THEY SPY WITH THEIR LITTLE EYES

"Welcome to Wegman's! Now give up your
privacy."

Since controversy is America's default mode these days, it  comes as no great shock that even grocery shopping is now also cause for its second favorite mode, backlash. To quote the Spectrum News Staff (a fancy phrase for A.I.), Wegmans says it has deployed cameras equipped with facial recognition technology at some stores to help identify individuals who have been flagged for misconduct. 

In its official press release, Wegman's refers to these "individuals" as "persons of interest", which is more police-speak than you would expect when picking up a bag of tangelos. 

Multiply by 12 and you'll get the idea.

Now before shoppers feel like aisle five is going all Twilight Zone/Law & Order, let me remind you I went through this biometric jazz at least twice while doing background work, and not only survived, but received an extra $50. And there were about 100 tiny cameras taking pictures while lights were flashing. At Wegman's, you probably won't even see the cameras!

Of course, what I did was strictly voluntarily, while Wegman's gives you no choice. Instead of giving you an extra stipend, they'll probably raise their prices to pay for the equipment, too. And those early reports of collecting "eye scans" and "voiceprints"? Just a little misunderstanding, folks, as Wegman's "does not currently collect" that kind of data (emphasis added for a good chortle). 

Concerned that the customers' data will be stored in a Wegman's cloud somewhere in Ashtabula? Not to worry! "Data is kept only as long as necessary". Just what qualifies as necessary hasn't been determined yet. But no worries, it probably won't be forever. Just... a while.

And hey, lots of you Wegmanners have nothing to worry about since only "a small fraction" of its 100 stores will have this technological wonder. So that means, what, only 2%? Seven? 15% still sounds small. Even if it's 25%, that means there's a 75% chance you're in the clear. If they're telling the truth.

Only in New York do people line up around the
block to buy half a roast chicken and prepared
mashed potatoes.

Not that you're going to know anyway, since they're not telling you if your Wegman's is doing it -- unless you live somewhere like New York City, where such signage is mandatory. And yes, the Wegman's in Manhattan and Brooklyn have it. (I don't shop at the Manhattan outlet since it's not worth the nearly 80-block subway ride to get there, no matter what Wegman's fanatics say.)

Somewhere I read the real reason for the data collection was to keep track of your purchases. If that was the case, I wish my Upper East Side grocery stores would do it. My wife goes through kombucha like I do B-movies. And not just any kombucha but Synergy Kombucha. And not just any flavor of Synergy Kombucha, but Pure. 

My wife would
tear this off the
laptop if she could.

Whole Foods carries Pure, but it's usually the first flavor that sells out. If they had the voiceprint data collection, maybe management would hear me mutter, Boy, I wish to hell they'd stock more Pure instead of those stupid flavors like Island Bliss, Peach Paradise, and Living in Gratitude! NOBODY buys those unless Pure is sold out! 

Fairway, which is a few blocks closer, stocks Synergy... EXCEPT PURE! Maybe they'd get the hint when I grouse, They've got Mystic Mango, Strawberry Serenity -- even Cosmic Cranberry! How difficult is it to order something as simple as Pure?! I'd buy it here instead of Whole Foods to avoid the extra walking distance!

Whole Foods and Fairway could keep my data until we elect a Muslim Asian-American Socialist Democrat for President if they would just make things easier for me when it came to Pure. They wouldn't even have to pay me an extra 50 bucks to smile for their spycams. Although for what they're charging for that kombucha swill, it would sure put a dent in my grocery bills.

                                       ***********

VENEZUELA: COME FOR THE OIL, STAY FOR THE REVOLT

 

They seem to have stopped at Burger King where
Maduro received a crown with his chicken
nuggets.

The first thing the networks should stop doing regarding Trump's weekend hijinks is using the phrase "war with Venezuela". Since the country didn't strike us first and hasn't returned fire, technically this is a war at Venezuela. 

Kudos, however, for not referring to Nicolas Maduro as "Venezuelan strongman". Maduro was duly sworn in as president in two sham elections.

"See my book? Get a little closer so you can
make out the title!"

What little coverage I've seen, though, seems to be following the Hey, Scary News Here! playbook. Anchors looking more serious than usual. Bright red background that positively screams DANGER! Talking heads Zooming in, always with their latest book propped up in the background. You like how I sound? You'll love how I write! 

