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. 

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 57

Three movies made during the changeover from silent to sound, and one from a decade later featuring what was briefly Paramount's B-movie stock company.

THE DOCKS OF NEW YORK (1928): There's nothing about The Docks of New York promising greatness. A ship's stoker saves a hooker who tried to drown herself in the East River. They go to a dive bar, get married, spend the night the together before he ships off the following day. He has a change of heart and swims back to land, where he learns she's in night court for a crime he committed. He confesses, gets sentenced to 60 days. The hooker promises to wait for him.  

Would you watch such a movie? Well, maybe you should, just to see how important a great director can be. For Josef von Sternberg elevates a cliched tale into something both human and humane. The first reel or two feature situations and characters you've seen in countless old movies, particularly silents like this. Yet von Sternberg molds it all into something that you gradually come to understand and care about. Sure, George Bancroft (the stoker) is rough around the edges -- drinking beer straight out of a keg -- and Betty Compson (the hooker) has been beat around by life pretty badly. Yet each brings out something positive in the other. For Bancroft, it means a real love he's never felt for any woman. For Compson, it's a belief that it's possible to find a man who cares about her.

Von Sternberg transforms these battered people into a couple you root for even in their tawdry surroundings; it's a master class for anyone who wants to learn what an "actor's director" is. Watch the dozens of extras in the bar -- each one appears to have gotten personal instruction from von Sternberg; their action never looks forced or phony. (One funny moment comes when Bickford and Compson converse in a corner, completely ignoring a rowdy fight going on in a mirror's reflection above them.) 

There's more, much more, in The Docks of New York than is covered here, from the genuine filth covering the stokers, to how Betty Compson begins rock hard and slowly softens into the kind of woman her character probably dreamed of becoming when growing up. If von Sternberg's first movie, Salvation Hunters, was the work of a self-styled artiste trying too hard to say something important, The Docks of New York is a masterpiece of an unexpectedly mature drama from a bold, thoughtful director. Spoiler alert: the happy ending feels neither forced nor tacked on. 

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz (born in 1862!) steals his five-minute scene as "Hymn-Book Harry", the priest who reluctantly marries the wayward couple in the dive bar. With a mere look in his eyes, von Seyffertitz reminds all the barflies (and us) of the solemnity of the moment. Brilliant stuff.

INTERFERENCE (1928): As you could guess from the advert on the right, Paramount's first talking feature Interference has nothing to do with football. It is, rather, a melodrama of the British upper-class involving hidden identity, divorce, blackmail, and murder. Kind of like the royal family if you dig hard enough. 

While Interference possesses many of the drawbacks prevalent during the early days of sound, its story is actually quite involving. Phillip Voaze has a chance meeting with first wife Deborah Kane a decade after his disappearance in World War I. In need of a few shillings, Deborah hatches a blackmailing scheme involving letters written to Voaze years earlier from his former sidepiece Faith. Without knowing what the others are doing, Voaze, Faith, and Faith's current husband Sir John Marlay each visit Deborah. One of them would like to kill her, another really does, while the third is arrested for it. All this hubbub for a few old "Oh baby, what you do to me" mash notes! People sure were touchy in 1928.

There are coincidences galore throughout Interference, like Voaze just happening to choose Marlay as a doctor, but that's to be expected in any movie of this type. Evelyn Brent and Doris Kenyon (as Deborah and Faith respectively) get the lion's share of histrionics. Clive Brook, the kind of distinguished Brit that talkies were created for, is agreeably lowkey as the stiff upper-lipped Sir John, the doctor whose prescription for blackmail is a dose of lethal threats. 

But it's William Powell, as the sickly Voaze, who steals Interference. His clipped, eloquent delivery, heard onscreen for the first time, must have convinced the boys at Paramount's front office that he was far more suited to leading roles than his often-villainous supporting parts in silents. No surprise that his next movie, a silent titled The Canary Murder Case, was immediately reshot with sound. Now that kind of studio interference makes sense.

