MOUSE-KA-TORN

 With the focus on New York's mayoral race taking up the recent news cycles, you might not have heard about the murder of a local superstar. His violent death at the hands of an unknown assailant was important enough to be mentioned in all the papers, and the front page of at least one of them:

Scabby was no toy to be tossed around in a kiddie pool. At approximately 15 feet tall, he was a familiar presence to New Yorkers for two decades. Local unions would make sure he appeared outside businesses that didn't hire organized workers. No one was safe from Scabby's threatening red eyes: construction sites, museums, or, in the case of the murder scene, Babbo, a pricey Italian restaurant. 

Pizza Rat didn't care if the guy who made
the slice was non-union.

Frightening to anyone meeting him for the first time, Scabby eventually became something of a mascot to the city, like his cousin Pizza Rat, Mr. Met, and the New York Pigeon. People who would otherwise run screaming in the opposite direction when a real rodent crossed their paths became used to Scabby turning up unexpectedly. Over time, they even considered him one of the family. (Many New Yorkers who've lived here long enough feel the same about real rodents whether they like it or not.)

If reports are correct, the police responded to the murder scene as if responding to free samples at Krispy Kreme. After examining Scabby (no word if they notified the coroner), they bumrushed Babbo, looking for the murder weapon. Fortunately for the $100-lasagna-chomping customers, the cops had a description that sounded like an employee. 

Maybe if the union reps weren't so busy flirting,
Scabby would still be with us.

Too late! The suspect escaped into the kitchen (just like in the movies!), which the police didn't search. The demand that Babbo owner Stephen Starr turn over the security camera footage was met with a You got a subpoena, copper? 

I would love to be on the phone conversation when this goes down:  

D.A.: Your honor, I'm here to request a subpoena for security footage of a murder.

JUDGE: My God, who is the victim?

D.A.: Scabby.

JUDGE: What?! 

D.A.: Scabby. The Rat --

JUDGE: I know who he is! 

D.A.: Yes, your honor --

JUDGE: You got me out of bed for this shit?!

D.A.: I'm sorry, your hon--

JUDGE: You're not even union!

This would be a cool
replacement.

It's not like a replacement can't be bought, although giant inflatable rats don't come cheap. According to the New York Post, Scabby cost $7,000. But if they don't mind a smaller model, a 10-foot tall version can be had for just $1,590. A human sized style, at six feet, is a steal at $500 -- but as it's imported from China, tariffs will add a couple hundred bucks at checkout. Tariff or no, the Chinese quasi-slaves who make the rats would be happy to help unionized workers in America, I'm sure.

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WORD FROM THE WEISS

Bari Weiss and the guy who competes with his
son as to who can masturbate the least.

 I have no dog in the fight between Bari Weiss and the rest of the journalism
world. Her recent promotion to editor-in-chief of CBS News is admittedly quite the jump for a former New York Times columnist-turned-online news editor. Impressive stuff for a 41 year-old woman in a world of grey-haired men. 

And it isn't her age or gender causing controversy. Weiss is considered by many to be right-wing. My only exposure to her has been on Real Time with Bill Maher, where she seemed to be a centrist whose views didn't necessarily bend leftward -- certainly nothing like the reactionary harridan she was often made out to be. 

Don't forget people who iron, too.

The main gripe against Weiss is that she's had it with "legacy media", i.e. the old-school news outlets who, let's face it, are no longer groundbreaking, unless that ground is their graves. As NPR reports, "Weiss paints a picture of two increasingly powerful extremes — 'an America-loathing far left' and a 'history-erasing far right' — and says the majority of 'smart, politically mixed, pragmatic Americans' who fall somewhere in between are not being well served." 

The most trusted pipe in America.

This is not too far off the mark, but the far right hates America in its own ways, too. And I would add that the overall ratings drop for the 6:30 network news isn't just due to audience distrust. Who needs to wait until the early evening to watch four-minute recaps of perhaps a half-dozen big stories of the day when you've got several cable news networks going further in depth all day? it doesn't matter who's running the show; the days of CBS Evening News getting 53-million viewers are deader than the White House east wing, so good luck with any shake-up turning things around.

CBS News employees line up for the mandatory
Bari Weiss hug.

But what really irritates the hell out of me is Bari Weiss's offer to act as a shoulder to cry on:

“This is just such an enormously difficult day for so many people who have given years of their lives to this company,” she said during the morning editorial call, according to audio reviewed by The Independent. “And I’m sorry, and I want to support everyone in whatever way I can,” she added. “My door is open, whether I’m sitting up here or downstairs.”