Richard Haass goes the book plug route because he appears on these programs gratis, and his gig at Independent Director for Lazard Inc. is only $310-thou. Lazard Inc. is an investment firm, which explains his hey-this-invasion-might-not-be-so-bad attitude on the news. Investing in the military complex is never a money-loser, and "Independent Director" sounds like he doesn't have to abide by company rules.

The last time I saw something similar, it was 
Trump returning from court in 2024.

Something I always enjoy are the aerial shots following the police motorcade to and

from the Brooklyn courtroom.  It's one of the few times you'll see such smooth traffic flow on the Gowanus Expressway, not to mention hearing the words "Gowanus Expressway" spoken on network news without the words "dangerous", "crumbling", or "badly in need of repairs."  By the way, how the hell did Brooklyn become the federal pen instead of Washington, DC?

Shouldn't that be "Mispronounces"?

These perp parades always give the news anchors a chance to remind viewers that New Yorkers are used to this kind of headline-making activity, as well as how the NYPD can shut off entire neighborhoods to traffic faster than you can say "unrefined oil". 

Our anchor of choice today was Ana Cabrera at MS NOW, formerly MSNBC, and eventually MS WHERE. Cabrera was doing a decent job at being professional, until she mentioned the loose talk going around that Marco Rubio would be named Viceroy of Venezuela. Only she pronounced it as "VI-ser-roy". VI-ser-roy?

Trump is sure going to be
jealous if Rubio gets to dress
like this.

Now, I was almost ready to cut her some slack since the last Viceroy of India returned to Blighty in 1947 and Viceroy cigarette commercials haven't aired since 1971. Look at her, she's a kid, what does know about these things? 

Only she's 43 years old, and a graduate of Washington State University. But that's not the half of it. A few minutes later she pronounced "clandestine" as CLAN-des-tine. 

What the what? CLAN-des-tine? How did this person land not one but two network news gigs -- first CNN, then MSNBC. Three, if you count MS NOW. She ticked me off more than the Trump/Hegseth/Rubio wargames. If this is what we can expect going forward with coverage of Venezuela-gate, I'm going to take up smoking VI-ser-roys. 

One other thing. My daughter got her Masters at Washington State University and knows basic grammar. Ana Cabrera was best known in her school days as being on the track & field team. You tell me who's more qualified to host a network news show. 

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

CURRENT EVENTS QUIZ: VENEZUELA EDITION

 

1) Why did Pres. Trump order an invasion of Venezuela? 

      a) Access to oil.

      b) Deflect from the Epstein Files

      c) Distract from the upcoming rise in healthcare costs

      d) All of the above

2) What was the reaction of the average Venezuelan to the overnight bombing and kidnapping of the first family?

       a) Relief

       b) Gratitude to American might

       c) Looking forward to the U.S. running their country

       d) Hoping Trump doesn't install JD Vance as their new presidente

3) What was the reaction of the average American?

       a) "Thank God! This will definitely bring down the cost of groceries!"

       b) "I've been looking forward to this for a long time!"

       c)  "It's about effin' time!"

       d) "God almighty! Have we learned nothing since Vietnam?!"

4) What will be the reaction from MAGA-world?

       a) "USA! USA! USA!"

       b) "That's the end of drugs being smuggled into the country!"

       c) "God bless President Trump!"

       d) Something even stupider.

5) What will be the public reaction from the average Republican Congressperson?

       a) Silence

       b) Nothing

       c) "No comment"

       d) "Americans need to come together and support the president at this      time."

6) No, really, why did Pres. Trump order the bombing of Venezuela?

       a) Hopes it helps his sinking poll numbers

       b) Knows it will irritate Tucker Carlson

       c) Gets a kick out of physically exciting Lindsay Graham 

       d) Compensate for his mushroom-shaped penis

7) Why is President Maduro and his family being brought to trial in New York?

       a)  Make people forget Trump's rape trial in the same courthouse

       b)  Arrange for Maduro's Epstein-style exit

       c)  Charge out-of-town journalists double the rate at his hotels

       d)  Hope the city is attacked in response and blame it on Mayor Mamdani

8) OK, one last chance. Why did Pres. Trump order the bombing of Venezuela?

       a) If Trump ordered it, it couldn't possibly be one of the "stupid wars" he's been railing about until 48 hours ago.

        b) He ran out of fishing boats to bomb.

        c) Wanted to give the Barri Weiss-run CBS News a good start.

        d) Likes the sound of "Trumpezuela."