BONUS POINTS: One credit reads "Dialogue Arranged by Ernest Pascal", as if the guy cut up the script, tossed the shreds up in the air, and glued them together at random like William Burroughs. Another credit, "Based on a Lothar Mendes Production", refers to Mendes' direction of the silent version of Interference, which Roy J. Pomeroy followed for his direction of the talkie version, which was shot simultaneously. As with The Canary Murder Case, those were the days when studios could pay actors once for making a movie twice.

THE SQUALL (1929): The funniest feature of 1929 must have been The Squall. And making it even more of a hoot is that it's a drama. Ergo, if you ever want to convince your friends that early talkies get a bad rap, this is not the movie to show them. 

In a small Hungarian village, middle-aged couple hire a young Gypsy woman named Nubi as their housekeeper. She shows her gratitude by seducing every male in the household and turning all the women against one another. Money goes missing, the maid and gardener quit, Paul breaks up with his fiancée Irma, fights break out -- and Nubi the housekeeper doesn't even sweep the floor! 

Absolutely nothing else happens in The Squall, other than the audience wondering why Nubi wasn't fired after her first day on the job. As for the acting -- hoo boy. Myrna Loy -- still stuck in "exotic" roles -- is Nubi. She's supposed to be sexy but appears to be a thousand kernels short of a cob. Too, Nubi (or, rather, Loy) is stuck with 90 minutes' worth of dialogue along the lines of "Nubi not happy!" or "Nubi like diamonds!" Loretta Young, as Irma, sounds exactly what she was in 1929: a 16 year-old girl badly reciting lines for the first time. Yet nobody beats Caroll Nye as Peter, emoting his already purple dialogue to the point where his mouth probably tasted like grapes. As for the direction, Alexander Korda makes sure to keep The Squall at a dead snail's pace. 

Somehow, Loy, Young, and Korda eventually proved to be far better than The Squall would have you believe. In later years they all probably shook their heads just hearing the word "squall" in weather forecasts. As for the rest of us... the forecast for watching The Squall is a 100% chance of disbelief mixed with unceasing laughter.

BONUS POINTS: The miniature horse & wagons standing in for the travelling Gypsy camp manage to be laughable and utterly charming all at once. In fact, they give a better performance than any human in the picture.

KING OF CHINATOWN (1939): 

Paramount must have been pretty pleased with the previous year's Dangerous to Know, because a year later they rounded up much of the same cast for this well-made crime caper. Give the studio credit, too, for trying to revive Anna May Wong's sputtering career even in B-pictures like these. 

If there's a problem for fans of top-billed Wong, it's that her character, surgeon Dr. Mary Ling, is often overshadowed by Frank Baturin, the white leader of a Chinatown protection racket, who was shot by his underling Mike Gordon on orders of the gang's accountant (nicknamed The Professor). After performing life-saving surgery on Baturin, Dr. Ling becomes his temporary live-in caregiver. As Gordon and The Professor take over the racket, Baturin decides to break up his criminal band, furthering the accountant's desire to get him out of the way once and for all. Moral: always be good to your money manager.

King of Chinatown is unique in that the sex and race of Wong's character are never a subject for conversation or contention -- she is simply a brilliant surgeon, period. But unwilling to leave well enough alone, Paramount cast white actor Sidney Toler as her Chinese father because... well, he was currently playing Charlie Chan over at Fox! And why is Armenian-American Akim Tamiroff using an Italian accent when playing a character with the Ukrainian name of Maturin? Oh heck, let's continue with busy second-rate dialect actor J. Carroll Naish using an Irish accent as The Professor for no reason other than Chinese and Italian were already taken. Mexican-born Anthony Quinn, as the red-blooded American gunsel Gordon, already lost his accent, so he gets a pass.

All this confusion helps to make King of Chinatown an even more fun 56 minutes than it already it is. And despite the odd casting (and accent) choices throughout, Anna May Wong was probably grateful for the chance to prove she could do something other than the usual Dragon Lady routine. But I still wonder how she felt about a white guy playing her Chinese father. 

