CUMMINGS AND GOINGS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pete Hesgeth shows Whitney how
it's done.

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

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

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

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

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. 

                                                           ***********

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.

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

THE FALL(ON) GUY

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

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

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

Fallon in one of his more somber moments.

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

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

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

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

Yes, this is why Hillary lost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NORWOOD, NOR HUMAN

So fresh, so captivating, so inhuman.

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

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

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

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

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

Jared Leto or software? You tell me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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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.

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