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

                                                                

MEDIUM IS THE OTHER MESSAGE

 

As we enter the new year, I confess to being unfaithful to my readers. For
several weeks, I've been focusing on contributing to another site called Medium. It's a mishmash of established journalists, bloggers, and everything in between. They either have their own standalone pages or become part of one or more "publications". By doing the latter, it's easier to build a following.

After prowling around Medium's publications, I chose to contribute to something called Crow's Feet, which focuses on growing older and not avian topics. In order to get some traction ASAP, I started rewriting pieces that already appeared here (which Medium allows). The first new piece, if you're interested, can be found at Hip Hooray!. In 90 minutes, my wife’s pain was gone… | by Kevin Kusinitz | Crow’s Feet: Life As We Age | Dec, 2025 | Medium 

Some Medium readers are already following me or getting an email update every time I post something new, which I'm aiming to do every Monday morning. The idea is to eventually have enough readers so I feel comfortable putting it behind a paywall and make a few bucks. The paywall is an annual subscription to Medium. 

I tell you all this not to get you to pay for yet another subscription, but to let you know that my posts here may become sporadic going forward, and sticking mainly to old movies, current events, New York life, and idiots. 

Thanks for reading and have a good 2026 as the US starts yet another stupid war over oil.

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

AM I DREAMING?

 

Marcotte must hate the really uncute 1969 version
of the Beatles.

Eight years ago, this blog brought to your unwanted attention Amanda
Marcotte's screed against Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Her gripe was that it's "a record I resent, because it helped to cement this notion that music for girls is silly and music for men is artistically significant." You know, the moustaches, interesting lyrics, and sophisticated arrangements being too deep for the female intellect. Who needs sexist men when you've got a woman doing the heavy lifting?

What are you racists smiling about?

Well, just to even the playing field, we now have a man, Jody Rosen, claiming that Irving Berlin's classic "White Christmas" has a racist tinge. And not just because of its title. As recounted by NPR's Anastasia Tsioulcas, Rosen said that "much of that nostalgia vibe in "White Christmas" — all that longing for a pristine, innocent Christmas of yore — is a reference to explicitly racist minstrel songs like Stephen Foster's "Old Kentucky Home," sung by Al Jolson and others — music that was still a staple in Berlin's day." 

Furthermore, In "Old Kentucky Home," Rosen said, "You have, grotesquely, the freed Black man longing for life back below the Mason-Dixon line, back on the plantation. Here, instead of a Black man in the north longing for the sultry south, we have a well-to-do white person longing for the wintry north."

Pardon my un-Christmas language, but who the fuck pays writers like Rosen and Marcotte cash money to write such stupid non-think pieces? If "White Christmas" was inspired by "My Old Kentucky Home", then Celie Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" is a reboot of "Massa's in De Cold, Cold Ground". 

What's even more offensive is that
the song, "Abaraham", is not only
a tribute to Pres. Lincoln but is 
pretty bad in and of itself.

But wait, there's more! It's not just a tenuous connection with a 19th-century folk song that sets off racist alarm bells. It's also the inclusion of a blackface number in Holiday Inn, the movie that introduced "White Christmas" in 1942. This is like accusing someone of being racist because they live next door to a Klan member. One has nothing to do with the other. 

Jesus Christ in the manger! Can't we just enjoy "White Christmas" without being "reminded" of its alleged "connection" to a song written in 1852 which is today performed only at the Kentucky Derby? If so, I'll continue to remind readers of definite connections of idiot writers to respected news outlets. Merry Christmas!

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

BINGOING ONCE, BINGOING TWICE...

My auction paddle would be used strictly as a fan.

There's nothing like spending a morning at Sotheby's on the Upper East Side to make you
feel like one of New York's elites. There's also nothing like spending your morning at Sotheby's on the Upper East Side to make you feel completely out of your depth as far as actually bidding on the stuff being auctioned. 

But there I was anyway, one of just 25 people onsite hoping for a chance of owning a piece of "The Private Collection of Kathryn & Bing Crosby". None of the items included Der Bingle's toupees or the belt -- lovingly nicknamed "The Strap" -- he used on the four sons from his first marriage. 

Nope, this little sell-off concentrated on art, clothing, personal items, and show biz memorabilia. It was the latter collection I was interested in. 