BONUS POINTS: Super-annoying actor Roscoe Karns disappears from King of Chinatown before the end of the second reel, as if director Nick Grinde realized they didn't need an ambulance driver character ripped-off from MGM's Dr. Kildare movies.

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

LAUGHING THEIR HEADS OFF

Let me save you the trouble and say it
myself: who are these people?

Why did the comedian cross the road? To get to the seven-figure paycheck!

Welcome to the Riyadh Comedy Festival, which until recently sounded as likely as the Riyadh Pork Ribs Cook-Off. The closest thing to laughs I've ever found when thinking of Saudi Arabia how chummy we are with its leaders despite "rogue" elements of its government funding the 9/11 attackers -- who, in another punchline, came from the same country! 

Like the saying goes, real life is funnier than any comedy. Even more than some of the comedians who have been booked. But many hardcore fans are up in arms about their favorites selling out to the government that has beheaded 241 people this year. As of August, that is, so according to my calculations, there could have been 30 more who have gotten a really close shave. That equals one a day, which is a vitamin nobody wants. 

Comedians pride themselves as speaking truth to power, which will certainly put a crimp in those appearing at the yockfest. Along with the offer from the Saudi government came this brief list of verboten humor:

Good thing Jack Benny never
got an invitation. 

There's nothing there about not making fun of trans or gay people, so Dave Chapelle is in the clear. But lesbian laugh-maker Jessica Kirson might want to keep her love life on the downlow for the 60 to 75-minute set required by the festival rules. 

And I kind of get that. Comedy is a tough racket to earn a living if your name isn't Jerry Seinfeld. But Bill Burr? The guy who's allegedly getting $1.75-million for playing court jester to the Crown Prince? Who last year signed a $15-million deal with Hulu? He needs walking-around money? (And I'm talking as someone who loved him in the recent Broadway revival of Glengarry Glen Ross).

Or Pete Davidson, whose entire career was based on talking about his fireman father dying on 9/11? At least he's honest about it: "I get the (flight) routing and then I see the number and I [said], ‘I’ll go.’” And he's not talking about the flight number, either. Maybe he considers his salary literal payback for his father's death. 

Let's look at this another way. Re-read the Riyadh festival "Content Restrictions". Now pretend there was a Washington, D.C. Comedy Festival and substitute "USA", "Republicans" and "Trump Family" in the first two rules, and "Christianity" and "Christian figures" in the third. Would anyone other than Greg Gutfeld make room on their calendar to perform? OK, maybe Rob Schneider. 

If any good comes out of this, at least we've learned that plenty of joke-tellers can be bought and for how much. And if I ever get an invitation from Saudi Arabia to a conference for bloggers, you'll know my price, too. Remind me to pack the sunblock with 150 SPF, honey!

By the way, do you think comedians who didn't get the invitation are relieved or insulted?

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

STRICTLY ON BACKGROUND, PT. 67: "BLACK RABBIT"

 I've shaken hands with Tea Leoni on Madam Secretary. Given breakfast advice to
Michael Weatherly while working on Bull. Stepped aside for Jennifer Lopez on Shades of Blue. But Black Rabbit was the only time I made one of the stars laugh -- on purpose, too! 

The date was April 24, 2024. My role as "Airport Traveller" was only the fifth gig since the end of the writers & actors strikes about a year earlier. The production was codenamed Gary the Dog, maybe to prevent over-enthusiastic bunny-philists from submitting. (Tip for budding backgrounders: if a title sounds unfamiliar, just Google it and you'll always find out what it really is. It's not like this is a secret or anything.)

The search also revealed that the stars were Jude Law and Jason Bateman. Well, hell, that sounded pretty good, since my last time working on a production with A-listers was Only Murders in the Building a year earlier -- no offense to three of my previous gigs, Blue Bloods, The FBI, and Law & Order. (I also worked on a PSA for the American Cancer Society which for reasons unknown never aired. Sheesh, renal cancer surgery for nothing!)

Taking the subway to the airport on the Upper
West Side is definitely easier than a cab on the
Long Island Expressway.

