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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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 60

Two more obscure European movies take their place alongside a pre-code political drama and a legendary early talkie that marked the beginning of the end of one of the most popular silent actors of his time.

HIS GLORIOUS NIGHT (1929): You might not have heard of His Glorious Night, but if you're a fan of Singin' in the Rain, you're definitely aware of it. You know the scene when Gene Kelly's character bombs in his first talkie while moaning, "I love you, I love you, I love you"? This movie was the inspiration. To quote Paul Harvey, now you know the rest of the story.

The mockery inflicted on Gilbert at the time of His Glorious Night's release was unfair and cruel (even if he over enunciates the word "cruel" with two syllables throughout the movie.) Yes, the love scenes between Gilbert and leading lady Catherine Dale Owen are overwrought, and in need of rewrites. But contrary to legend, Gilbert doesn't have a squeaky voice. Rather the deep resonance that his silent movie roles implied, he sounds like a normal person. Too, the romance genre he specialized in during the silent era became a thing of the past in favor of musicals, gangster pictures, and wisecracking comedies.

So after nearly a century of being buried in the MGM vaults, the biggest realization of the recent restoration of His Glorious Night -- a truffle of a trifle about royal love lives, mix-ups, and the like -- is that it's a comedy. It's supposed to be funny, and, when Gilbert and Owen aren't pitching woo, they're funny, too, as are the supporting characters, including Owen's mother and a perpetually squabbling couple who appear throughout. Shout out, too, to Gustav von Seyffertitz, hilarious as the nervous, confused police commander. I laughed out loud a good half dozen times during His Glorious Night, and always on purpose. 

The production's problems lie not with Gilbert but the technical crudeness inherent in early talkies, along with the pedestrian direction by Lionel Barrymore. Had Ernest Lubitsch, the master of the sophisticated sex comedies, called the shots, His Glorious Night would have turned out better all around, and maybe have given John Gilbert a better transition to sound. His later movies, like the edgy pre-code Downstairs, proved he was as good as many of his contemporaries. His Glorious Night might not be glorious but doesn't deserve the negativity from by wiseasses who don't know any better. (You can tell what kind of a life I lead when I sob Leave John Gilbert alone!)

BONUS POINTS: Gustav von Seyffertitz's pledge, "I know nothing!" would later be echoed by Sgt. Schultz in Hogan's Heroes. Must be a German thing.

THE BILLION DOLLAR SCANDAL (1933): At a time when it seems like the 1% can
get away with anything, up to an including murder, it's nice to see when one of them gets it, even if it's only in a pre-code picture. The big money scandal here involves the fleecing of the American taxpayers by a group of oil magnates led by John Masterson. His live-in physical trainer, ex-con "Fingers" Bartos", turns states evidence against them at the behest of a crusading newspaper publisher. Knowing their lives will be ruined if Bartos testifies before a closed-door Congressional committee, Masterson and his pals hire a fixer named Carter B. Moore to keep the guy's yap shut. And by fixer, I mean hitman.

The one-sheet on the right implies that The Billion Dollar Scandal is based on a true story, although my research can't confirm it. This doesn't prevent the movie from being an interesting slice of life drama when Depression-era audiences had it in for the uber-rich who never seemed to pay for their crimes while petty transgressors like Bartos and his pals Ratsy Harris and Kid McGurn spent years up the river simply for lack of a good lawyer. Almost a century later, the oil barons portrayed here are as hateful as any of today's tech billionaires -- they boast of their illegal behavior and how they're out to help only each other while screwing over the rest of America.

Robert Armstrong (the poor man's Victor McLaglen) kind of overdoes the "dese and dose" routine as Fingers, who will do anything to protect his kid brother, right down to trying to break up his romance with Masterson's daughter Doris -- which Masterson himself is trying to do as well. Still in pre-MGM befuddled character days, Frank Morgan shows what a good dramatic actor he was as the despicable Masterson, the oily oil oligarch who destroys people's lives simply for sport. Wardrobe and slang aside, The Billion Dollar Scandal resonates that the wealthiest among us will always pull society's strings because no matter how much money they have, it's never enough.