You'd think I'd have gotten a hand for paying
just $15 for my alarm clock.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who was primarily a lurker since, for the first two hours, all but one of the bids were made online or by phone. The one in-person spendthrift, three seats to my left, paid $120,000 for a "rare and unique gilt brass solar powered dome table clock". Because why not?

Now, during my movie poster auction-attending days, people who spent five or six figures on a three-sheet for, say, Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, would get a round of applause from people in the room. Nobody responded to Mr. Clock Collector, so I gave him a thumbs-up. Not for winning so much as providing the first bit of excitement of the day.

Spending 4,000 bucks on these would have been
the ultimate hat trick for me.

I was hoping to get some of Bing's famous fedoras and caps. I don't know if any of them would have fit my skull, nor did I currently have a display case to show them off. Like it would have mattered anyway -- the three lots, totaling seven hats in all, went for roughly eight grand. 

By then, I should have known that sticking around for a bargain was a sucker's game. But it was still early and just being there allowed my wife to have the apartment to herself for a while -- a rare occurrence she treasures even more than when I'm there.

It sounds even more expensive in Japanese yen.

Crosby's "fine art" collection fell mainly under the genres of "Cowboys and Indians" and "Fox Hunt". Even the one Renoir (which went for $250,000) wasn't very interesting, almost as if Crosby was deliberately playing into his I'm-just-an-ordinary-joe persona. Who just happened to be one of the wealthiest celebrities of his time.

The biggest sale I witnessed was for something called "On the Moors" by Sir Alfred James Mannings, P.R.A., R.W.S. Frankly, anyone with a bunch of letters after their name who isn't a medical professional is just a poseur. But the auctioneer assured us that "On the Moors" caused a sensation on its original exhibition in 1931 and was the largest piece of Mannings art Sotheby's ever handled. And at a million bucks, it must have been one of the priciest. To my untrained eyes, it looked like a painting that would have been owned by Ralph Kramden had he struck it rich in the lottery.

Considering Bing worked at Paramount, he
should have gotten something resembling a
mountain rather than the MGM lion.

By the end of the second hour, I decided to bail on Bing. It was clear by the bidding so far that his movie-related possessions -- leatherbound scripts, props like the pith helmet from Road to Zanzibar, and music sheets with his puss on the cover -- would cost far more than I would have liked. And forget about the Fabergé carvings, like the big orange lion and the tiny blue mouse. 

I enjoyed my first auction in 30 years but enjoyed even more realizing that I don't need any of this stuff. And apparently neither do the adult kids from Bing's second marriage. Looks like they're going to star in Road to A Big Payday.

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

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 61

 Two features and one short from the early 1930s, and one game show from the 1950s. You've never heard of these, and will likely never see them. That's what I'm here for.

THE HOT HEIRESS (1931): Just another of those pictures where a construction worker accidentally lets a hot
rivet go flying through a rich woman's bedroom window, setting a fire... in their hearts! Can they overlook their class differences in order to build a path to the altar? Or will the girder of love collapse under the strain of disapproving friends and family? 

It took three days to make it through this 79-minute musical comedy, and even then, it was strictly for historical reasons. The Hot Heiress was the first movie with a score by Richard Rodgers & Lorenz Hart and a script by their longtime Broadway collaborator Herbert Fields. And while they were played up in the big time in the original trailer, the result is Blah City. There isn't one genuinely funny piece of dialogue to be found here, and as for the score, the most memorable song is titled "Nobody Loves a Riveter but His Mother". This, from the duo who wrote "My Funny Valentine", "Isn't it Romantic?" and "Where or When." As with Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur's Once in a Blue Moon, there's something about the movie industry that can bring out the worst in the most talented people. (Rodgers & Hart would redeem themselves two years later with their score for the brilliant Paramount musical Love Me Tonight.)

Another bit of interest is The Hot Heiress was made at a time when audiences were sick of musicals that opened on an almost weekly basis since 1929. Many of them wound up being released after the numbers were left on the cutting room floor. The literally spotty condition of two of The Hot Heiress's three songs suggest the same thing happened here and were only put back when it was eventually sold to television in the 1950s. The one number that appeared to make it to its original release? That ridiculous riveter/mother song. If you're interested, you can catch it here following the credits. Don't be surprised if you find yourself humming it to yourself for the next day or two, whether you want to or not.