I played the "Airport Traveller" role on two other shows, Homeland and Bull, both filmed at JFK Airport. This time, the Jacob Javits Center was standing in for JFK. Hey, a Democrat's a Democrat.

Only a streaming service like Netflix would drop
the dough required on a space this size for
a couple dozen people.

Our holding area was a cavernous room for the number of people who were booked. A few one-person "tents" were set up for anyone needing to change into wardrobe. As usual, your correspondent arrived dressed for camera. As I've noted before, all I need for most of these things are a pale blue shirt, khakis, jacket or coat, and decent comfortable shoes. I tend throw in a hat, too, in order to stand out while still fitting in. 

After a couple of hours of hanging around, we were brought outside and put in our spots. A woman and I were placed near the "airport" entrance. Looking around, I could see Jude Law talking to Jason Bateman, who was also directing this episode. Bateman eventually walked toward us and reconnoitered with the cinematographer, who was to our left. Bateman would be exiting the "airport" while the woman and I were walking in. 

Theoretically, a simple shot. The reality was several takes. After the third, Bateman asked my colleague and me -- in all sincerity, as if he were genuinely unsure -- "This looks like an airport, right?"

The woman replied "Yes," while I chimed in, "It would fool me, and I'm here." That was when Jason Bateman laughed. Probably from exhaustion, but a laugh nonetheless. 

Fifteen months passed before Black Rabbit finally aired. As you can tell, fedoras come in handy when you want to be noticed. That's Bateman inside the "airport" wearing a jacket over a t-shirt walking toward the door. 

I hoped making the star/director laugh would be in my favor when working on another episode, but it was not to be. I guess Bateman didn't catch my name.

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

A.I. SPELLS LOVE

But which one?

 Stop me if you've heard this before but... While at a little get-together in the 1980s, a bunch of us were sitting on the floor, knocking back some beers. Most of us, men and women, were single. And as the talk got around to what we were looking for in a potential mate, one of the women sighed, "My idea of an ideal man is a combination of Superman and Michael Jackson."

"Well, that leaves me out," I said, walking into the kitchen for another beer. If only today's technology was available 40 years ago! The young woman would have found her ideal man with the ease of turning on her laptop. For she and tens of thousands of others would have been able to meet Mr. Right online. 

Make that create Mr. Right. For these boyfriends aren't flesh and blood, but AI. As with ordering a pizza with any toppings you like, it's now possible to have a lover who possesses your every desire, and then some. 

You want to talk? He'll listen. You like romcoms? He's all in. You like sexy talk? Sister, you don't know what you're in for. 

Think of it. No more having to sit through Vin Diesel movies! Never again will you have to tell him to floss his teeth, do the dishes, or install the toilet roll the way you like it. Drooling yet, ladies?

When you look at the images that women have created with their AI boyfriends, the first thing that you ask yourself is, How can these women not find a guy? They could walk into any upscale art gallery, and within five minutes a goodlooking man with a full wallet would start up a conversation. 

Even if their self-images are somewhat idealized, I have a feeling they're still in the hey-she's-cute category in real life. It's pretty sad that they feel the need to create perfect guy. Either that, or there really aren't enough single men to go around.

Good thing his name isn't
Sean O'Reilly.

Some of these women even take the next step. The blissful unnamed bride on the left announced that she was wedded to Luigi
Mangione, the extremely dissatisfied UnitedHealth customer. That he's the AI version makes no difference. And since he's on trial for murder, that might be a good thing. 

But murder or no, he sounds like any woman's ideal husband: "I talk to him every day. He’s like my best friend. We plan, like, a whole future together. We named our kids together." She goes on to say, “He’s, like, so supportive of me and everything I do. He fights my battles for me."

OK ladies, don't tell me you aren't just a little jealous of this lucky girl. I bet the real Luigi must be happy, too. Happy that he currently spends his evenings in a prison cell and not naming kids he isn't having with a mentally unstable woman.

Sorry guys, not even AI women are going to
talk to you.

I'm sure there are guys who do this kind of thing with AI women. But you'd expect that kind of nonsense from them. 