BONUS POINTS: The Billion Dollar Scandal is one of the few movies where I recognized damn near everybody. In addition to Frank Morgan (The Wizard of Oz) and Sidney Toler (the Charlie Chan Monogram mysteries), and dozen or so character actors, there are representatives from a slew of classic horror movies of the time: Robert Armstrong (King Kong), Edward van Sloan (Dracula), Olga Baclanova (Freaks), and Irving Pichel (Dracula's Daughter). For me, this is cinematic comfort food.

SZIRUSZ (SIRIUS) (1942): Recently I was in the mood for a 1940s Hungarian time-
travel/romantic-comedy/sci-fi musical. Lucky me, I stumbled across Sirius. See what happens when you wish hard enough? 

Count Tibor Akos is taken to 1784 Austria in eccentric Professor Sergius's mini-rocket. Still dressed in his era-appropriate costume party outfit, Tibor spends his time at a royal party, where he falls in love with Italian opera singer Rosina Beppo, and insults everybody else. Tibor's misbehavior climaxes in a duel with his own great-grandfather. As Tibor is wounded, Sergius returns in time to bring them both back to 1942 Hungary.

Other than the shockingly diaphanous slips worn by ballerinas in a dance sequence, there's nothing in Sirius that wouldn't have been out of place in a Hollywood movie of its time. Tibor continually mentioning future events to the baffled 18th-century royal court; the only-a-dream copout; and the climactic reveal of Sergius's daughter being Rosina's lookalike great-granddaughter (which anyone familiar with old movies would have predicted before the mini-rocket even took flight to the past). 

Well, so what? Sirius is a charming, witty movie, similar to Leslie Howard's time-travel move of a decade earlier, Berkeley Square, only with laughs. Even when Sergius is carted off to the bughouse, babbling about how he stood beside Atilla the Hun and witnessed the creation of earth on his travels, you want to believe the men's adventures. That whole "explanation" of how the mini-rocket crashed after two seconds in the air? Hungarian goulash, if you ask me!

BONUS POINTS: Viewers can come up with their own ideas of a 1942 Hollywood version of Sirius. Fredric March insults the royal court of 1784 Germany while falling in love with a French opera singer played by Alexis Smith. Alan Mowbray as March's great-grandfather, George Zucco as the nutty professor -- why didn't Warner Bros. buy the American remake rights?

KRAKATIT (1948): Attention, fans of science fiction, film noir, obscurities, and all-around strange stuff. The year American studios were churning out detritus like The Babe Ruth Story and My Dog Rusty, the Czechoslovak Film Company released Krakatit, a production that anticipated the atomic bomb scare of the 1950s the hallucinogenic 1960s, and the all-round paranoia of 1970s. And to make it that much more futuristic, it's based on a 1924 novel, long before Robert Oppenheimer had even heard of a place called Los Alamos. 

Krakatit's opening scenes could be right out of a typical Hollywood film noir of the time. A dangerously ill unidentified man has stumbled into a hospital. Strapped with an oxygen mask to stay alive, he falls unconscious, leading to a flashback that carries the rest of the movie. He's a scientist named Prokop, and has developed Krakatit, a weapon (named after the Krakatoa volcano) that makes the A-bomb look like a water balloon. Falling ill after a small sample blew up in his lab, he had given the formula to a friend.  In short order, Prokop receives a letter from his colleague's girlfriend... stumbles to the home of a village doctor... is approached by a strange man named Carson acting as a representative for a country wanting the formula... creates another bomb made out of cosmetics...  and experiences still more adventures, climaxing with Krakatit destroying several European capitals. 

Is any of it real? Are they dreams? Hallucinations? Hallucinations of dreams? Dreams of real events? Real events made hallucinative through his illness? Take your pick, folks. All I can tell you is that Krakatit  doesn't resemble any other movie of its time. 