BONUS POINTS: Ben Lyons, the leading man, was briefly a studio exec at 20th Century-Fox in the 1940s, when he discovered Norma Jean Mortenson and changed her name to Marilyn Monroe.

GUILTY HANDS (1931): If you watch just one great Lionel Barrymore movie (trust me, I know what you're thinking), Guilty Hands
can't be beat. A decade away from his wheelchair-bound, thunder-and-lightning, batten-down-the-hatches delivery, he proves himself to be the equal of his brother John, and superior to most other movie actors of his time. In a mere 69 minutes, Lionel runs the gamut of emotions, from cynical, loving, philosophical, and murderous, never once making the wrong move. 

The set-up of Guilty Hands is ripe for drama. Former D.A.-turned-defense attorney Richard Grant is appalled that his daughter is going to marry his client, the debauched Gordon Rich. Fully aware of Rich's sordid love life -- including a 16-year-old girl who jumped out of his 24th-floor apartment -- Grant promises that he will commit the perfect murder in order to prevent the wedding. Grant, in turn, swears to return from the dead to exact revenge. Both men succeed, without the help of anything other than a clever idea and simple science respectively.

There's a solid supporting cast to be found in Guilty Hands, including Alan Mowbray as the foul Gordon Rich who gets what's coming to him; Kay Francis as the sidepiece who sticks with him during his constant philandering; and Madge Evans as Grant's young, innocent daughter Barbara, who's dazzled by her libertine fiancé. (Her playful relationship with her dad gives one pause today, as it occasionally appears to border on incestuous.)  With plenty of pre-code situations and dialogue (one wonders what Grant has in mind when warning Barbara that her wedding night to Rich will be "a horror" she'll never be able to shake), and, of course, Lionel Barrymore's surprisingly natural performance, Guilty Hands is one more obscure early talkie that needs to be rediscovered.

BONUS POINTS: In no other film does Lionel look exactly like John from scene to scene.

BOO (1932): Following 

a disgusting dinner of lobster and a glass of milk, a dope falls asleep reading Dracula, leading to nightmares accompanied by a "funny" narrator. When things wrap 10 minutes later, you could swear you just had a nightmarish experience. 

Universal Studios' Boo

anticipates the 1963 TV series Fractured Flickers by using clips from other movies while dubbing in silly narration ("He better keep away from the casket, or he'll be coughin'" is just one of a dozen or so puns we're forced to listen to.) It's kind of surprising that Universal allowed Frankenstein to be openly mocked here, an act that strikes me as sacrilegious. Oddly, instead of clips from Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boo features Nosferatu, the 1922 German version of the story, which few Americans had seen up to that time. 

What gives Boo interest today is that it features two minutes from the long-lost 1930 horror movie The Cat Creeps. (Last month, seven more minutes were discovered.) Of course, its dialog here is obliterated by the irritating narrator, making it an even more frustrating watch. To those of us who went to college in the '70s, Boo dredges up memories of "midnight shows" of wacky shorts and TV clips made hilarious under influences legal and otherwise, but tedious when older and sober.

BONUS POINTS: In its defense, Boo seems like a parody of the similar MGM shorts produced and narrated by Pete Smith. If you don't know who he is, consider yourself lucky.

LAUGH LINE (4/16/1959): 

The obscure game show Laugh Line's concept is pretty simple. Viewers at home sent in descriptions of New Yorker-style cartoons which were re-created by actors.  A panel of comedians then re-arranged the actors and provided a new caption. Get ready to laugh, America!

A show like this depends on quick wits and a lot of luck to put it over. Laugh Line's merry-makers are Orson Bean, Dorothy Loudon, and Mike Nichols & Elaine May, all of whom are enveloped in a near-constant cloud of cigarette smoke. While talk-show stalwarts Bean and Loudon are at home in this setting, Nichols & May seem like, well, sophisticated comedians stuck on a game show featuring commercials for aspirin and ingrown toenail medicine -- the kind of thing they parodied in their nightclub act. While Laugh Line puts their improv experience to good use -- Nichols comes up with a funny idea for one of the "cartoons" immediately -- I couldn't help but think he and May were doing this strictly for the money. And who could blame them? 

Presiding over the hoped-for shenanigans is Dick Van Dyke, in one of the many, many pre-sitcom TV series he hosted in the 1950s, and that few people are alive to remember (other than Elaine May and Van Dyke himself). As he was on Mother's Day, Van Dyke is silly and non-threatening, as is Laugh Line itself. There are some funny moments -- it gets better as it goes along -- but not enough for it to have lasted more than two months. The commercials are fun, however. 