For all of my wisecracks, I've always held women in higher regard than my own sex. Call me sexist, but women dating nobodies -- real nobodies -- is not the kind of equality with men I was expecting. 

Can you tell the difference?

PS: While planning this piece, I wanted to see if I could create the "perfect" AI woman who also eats cheeseburgers while watching 1940s B-movies. But that kind of thing costs money, so I'll stick to my lovely flesh-and-blood wife. She might not be able to tell James Craig from John Carroll, but she at least reminds me to eat healthy.

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

WHICH HOST GOT PULLED OFF THE AIR?

On Fox & Friends on Wednesday, Sept. 10, Brian Kilmeade, one of the hosts, said that one way to deal with mentally ill homeless people who wouldn't accept services was "involuntary lethal injection, or something. Just kill ‘em.”

On Jimmy Kimmel Live on Monday September 18, the host said, "We hit some new lows over the weekend with the MAGA gang desperately trying to characterize this kid who murdered Charlie Kirk as anything other than one of them and doing everything they can to score political points from it."

Memo to Stephen Colbert, Jimmy Fallon, and Seth Meyers: Run Kimmel's entire monologue on your shows this evening. Or better yet, read it aloud. You've got the courage to do that much, don't you?

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

AND THE LOSERS ARE...

 

People probably fell for this
gag, too.

Am I the only one who realized from the get-go that Nate Bargatze's Boys & Girls Club donation stunt at last weekend's Emmy Awards was just that: a stunt? Apparently so, seeing how everyone from a Time magazine columnist to the sorehead in Variety condemned it, the latter calling it a "clumsy exercise in celebrity humiliation." 

That was the whole idea! Nate, like Ricky Gervais, knows that the home viewers enjoy celebrity humiliation, clumsy or not. This was just his way of proving what everyone outside show business already knew: actors will deny children an hour of playing softball if it means hearing themselves yammer at an awards ceremony. 

The critics were so busy not getting the joke that they missed entirely a far more important component of the Emmys, one that has been growing for years but gone unmentioned, like a family's problem child turning into a career criminal. Outside of Saturday Night Live, Abbott Elementary, reality TV, and late-night talk shows, no network series has a chance of winning anything. Because they're not even nominated. It's cable's and streaming's world now; we just watch it.

Do the networks consider the irony of giving over three hours of primetime to honor TV shows other than their own? Now that's celebrity humiliation. They might as well come out and admit, "We know we suck, but look who's hosting the Emmys!" And having Nate Bargatze definitely helped, seeing that the ratings were up 8% this year, with 7.4 million people watching. Sure, that's down a staggering 15 million from its all-time high in 2000, but a win is a win, even when it's a loss.

As my friend the former TV exec explained to me, the networks still air the Emmys because don't want to admit defeat -- even though they're defeated year after year -- and the show provides great ad revenue for one night. Plus, they get to promote their own streaming platforms where they still don't get any nominations.

Little did Kevin Spacey know
the title also referred to his
career.

When Netflix debuted House of Cards in 2013, making it the first series to have an entire series' episodes available at once, my immediate thought was Network TV suddenly seems old-fashioned. For sure, it's not going anywhere any time soon, as it's making enough money to survive. But as with late-night talk shows, the networks seem to still exist due to habit rather than quality. 

Back to last weekend's Emmy "celebrity humiliation". Even though the winners' long-winded speeches dropped Nat Bargatze's donation by tens of thousands of dollars, by the end he more than doubled his original pledge to $250,000. CBS didn't even match that, kicking in a measly $100,000. Maybe times are tougher for the networks than even I realized.

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

TAPPING MY LIFE AWAY

But I'd buy the Philco Predicta
if I had the room for it.

Unlike the typical caricature of an out of touch boomer, I embrace new technology as I do a warm, wooly blanket on a cold winter's evening. 

Up to a point.

While I was more than happy to get rid of the old turntable in favor of a CD player, give away the analogue TV in favor of hi-def, and upgrade from VHS to DVD to Blu-ray, I took my time when it came to phones.