Karel Hoger gives Prokop a haunted, guilty demeanor throughout, ashamed of his "talent" for creating explosives out of anything handy.  Worthy of mention is Eduard Linkers as the chatty, nattily-dressed Carson. His lighthearted performance is similar to the pre-Bilko Phil Silvers during his movie days, and gave me a smile every time he appeared onscreen. Had Krakatit been made in Hollywood by an independent studio like Monogram with a larger than normal budget, it would be considered a movie landmark, and the greatest American sci-fi noir (if there is such a genre) ever made. 

BONUS POINTS: Four years before the publication of the novel Krakatit, its author Karel Capek wrote the stage play R.U.R., which introduced the word "robot". This guy was really on to something.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 59

A rare entry with three European movies and only one American. Good Lord, am I becoming a movie snob? 

ALRAUNE (1928): Something must have been in the Riesling during 1920s Germany, when movies about young women driving men literally mad with desire were all the rage --Pandora's Box, Diary of a Lost Girl, and The Blue Angel to name three. The more obscure Alraune adds a little bit of Frankenstein to the mix, as Prof. Jakob ten Brinken decides it would be cool to inseminate the sperm of an executed murderer into a streetwalker. You know, just to see what happens. 

If the original one-sheet on the right hasn't already tipped you off, the mad prof's "creation" -- named Alraune -- grows up to be a sexed-up young lady who can't help but leave a trail of half-crazed men (and one suicide) in her wake.  Eventually, she discovers who (or what) she really is, and, in revenge, gradually comes on to her "Papa". You know, just to see what happens. Like father, like daughter!

Famed German actress Brigitte Helm isn't exactly beautiful but gives Alraune the same literally mesmerizing sense of control over men as she did in Metropolis. She even stares down a pack of male circus lions into submission while in their cage. No wonder guys stand no chance with her -- not even her "Papa", played by Germany's premiere movie actor of the 1920s, Paul Wegener (The Student of Prague). Looking more like a 1950s Soviet official than a professor, Wegener's gradual decline from brilliant but nutty scientist to jealous, semi-incestuous would-be lover is one for the books, adding yet another sick layer to the story.  If you're a man, watch Alraune with the one you love some evening. You know, just to see what happens.

BONUS POINTS: The name Alraune is also a plant that, in mythology, grows where a hanged man's semen dropped to the ground, and grows into the shape of a human. Warning to gardeners: When pulled from the soil, the alraune allegedly lets out a scream that can kill you.

SMARTY (1934): "That was just awful", said my wife after watching Smarty. How could she not enjoy a pre-code comedy about a woman deliberately provoking her husband to respond with physical violence? And then eventually does the same thing with her second husband? When the little wifey tires of hubby #2, she returns to hubby #1 and manipulates him into slapping her twice, while he promises to beat her. And as any woman would do, she melts in his arms, kisses him and whispers, "Hit me again" as Smarty comes to its romantic end. Swooning yet? 

There's stuff in between, but you get the general idea. One of the last pre-code productions (by about six weeks), Smarty was made for Depression-era audiences to delight in the dysfunctional behavior of the idle rich. Vicki, the wife, is emotionally cruel, while husbands Tony and Vernon lack any self-respect. Its arch tone, slamming doors, and attempts at satiric sophistication probably worked in its original stage play incarnation, but as portrayed onscreen, you want to slap the hell out of all of them. As with Blood Money's Frances Dee yearning for "a good thrashing", Vicki isn't just asking for it, she's demanding it. What was up with women 90 years ago anyway?

God knows how, but Joan Blondell, husband #1 Warren William (the King of the Pre-Codes), and husband #2 Edward Everett Horton manage against all odds to create laughs from time to time.  Laid back co-stars Claire Dodd and Frank McHugh are their bemused friends enablers who egg on these sadomasochistic relationships. If emotionally cruel women and self-loathing, physically abusive men are funny to you-- as they apparently were in the UK where it was retitled Hit Me Again --Smarty is the romcom you've been aching for. 

