a man realizes he's reached another plateau in the aging process. Disliking every Top 40 song he hears. Dreading the first prostate exam.  Women with gray hair flirting with you.

I've experienced all these and more. And last week marked my latest step into life's final chapter, as I added yet another specialist whose job is to keep me alive -- or in this case, able to walk without wincing. 

I now have my very own podiatrist. 

"You cannot cut or injure the foot"? Trust me,
I'd find a way.

Is there anything more embarrassing than having to visit a podiatrist, the doctor whose occupation is synonymous with "orthopedic shoes", i.e., ugly sneakers? Well yes, "chiropodist" comes to mind. A quick look shows they're essentially the same thing, the term "chiropodist" being the more old-school word. But both folks are still concerned with senior citizen-affiliated afflictions like bunions, corns, and, in my case, plantar warts. 

Until fairly recently, I though the word was "planter" -- y'know, gardeners who are on their feet all day planting. Which is why I didn't at first believe my wife (the nurse) who explained what they were after one thoroughly disgusted look at my soles. Not to be confused with other women who did the same thing looking into my soul.

With a combination
like that, I'll pretend
I've got corns instead
of warts.

Early on I tried getting rid of them by erasing them with a pumice stone. The only thing that did was make me feel like I was working at a prehistoric mani-pedi spa. I tried freezing them off with Compound W, which acted more like Compound Z (as in Zero). 

Rather than suffer in silence, I decided to do it out loud. So between my obnoxious moans with every barefoot step and my wife's disgust with the warts -- which was weird because she insisted on looking at them -- I made an appointment with a nearby podiatrist who was well-educated, had great reviews on Zodoc, and most importantly accepted my insurance.

Entering the waiting room was a shock. I'm technically a senior citizen, but the guys -- and they were all guys -- who were seeing other podiatrists in the office were old. Even when I visit my hematologist, there are some patients who weren't alive yet to see the Bicentennial. But the podiatrist's joint? Some of them looked like they around to celebrate the first 4th of July. 

Like father, like Stooge. 

In an effort to distract myself from being surrounded by a roomful of Piltdown Men, I studied the obligatory celebrity photos one finds in New York doctors' offices (and barbershops). What impressed me most was a vintage picture of Paul Howard, which he helpfully captioned "SON OF MOE". If you had told me when I was a seven-year-old fan of the Three Stooges that over 60 years later I would be at a podiatrist's office visited by Moe Howard's son, I wouldn't have understood what the hell you just said. (My friend Leo thought the guy should write an autobiography just to title it Son of Moe.)

It didn't take long to be ushered from the Methuselah Room and into the
doctor's office. She put me at ease pretty quickly; this was someone who enjoyed her job, which was not only a good thing but very unusual. Who wants to get out of bed every morning looking forward to working on the feet of total strangers? Old strangers at that.

Before I had a chance to ask her that question, she started slicing off the warts and dabbing the skin with some kind of acid. Expecting a footful of pain -- she was slicing stuff off my feet and dabbing them with acid -- I was relieved to feel nothing. 

"How many more times?!"

So when it was time to hit them with a laser? Bring it on, it's only a light! 

Sure. A light with the power of a thousand suns, hitting the areas of my feet that were still raw from being sliced. Gripping the chair's armrests until they were on the verge of snapping off, twisting myself into a shape worthy of Lon Chaney in West of Zanzibar, I put up with the minute of zapping until the job was done.

Wait, did I say "job done"? I meant "job to be continued", as I was informed we needed to go through this again every two weeks up to 12 times.

I even had homework! After folding a kidney-shaped pad, she cut a half circle from its side and, unfolding it, stuck it on the sole of my right foot -- which had the biggest wart -- and gave me a dozen or so more. I was to do this routine at home and keep it there all day except in bed or the shower. And no walking around the apartment in my bare feet! 

Next week I'm visiting the dermatologist to get a few things sliced from my face, jawline and possibly scalp. This happens on a fairly regular basis. Between the dermatologist and podiatrist, there might not be much of me left in six months, but at least I'll be smooth as a baby's bottom. Or foot.

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THE FALL(ON) GUY

 There have been moments in my life where I have looked back and thought, I can't believe I did that. Not out of pride, but utter embarrassment. The kinds of things I wouldn't share with my wife, therapist, or in my spiritual advisor. Fortunately, I've got only one of those things, so that takes a load off.

This time, I don't have to wait to wonder in shame. I'm feeling it already. Gird your loins or whatever cut of steak you have in your fridge, because I'm about to let loose with a shameful admission.

I can't believe I'm about to defend Jimmy Fallon.

Fallon in one of his more somber moments.

Jimmy Fallon, the laughing hyena that walks like a man. Jimmy Fallon, the

interviewer who makes Jerry Lewis look like Eric Severeid. Jimmy Fallon, the alleged functioning alcoholic who treats his staff so poorly that Jerry Seinfeld told him during a taping of The Tonight Show to apologize to the cue card guy. That Jimmy Fallon. Lord, what is the world coming to?