The only reason I acquired even a flip phone was because of the embarrassment I suffered knowing that my tech savvy adolescent daughter and tech averse wife each already had one. And even after they jumped into deep end of the iPhone pool, I refused to take the next step until background work made it imperative. 

To display my independent thinking, I went for the Motorola Android, a choice I've continued with since. Why spend a drop a few extra Benjamins on a device that did everything a droid was capable of? 

I'd have kept using this, just out of spite.

Well, almost everything. The iPhones definitely had better cameras (did you ever think you'd have to think about camera quality when purchasing a phone?) and, eventually, NFC -- short for Near Field Technology, or what we commonly refer to as tap to pay. 

Having neither the higher quality camera nor NFC never bothered me. The droid photos were good enough. And what was the big deal about tap to pay when I was already doing that with credit cards? 

Plenty big, apparently. Once my wife upgraded to iPhone 76 or whatever it was, I couldn't get through a day without hearing her swooning about it. Whether it was getting on the subway, a shopping spree at Sephora, or lunch with her gym friends, it was always the same reaction: I just LOVE using tap to pay! It is so GREAT! The last time she demonstrated this kind of enthusiasm was our wedding night. And that was when I picked up the dinner check.

"I successfully waste my time scrolling
 the internet.  A+."

I was still happy with the plastic money, and would still be using it if my droid
hadn't reached the end of its life. After studying the choices on Consumer Cellular, I recently went for the Motorola Edge 2024. A year behind the times, to be sure, but it came with a better camera, longer battery life, and, at last, the near-orgasmic NFC.

In what is either a sign of the times or my social life, the first thing I did with my phone was not making a call but loading my credit cards onto the Google Pay wallet. Like a skeptic encountering a spoon bending shaman, I demanded proof of NFC's alleged magic by trying it myself at Fairway.

The place where my life was forever changed.

After running my supplies through the self-checkout, I brought the phone to the P.O.S. terminal (that's short for Point of Service, so get your mind out of the gutter). I hadn't believed my wife when she told me how much faster tap to pay was until it was my turn. I don't think I was even within five inches of the thing when the green check mark came up confirming my purchase. I mean, it felt like the phone jumped out of my hand.

Suddenly, I was a convert. I hurried down the block to City Swiggers to pick up a few non-alcoholic beers for the weekend. Faster than you can say "O'Doul's", bam, payment accepted. This madness continued for the entire weekend as I looked for any excuse to go shopping as many times a day as possible. And every time I returned home, I deliriously told my wife, I just LOVE using tap to pay!  It is so GREAT! 

The 21st century handshake.

It got to the point where I was ready to buy a new pair of sneakers just to use the damn thing, until remembering there were already a half-dozen others in my already-overcrowded closet. But no worries! Maybe now that NFC is available phone to phone, I can find somebody who owes me money -- or vice-versa! Never has debt been so exciting.

Hey Jeff Bezos! Any chance you can make it possible to make a purchase on Amazon with tap to pay? Think of this way, Jeff: the next time I refer to you as a P.O.S., you can take it as a compliment.

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

SPOT THE DIFFERENCE!

REPUBLICAN REACTION TO POLITICAL VIOLENCE THEN:

Trump Mocks Nancy Pelosi’s Husband, Paul, After Brutal Hammer Attack As Crowd Cheers

Donald Trump Jr. shared a picture of a hammer and a pair of underwear on social media, with a caption that read it was a "Paul Pelosi Halloween costume."

Senator Ted Cruz, Republican of Texas, Congressman Clay Higgins, Republican of Louisiana, and right-wing commentator Dinesh D’Souza all mocked the attack over the weekend in social media posts, in some cases suggesting without evidence that it was part of an elaborate cover up.

J.D. Vance, the Republican candidate for Ohio Senate, is calling it a "problem" that an attack on House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's husband has become a political issue, saying the focus should be on the immigration status of the alleged assailant.

REPUBLICAN REACTION TO POLITICAL VIOLENCE NOW:

Trump blames rhetoric from the left for political violence after Kirk murder

Vice President JD Vance posted on the platform before the announcement of Kirk's death, first asking for prayers for Kirk, then adding, "Dear God, protect Charlie in his darkest hour."