BONUS POINTS: In today's parlance, Tony is triggered by Vicki's use of the phrase "diced carrots", which, while never made explicit, seems to be in regard to a part of his anatomy.

TO THE PUBLIC DANGER (1948): Say, remember those scary 15-minute movies
you had to watch in drivers ed classes back in the day? The ones where people do stupid things like drinking heavily before hopping behind the wheel? Well, years before that, a British movie studio got the bright idea to make a similar kind of picture and releasing it to cinemas. Don't forget the popcorn!

On-the-outs couple Fred and Nancy fall in with the charming Capt. Cole and his drunken mate Reggie at a local pub. In short order, Nancy and Cole get frisky while all four knock back whiskeys for the next couple of hours. The fun continues in Cole's car, as he drinks from a flask and lets Nancy take the wheel from the passenger side and -- BAM! Did they just hit someone riding a bike? No one can agree. Cole decides to stop at another pub where they get even more hammered, leading him to beat the crap out of Fred before continuing their joyride. One of the passengers eventually escapes this hell on wheels while the other three see it to the bitter end.

Sound a bit thin for a feature? Correct call, as To the Public Danger runs just 43 minutes, the perfect length for a brisk double bill. But there's nothing that screams "relaxing day at the movies" here. The first half is essentially 20 minutes of watching our "heroes" becoming progressively drunk, while much of the claustrophobic second half puts you literally in the driver's seat of an out-of-control auto. (The climax is genuinely terrifying.) While its short running time prevents To the Public Danger from wearing out its welcome, it would have been even better with Alfred Hitchcock calling the shots while the actors were drinking them.

BONUS POINTS: The twist ending is a genuine surprise, isn't a cheat, and is kind of funny in a way. Just not for the characters.

POPIOK I DIAMENT (ASHES AND DIAMONDS) (1958): 

Poland, V-E Day, 1945. Two members of the Polish resistance, Maciek and his mentor Andrezj, hang around a hotel waiting to assassinate a high-ranking Communist official. But as the hours pass, and a celebratory dinner for their target gets out of control, Maciek gradually falls in love with a barmaid, forcing him to question both his assignment and the choices he's made in his life that have led him to this pivotal moment. 

 I hadn't heard of Ashes and Diamonds until fairly recently. Word on the street -- OK, online -- was that it was one of the greatest movies ever made. And having finally gotten around to see it, I'd say it was one of the best looking movies ever. Its black & white cinematography and deft staging (as in a bombed-out church) were impressive as anything I've ever seen.

If there's a problem with Ashes and Diamonds is that it never looks remotely evokes 1945. Everything is strictly 1958, especially its 31-year-old star Zbigniew Cybulski as the philosophical assassin Maciek. Cybulski was for good reason considered the Polish James Dean -- only, to my eyes, a far better and more original actor. Like Dean, Cybulski was an icon of his generation who died in a violent accident, although making it to 40 rather than signing out at 24.

From his first moment onscreen to last, Cybulski is the real deal. Without aping Brando as so many of his contemporaries did, he seems to be creating something brand new right before your eyes. No, I was never convinced this character was actually around in 1945 -- not with that haircut or those cool lightly-tinted sunglasses he rarely removes -- but ultimately it didn't matter. 

For while appearing more modern, he (and the rest of the fine cast, for that matter) made the Eastern Europe political subplots that much easier to understand, the way modern-dress Shakespeare does for me. And in doing so, many if the movie's scenes might have already become permanent fixtures in my memory. Perhaps giving Ashes and Diamonds a second spin one evening will place it on my own imaginary Top 100 list. It's certainly more than worthy of just one viewing. 

BONUS POINTS: Cybulski's last moment onscreen features the most remarkable pieces of acting I've ever seen. It's highly unlikely any young actor could equal it today.

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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.

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GO JUMP IN A SHARK TANK

Pete begs not to be
replaced by A.I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    

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