The recent hate aimed his way stems from a recent CNBC appearance when the talk got around to the suspension of fellow-Jimmy (Kimmel). Regarding his own monologues, Fallon admitted, "Our show's never really been that political. We hit both sides equally, and we try to make everybody laugh [...] Really, I just try to keep my head down and make sure the jokes are funny."

The negative response came from keyboard warriors on social media. As far as I can see, none of his fellow late-night hosts condemned (or defended) him. All of them probably share the same thought: Who the hell goes to Jimmy Fallon for political wisdom?

Yes, this is why Hillary lost.

This is the guy who had contests where he and guests would spit beer on a wall and see which one made it to the floor first. Who played beer pong until one of them got drunk. (Starting to see a pattern?) The host who infamously tousled Donald Trump's hair during the 2016 presidential campaign. 

"Sorry Jimmy isn't here tonight...
actually, we're not."

The latter bit of business was what sealed Fallon's doom, as if it singlehandedly tipped the election Trump's way. 

Was it a softball interview? Naturally. That's Fallon's forte. You want politics, you go to Stephen Colbert or Seth Meyers, John Oliver or even Jimmy Kimmel. You want stupid? Fallon's your guy. (Please note he was the only late-night network host who wasn't interviewed by Kimmel on his recent weeklong broadcast from Brooklyn.)

For all the finger-waggers who feel the need to remind Fallon that Trump threatened to have him fired, it's important to keep in mind who he really answers to: Tonight executive producer Lorne Michaels. 

Sure, Lorne's time is taken up primarily by Saturday Night Live, with some set aside for Seth Meyer's 12:30 program. But it wouldn't be a surprise if Fallon talks to him regularly for counseling. Like "What do I do about this whole Kimmel situation? I'm scared!"

"You still like me, don't you,
daddy?"

And it's quite easy to hear Lorne's avuncular voice advising him, "You've never been really that political. Hit both sides equally and make both sides laugh." If Fallon asks about how that will look, Lorne will squeeze his shoulder a little too hard and remind him, "Just try to keep your head down and make sure the jokes are funny. Understand?"

And then he leans over and whispers into Fallon's ear, "Leave the political stuff to the pros" and gently taps him on the face. 

No, Jimmy, I don't hold it against you for going the Jay Leno route. After a long day of miserable news, there are plenty of viewers yearning for an hour of stupid. And you're just the guy to serve it up. Frankly, that's always been Tonight's stock and trade. I mean, what is Johnny Carson remembered for: savage political barbs -- or zoo animals pissing on his necktie? 

Now get your drunk ass out there and laugh it up. Stephen and Seth and the other Jimmy will hold down the fort. 

                                                     ***********************

NORWOOD, NOR HUMAN

So fresh, so captivating, so inhuman.

Tilly Norwood is living the dream of every young actor. After appearing in only one
comedy short at the Zurich Film Festival, she's already being courted by talent agencies. Considered by some to be the next Scarlett Johansson, Norwood has what it takes is to make it in show business: good looks, charm, and that mysterious "it" factor.

Watch out, ladies, Tilly is coming after your job.

And by "it", I mean "it.", for Tilly Norwood is an A.I. creation. And being made of data, she'll never be accused of a wooden performance. Nor will she ever undergo plastic surgery, because data isn't plastic. The closest thing Tilly will have to a nip & tuck is a software update. 

No wonder why actresses are up in arms about their newest rival. Tilly will never have to go through what they did to get to the top -- acting classes, auditions, being groped by Harvey Weinstein. Bitch!

SAG-AFTRA is getting into the act as well, and not because Tilly won't have to pay union dues. Their official statement reads, "It has no life experience to draw from, no emotion" -- which is pretty funny considering you can say that about nepo babies Emma Roberts, Hayes Costner and about half the other young actors around today.

Jared Leto or software? You tell me.

The statement continues, "From what we've seen, audiences aren't interested in
watching computer-generated content untethered from human experience." 

Aw, hell naw! The most popular movies today are devoid of anything within shouting distance of the human experience. Watch any movie based on comic books or with Fast and Furious in its title. Every action movie made in the last 20 years is about as human as a box of bathroom tiles. My wife and I recently saw a promo for Tron: Ares where everything on screen except the faces of the two actors came from a computer. And their names weren't mentioned. You could put anyone in most of these movies and they'd play the same and make the same bank. 

Those five software extras in the second row
probably saved Disney three thousand bucks.
Every penny counts!

At least Tilly Underwood looks human. Not long ago, people watching the made-for-Disney+ movie Prom Pact were startled to see an entire row of A.I. background "actors" during a basketball game scene. And it was obvious despite lasting all of two seconds. I don't recall SAG-AFTRA sending out a press release condemning them. Maybe it helped they were racially diverse A.I. figures. (Is there such a thing as D.E.I A.I.?)

It would be interesting to hear what Tilly Norwood herself has to say regarding the controversy. Unfortunately, we have to rely on her creator, Eline Van der Velden, to speak on her behalf. "She is not a replacement for a human being but a piece of art. Like many forms of art before her, she sparks conversation, and that in itself shows the power of creativity."

Not a replacement for a human being? Tell that to the accountants at the studios. 

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