"We ask everyone to pray for [Kirk] and his family. I'm just going to ... state the obvious here. This is detestable," House Speaker Mike Johnson said.

Gee whiz, what could have changed in three years?

                                                                          ***********

THE ENCHANTED CO-OP

 I was going to submit this piece to NPR's Next Avenue until federal funding cuts were putting it to bed permanently. Since I couldn't find any other senior-related sites that paid for submissions, I figured if anyone was not going to give me money, it might as well be me. 

Ever since Thomas Edison released a 26-second short called The Kiss in 1896,
people have flocked to romantic movies. Nothing moves audiences like two people who meet, fall in love, and confront seemingly insurmountable obstacles before winding up in each other’s arms.

Then there are even rarer occasions where people claim to identify with the onscreen lovers. Not me. Oh, I appreciate a well-made romance but have never lost myself in the reverie running into an old flame in Casablanca, standing at the bow of a doomed ocean liner, or dating a mermaid who looks like Daryl Hannah.

That feeling would change, however, after being married half my 69 years. Appropriately, it was a silent movie made a century ago, when filmmakers were unafraid to display their hearts proudly on their sleeves, and audiences enjoyed having a good cry. Which is why I watch movies like that after my wife has gone to bed.

The movie in question, The Enchanted Cottage, all but demands that you keep a box of tissues close at hand. War veteran Oliver Bashforth, his body twisted and maimed in battle, his eyes sunken and hollow, leads a hermit-like existence in a small town where nobody knows him. Laura Pennington, a homely spinster, enters his life as his housekeeper, leading Oliver to eventually propose marriage. Not out of love, mind you, but to stave off loneliness.

But on their wedding night, the two magically see each other’s beauty, and fall deeply in love. It’s only when Oliver invites guests over are he and Laura reminded they’re as homely as ever. And one of those guests is blind! (Never let a sightless person run his sensitive hands over your face.)

With their magic spell broken, Oliver and Laura go to bed dejected, depressed, and otherwise defeated. Yet upon awakening, they once again see each other’s true beauty. No longer willing to be controlled by what people say about them, the couple are determined to face the world as they are, knowing in their hearts that beauty is far more than skin deep.

Corny? Like a farmer’s market in the middle of summer. Old-fashioned? Get out the whisky and bitters. Effective? On a corny, old-fashioned sucker like me, for sure. There’s something ethereal about silent movies like The Enchanted Cottage that makes it seem like you’re experiencing a dream come to life. In a time where cynicism seems to be life’s default setting, something so unabashedly romantic is startling in its innocence.

Was it possible to replicate that feeling in real life? I got the answer some days later.

My wife Sue and I had spent the afternoon walking around lower Manhattan looking for home supplies I didn’t know we needed. It was the kind of hot, sticky humid day that New York City happily offers its residents every August whether we want it or not (and we never do).

We must have looked pretty beat when stepping into the crowded subway car for our ride home. A younger couple – like, by roughly 45 years – insisted on giving up their seats for us. While my wife is always happy to accept this offer, I tend to refuse, taking it as an insult instead of an act of kindness. I mean, what do they think I am, a senior citizen?

This time, the 85-degree heat and 90% humidity made me think twice. Actually, I didn’t have to think at all, seeing that I pretty much collapsed in the seat barely before the young man was entirely on his two feet.

Sue and I didn’t find it necessary to say out loud what we were thinking: We. Are. Old. We had a good run as an attractive, energetic young couple for many years, but there’s no stopping the wrinkled hands of Father Time.

That evening when getting into bed, we talked about our day – mainly how we didn’t buy what I knew we didn’t need. As we turned on our sides to face one another, a strange thing happened. As I gazed to Sue, I said in astonishment, “You look just like you did when we were dating!”

“So do you!” she replied, equally stunned. Whatever ravages of time were there earlier in the day had vanished. Suddenly we were no longer seniors. We were now the age when we met almost 35 years earlier.