BONUS POINTS: Within a year of Laugh Line, Dick Van Dyke and Nichols & May would become Broadway stars in Bye Bye Birdie and An Evening with... respectively.  A year later, Orson Bean starred in the stage musical Subways are for Sleeping. A year after that, Nichols would direct Dorothy Loudon in the off-Broadway show The World of Jules Feiffer. They don't make game show panelists like that anymore.

                                                          **********

NO COMMENTS

 

And sexist humor was always good for a laugh.

There used to be a newspaper comic strip called "They'll Do It Every Time", in which its creator Jimmy Hatlo explored the frustrations the average reader allegedly experienced every day. 

If Hatlo were still around, he could do nothing but sketch podcasters, talking heads, and other opinion-makers every time Donald Trump makes a rude, thoughtless comment. Trump's recent "tribute" to Rob Reiner and his wife is the latest and perhaps most egregious example.

Moments after his statement hit Truth Social, the shocked responses -- many from Republicans and Trump-supporters -- ricocheted around the internet, damn near drowning out everything else that was going on (other than TMZ's increasingly graphic descriptions of the murder).

This was, of course, what Trump expected. Desired, even. Can't you see him and Stephen Miller rubbing their hands with glee, giggling Look, they fell for it again! All the real-life things that have tarnished the president lately -- again, you couldn't miss them -- immediately vanished. All people could talk about now was his utterly predictable Truth Social post about his show biz "enemy".

Now take a step back. Imagine if each 6:30 network news anchor discussing the Reiner murders had ended the report by saying, "In response to the shocking news, President Trump posted on Truth Social..." And they proceeded to read, word for word, his entire statement while showing it onscreen. Then, after a brief pause, going to the next segment, which reported on whatever the latest real-life Trump scandal was happening.

And imagine CNN doing that throughout the day, once an hour. Now imagine, say, Morgan Freeman reading it on next year's Oscar broadcast. And Billy Crystal doing the same on the Golden Globes. 

What could Trump or his fans do? Whine that they were, uh, reading his words? Of course. And they would look really stupid in doing so.

That's the whole point when it comes to Trump. You don't need commentary. But, like the man said, they'll do it every time.

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

HOME ON THE RAGE

But 67 years drunk on his own ego.

 What it is it about celebrities who never keep their promise to move when
things don't go their way? Whether it was Alec "Not-So-Sharpshooter" Baldwin planning to hoof it from New York to Beverly Hills in order to avoid paparazzi, or Lena Dunham and Barbra Streisand not wanting to live under the reign of Trump, these wealthy wastrels are at heart too damn comfortable in their mansions, townhouses, or co-ops to actually stand by their tough words.

Apparently having a tub without a shower is what
makes it rustic.

The latest in this parade of forget-what-I-said-before hypocrites is Ellen DeGeneres, who, with wife Portia De Rossi, left the good life in Beverly Hills for the farm life in the Cotswolds. That is, if you consider a $29-million mansion a farm. 

Ellen and Portia made the mistake of moving to the UK last November. "Mistake" in that they arrived just in time for heavy rains and chilly temps. How much do you want to bet that Ellen got so used to California warmth that it never occurred to her that other areas of the world -- of the USA, for God's sakes -- have weather more akin to "classic" winters? 

Look, she's feeding chickens!
This must be a farm!

You can always tell how serious people are when they proclaim how they're "moving" from one country to another for political reasons. If they're desperate and broke, they're willing to hike hundreds of miles with kids on their backs or risk their lives on leaky boats for just a chance at freedom. And they keep it on the downlow. 

Rich celebrities, on the other silk-gloved hand, broadcast their intentions behind a keyboard or to a friendly reporter. Ellen DeGeneres is the only one who actually went through with it, but nobody -- nobody -- expected it to last. Not when she and the missus had to don heavy outerwear when walking out the door the last few months. 

But just to make sure it wasn't all for naught, Ellen's selling the old lean-to at a 50% mark-up from what she paid. Like Peter Thiel, she's one of the few gay people you can hate without ever being accused of homophobia. Now that's equality!

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

THEY DON'T SAY POTATO

People thought they were made 
from Classics.