Hey thanks, Bari! Does that "support" include paying their bills until they can land a new job in an industry focused more on laying off workers than actually reporting the news? 

The more you look at Ellison's face, the more you
want to punch it. Hard.

If you're wondering how Weiss started calling the shots, she was hired by David Ellison, the plutocrat running something called Paramount Skydance which also falls under the CBS New umbrella (or vice-versa; I've never understood big business). Ellison sent out an email to his 1000 underlings (100 of which worked for the news division) who are now out of a job: 

Yippee! I'm so good I'm
getting fired!

In some areas, we are addressing redundancies that have emerged across the organization. In others, we are phasing out roles that are no longer aligned with our evolving priorities and the new structure designed to strengthen our focus on growth. Ultimately, these steps are necessary to position Paramount for long-term success. 

We are deeply grateful for your hard work, professionalism, and resilience during this period of transition. We remain confident that Paramount’s best days are ahead, and we’re committed to building a strong foundation for the future.

Goddamnmightydamn, how I hate hate HATE business mumbo jumbo doubletalk that attempts to make the now-unemployed folks understand that this was necessary -- not for them, mind you, but the ORGANIZATION. 

The capper, of course, is how grateful he is for their hard work, professionalism and resilience. So grateful that he's letting them go. I would have far more respect for Ellison had he said, We want to save money. You're in the way. To quote CBS News legend Edward R. Murrow, good night and good luck. 

On second thought, maybe it's better I don't respect him at all.

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LEADING BY BAD EXAMPLE

I'm with you, bros. 

The worst thing about having low platelets, outside of the possibility of spontaneously bleeding from my pores if I don't take my meds, is no longer being able to enjoy a beer or glass of wine with dinner. Alcohol, I learned, is a blood-thinner, and mine is more than thin enough.

Just when you thought Corona 
couldn't be more bland.

Over time I found non-alcoholic beers that tasted more or less like the real thing. Good Mexican restaurants were able to whip up virgin margaritas that would have fooled me had I not known. But... whenever the best reviews of a red wine say it's "easy to drink" and "not overly sweet", I know it's one or two steps above Hi-C, so a faux vino is out-o.

After a year and a half, my desire for the real thing has abated somewhat. While I've adjusted to the faux beers, I still get a physical twinge of envy when watching Stanley Tucci enjoying a good red on his watch-me-eat-Italian-food series. And at times I would gladly trade a few thousand platelets for a couple of real frozen margaritas. 

So -- does this make me a potential alcoholic? Apparently, I already was one before being forced to clean up and my act. But don't think that lets you off the hook. Just look at the headline of Discovery magazine's recent online scolding: Social Drinking Could Mask Alcoholism, or Provoke Problem Drinking. 

Wipe those smiles off your faces!

Now wait a minute, you demand. I thought drinking alone was the problem. No, you're the problem. The article states, "While solitary drinking might serve as a useful early indicator of alcohol use disorder risk […] research suggests that individuals reliably consume more alcohol in social contexts than when alone." I

Cripes, there's no winning with these people. And by "these people", I mean Discovery's source, Current Directions in Psychological Science. The current issue includes such hard-hitting pieces as "The Development of Dance in Early Childhood", which sounds like a parody of a scientific study: "Dancing to music is prevalent to human cultures. It is also developmentally precocious -- most children display dance-like behaviors before their first birthday. This early emergence precedes a long maturational trajectory with broad individual differences..." 

Oh my God, why is my baby behaving
like this?!

Come on, doc! Can't we just enjoy our toddlers jumping up and down to "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" without freaking analyzing it?

Another piece, "Interdependent Minds: Quantifying the Dynamics of Successful Social Interactions" might as well be retitled, "Yo, How Do People Become Friends?" To which my diagnosis is Having shared interests. No wonder why so many of these journals fall for satiric articles passed off as the real thing -- the stupider it sounds, the more likely it's taken seriously.

Social drinking can mask alcoholism. Why not Dining out with friends can mask overeating? Or Driving cars can lead to accidents? Maybe Jogging could provoke charley horses? Good Lord, anything can lead to anything, anything can hide anything! It reminds me of the very old joke about two psychiatrists passing each other. One says, "Hello". The other thinks, Hmm. I wonder why he said that.

Here's a piece someone should write: Overanalyzing Stuff Can Lead to Derisive Laughter. No need to have that peer reviewed.

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

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 to 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.

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

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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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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