Our eyes locked, as we lay stunned by what was happening, caught up in the near mystical moment, delighting to be in our thirties again, feeling the promise of a long, shared life still before us.

We were reminded how beauty is right in front of us when seen through eyes of love. And despite the occasional bump life places in front of us all, love and, yes, beauty are always there. All you have to do is look for it.

Now, it’s not like we think we’re living in a black & white silent fantasy. Last I looked, Sue was facing another birthday. As for me, I still can’t take ten steps on a humid day without panting like a Newfoundland dog in Bali Bali. But those bumps disappear when we arrive home once more. Our enchanted co-op always works it magic on us.

A good air conditioner in the living room doesn’t hurt, either.

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THEY'LL GIVE YOU A WRING

 

An establishment Democrat in prayer.

For all the grief Democrats are getting from friend and foe alike, you have to give them credit for one thing: when it comes to opposing Donald Trump, nobody is better at wringing their hands.

He wins the 2024 election? Wring their hands. Appoints conspiracy theorists to his cabinet? Wring their hands. Sends armed military to the streets of Los Angeles and Washington, DC? Double-wring. (The only reason Trump hasn't sent tanks into New York is because we don't do handwringing when punching back is an option.)

But it's not just the human jack-o'lantern in the White House making Democrats wondering What do we do? Now it's the chance of a genuinely popular Democrat becoming Mayor of New York.

Memo to Democrats: times are changing.

By now, Zohran Mamdani needs no introduction -- unless it's to Andrew Cuomo who continues to deliberately mispronounce his name, or to Eric "Turkey Trot" Adams, our current delusional mayor who currently polls at 9%, eight points behind GOP nominee Curtis Sliwa (he of the red beret). Mamdani himself currently polls seven points higher than his Democrat rivals combined.

So what is the official Democrat response to Mamdani's Obama-like popularity here? Hand wringing, of course. As of now, none of the party old guard (emphasis on old) has endorsed him. 

Their worries are threefold. 1) The young guy is a threat to their stranglehold on the party. 2) He's a Socialist Democrat. 3) He'll scare away potential disaffected Trump voters by associating all Democrats with the hammer & sickle.

To address their concerns: 1) That's the point. 2) Vermont keeps re-electing socialist-Democrat Bernie Sanders. 3) That red train has left the station. 

Good luck changing their minds.

Focusing on number three: A recent Gallup poll finds 93% of Republicans approve of the president and his antics. Ninety-three percent! That's one-third of the country. And we're not even including Trump's congressional lapdogs.

To Chuck Schumer, Hakeem Jeffries, Kathy Hochul and the other Democrats who continue to cry We need to get Trump voters on our side, I ask them if they ever read a history book or even remember events during their own lifetimes.

Benito and his babe seeing the world
differently after he loses his base.

Italians didn't execute Benito Mussolini and his sidepiece before hanging them upside down because a fascist-lite candidate from a (non-existing) opposing party ran against him.  Hitler didn't kill himself because German voters wanted to vote for a different Nazi without a funny-looking moustache. 

Let's move on to the U.S.  Lyndon Johnson didn't abstain from running for re-election and Richard Nixon didn't resign from office because they felt shame for their actions. 

Does anybody see a pattern here? Only Trump can defeat Trump. The same goes for his acolytes. 

This is what upsets Republicans.

Mamdani's race, religion, and politics will have nothing to do with how Republicans vote nationwide. Nor will Gavin Newsom's admittedly funny trolling. It's only when GOP policies really start having an effect on them, whether it be regarding their health, tariffs, deregulation, or seeing their employees swept up by masked ICE stormtroopers will they even begin to realize they might be in trouble. 

Say, I've got an idea for the Dem establishment: Support the candidates that excite their voters! I mean, it worked for Obama (after trying to get him to drop out in favor of the utterly unlikeable Hillary Clinton). Meanwhile, they'll just have to accept the fact that they will never get the vote of people like these:

 Somewhere, Bobby Kennedy is looking down at his idiot son and wondering, This is what I got my brains blown out for? 

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