 I don't know if it's proud ignorance or the acceptance of junk food as the main staple of the American diet, but here's the latest news flash. Forty-two percent of people polled had no idea that Lay's Chips were made from potatoes. Now the company has to splurge on a total "rebranding" of their number one selling product by putting an image of a potato on their potato chip bag. 

Just what kind of chips did these people think they were eating -- casino? Micro? Cow? Dumb question. It doesn't matter what they thought because they didn't care. All they knew was crispy, salty goodness! It's opioids for the tastebuds, and just as healthy.

Campbell's felt obliged to tell their
customers they weren't eating
the real thing.

Some of them might not have eaten them had they known those chips were made from a vegetable. Why else would Lay's put the phrase "Potato Chips" in the font size usually reserved for "Reg. US Pat. Off."? Hell, you can buy them at Staple's, which isn't exactly a farmers' market.

Lay's Tatergate incident came on the heels of the Campbell's Soup cybersecurity chief getting fired for being recorded claiming that their product was highly processed "bio-engineered meat" for "poor people". (His racist comments about Cambell's Indian employees were just the icing on the chicken noodle.)

Yet his comment on the quality of the soup isn't necessarily off the mark. My childhood memory of Campbell's Soup is that the major ingredient, no matter the flavor, was salt. And as for it being the food of "poor people" -- that's because poor people either can't afford or have no access to fresh ingredients to make their own soup. 

The higher quality canned soups are out of their reach as well. Rao's chicken noodle soup can run up to four times the cost of Campbell's -- you tell me what they're going to buy even if the government wasn't cutting their SNAP benefits. 

Will Lay's see a spike in sales once they start slapping a picture of a potato on their bags? Probably not. People either buy chips regularly or they don't, no matter what the label looks like. And most don't look at the ingredients of anything they eat, which was lucky for those who ate mock turtle soup back in the day. Imagine a picture of the main ingredient on the Campbell's label:

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THE NEW YOUNG MAYOR, HE AIN'T WHAT THEY USED TO BE

The right-wing nightmare: a Muslim guy, two
women, and New York City.

A couple of weeks ago, I turned on the TV and what to my wondering eyes did appear was Zohran Mamdani making a statement at the site of the 1964 World's Fair in Queens.

It had been so long since the election -- three days? -- that I suddenly remembered, Oh yeah, this is going to be our next Mayor. 

Mamdani had shaken up the political word, the Democrat establishment, and -- best of all -- Mario Cuomo by winning the second-hardest job in the world (after President of the United States or, in the current admiration's case, the President's spokesperson explaining why it was OK for her boss to call a female reporter "Piggy"). 

The next time Mayor-Elect Mamdani appeared on my TV screen was when he was in the Oval Office standing next to the (literally) sitting president. Trump was remarkably affable, far different from the late-night social media-scribbling madman we usually know him as. He was funny in his own way, as he was when David Letterman dropped into see him unannounced at Trump Tower three decades ago.

Mamdani looks down on Trump.

Mamdani, on the other hand, appeared determined to prove that he was up for both the job of Mayor and holding his own with the Big Mouth-in-Chief. It was gratifying seeing this 34-year-old Ugandan-born, Socialist Muslim winning the office Maro Cuomo so ravingly, knavingly, cravenly craved. 

It's easy to picture the former Governor thinking back on what he should have done. Maybe a return to the time he created his father's unofficial campaign slogan against Ed Koch, VOTE FOR CUOMO, NOT THE HOMO. Targeting Zohran's beard, VOTE FOR MARIO, NOT THE HAIRY-O would have had the classic Cuomo wit. 

Are they sure it wasn't paid by Ted Cruz?

Stupid? No more than deliberately mispronouncing Mamdani's name every
chance he had, or the way his campaign briefly released an apocalyptic ad predicting a Mamdani administration would be the dream of pushers, pimps, drunk drivers, and wife-beaters (the men, not the undershirts). And it was AI-generated! Damn you for putting so many hungry New York actors out of work!

Going forward, then, Mario Cuomo will be known not just as the former Governor of New York forced to resign over sexual harassment claims, or the loser of both the New York' Mayoral primary as a Democrat and the election as an independent, but the guy who made Curtis Sliwa appear Churchillian. Possible next move: cohosting his dopey brother's basement podcast. WATCH THE CUOMOS, NOT MARIA BARTIROMO!

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