THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 71

 A trip into the time machine to 1929 and 1930, dropping in on Germany and England, while making two stops in the USA. 

§173 ST.G.B. BLUTSCHANDE (1929):  Or, in plain English, Section 173 of The Criminal Code: Incest. So much for the "innocent" days of silent movies. (The literal translation of the German "blutschande" is "blood shame.")

 Martin Hollman and his late wife's adult daughter Lisbeth (from a previous marriage) fall in love. The local amtmann (i.e., bureaucrat) refuses to grant them a marriage license, citing the incest law, despite the couple not having a blood relation. When informed that Lisbeth has a pea in the pod, the outraged amtmann arrests them, and, following a trial, puts them in separate slammers. Reunited after several years, Lisbeth again gets pregnant. Despite the support of the villagers (including the local pastor), the amtmann once again arranges for their arrest. Lisbeth decides a walk in front of a speeding train is preferable to another jail jolt. 

Clearly, this silent drama would never have been made in Hollywood. Like the 1919 German production about homosexuality titled Different from the Others, §173 St.G.B. Blutschnade is a sympathetic take on its subject matter; while the couple might be in the wrong legally, even the town pastor recognizes they've done nothing untoward morally, including having two kids outside marriage. Lisbeth recognizes the societal hypocrisy when getting a post-prison housemaid job for a rich woman and her unfaithful husband. The wife encourages her adult daughter from a previous marriage to seduce and marry her own stepfather in order to "keep the money in the family."

A fascinating movie for its time, §173 St.G.B. Blutschnade is also kind of a slog to sit through. While the first two reels move at a good pace, the following 70 minutes drag; more than once I hit pause to see how much time was left. It's also an occasionally odd mixture of surreal imagery and over-the- top acting, especially from the nefarious amtmann (which might be deliberate, the easier to hate him). Still, §173 St.G.B. Blutschnade worth a viewing to be reminded how Hitler destroyed Germany's innovative movie industry in a few years' time. Hey, that reminds me, remember that American amtmann who refused to issue marriage licenses to gay couples? Good things we've come a long way since 1929 Germany, amirite?

THE VERY IDEA (1929): After a German drama about incest, it's time for a palate cleanser with a Hollywood a proto-screwball comedy about... eugenics! Get ready to laugh, America!

Alan Camp, a firm believer in "breeding" the right kind of baby via the best genetic lineage, convinces his strong, handsome chauffeur, Joe Garvin, and Joe's beautiful girlfriend Nora, to provide a child for his friends Gilbert and Edith, who are unable to conceive. One year later, Gilbert and Edith return from a "vacation", ready to pick up "their" baby without anyone else being the wiser... over Nora's motherly dead body.

There are some odd things in The Very Idea. Obviously, the idea of eugenics being played for laughs. The eugenicist himself being about the only intelligent person here. And you can tell, too, it was originally a Broadway show, with its lengthy dialogue exchanges, dull direction, as well as adult sophistication that still surprises today. (The movie was banned in a few cities during its original release.) 

While the dialogue is often more silly than witty, The Very Idea provides some good laughs, mainly when Gilbert and Edith give different, increasingly outlandish reasons for their year-long disappearance. Scenes like these offer a rare opportunity to see how a Broadway star of a century ago -- here, Allen Kearns -- would have been onstage, since he seems to be playing to the balcony. (He made only three features.) One sad piece of irony is that Hugh Trevor -- the actor playing the perfect genetic specimen -- died in 1933 of complications following an appendectomy, which should make the eugenicist's thesis questionable at best. Taking the good and the meh into consideration, The Very Idea is a fascinating way to learn that a movie from 1929 could be more adult than your average contemporary blockbuster.

BONUS POINTS: Now if we're talking good genes, co-star Doris Eaton returned to the screen in the Jim Carrey movie Man on the Moon in 1999 after a six-decade retirement. She also gave regular dance performances at AIDS benefits, making her final appearance one month before dying at 106. 

THE FLYING SCOTSMAN (1929): An example of the silent/talkie hybrid genre that fascinates an ever-shrinking cadre of movie fans (hello, me!), the UK production The Flying Scotsman -- that's a train, not a superhero -- chugs along at a brief 59 minutes. In its first (silent)

half, Crow, the train's former coal shoveller, is fired by Old Bob, the engineer, for drinking on the job. As Crow vows revenge, his replacement Jim unknowingly starts dating Old Bob's daughter Joan. The following day, Joan learns Crow is going to hijack the train, hoping to kill Old Bob and Jim in the process, and is determined to stop him.

The most interesting thing about the first 30 minutes of The Flying Scotsman is that it marks the lead debut of Ray Milland (or, as the credits read, Raymond Milland). Perhaps making up for the silence, Milland's facial expressions are rather, er showy; he tones things down in the talking second half, where you can hear his familiar Cary Grant-like diction underneath the character's Cockney accent. 

But what really stuns today are Alec Hurley and Pauline Johnson (Crow and Joan) climbing along and atop of the speeding train without any special effects, cutaways, or process shots -- and Johnson is in high heels!  I bet they didn't even get a "stunt pay" bonus, either. While Hurley keeps the tough-guy expression, I think that's genuine fear in Johnson's face.

Outside of former stuntman Richard Talmadge, I don't know of any other actor, British or American, who would have agreed to this literally death-defying scene. (Hurley could have been killed as the train passed through the tunnel.) If you're at all interested in seeing what was expected of actors back in the day, go to YouTube and fast-forward The Flying Scotsman to the 40-minute mark and settle in. It would have made a great short subject.

BONUS POINTS: Watching two actors almost get killed just to get a good shot makes you have even more contempt for today's "stars".

LORD BYRON OF BROADWAY (1930): You've never seen Lord Byron of Broadway, but you know the story: talented guy uses people on the way up until the tables turn and he crashes back to the bottom. Songwriter Roy Erskin, who gets creative inspiration from breaking women's hearts, hits the bigtime with his stage partners Joe Lundeen and lovesick Nancy Clover. Roy is ready to throw it all away upon meeting Ardis, a classy dame his equal in two-timing -- and who he doesn't realize is Joe's estranged wife. One death later, Roy is back where he started, where Nancy is waiting for him. 

The general idea could have worked as a noirish picture in the '40s -- it kind of reminded me of Blues in the Night -- but Lord Byron of Broadway lacks the polish of later musicals and the star power required to put it over. The two mediocre Technicolor production numbers create only derisive chortles, while supporting players Cliff Edwards and Benny Rubin (of all people!) have more screen presence than the top-billed Charles Kaley and Ethelind Terry. If the names are unfamiliar, it's because Kaley never made another movie, while Terry returned to the screen just once seven years later as an extra. Today they'd call it cancel culture. In 1930, it was simply a case of You stink. 

Contemporary movie historians blame Lord Byron of Broadway's commercial failure on its cynical lead character. Me, I just think it was just not a very good movie, being the usual creaky, unsteady talkie prevalent at the time. So few people saw Lord Byron of Broadway that MGM could get away with recycling one of the Technicolor numbers in a 1933 short starring Ted Healey & the Three Stooges, and again a year later in another short starring Curly Howard with a different pair of stooges, without anyone noticing. But I noticed a stage curtain (above) that was originally in MGM's The Hollywood Revue of 1929. Again, I ask, how did I ever get laid?

BONUS POINTS: Something else I noticed: the uncredited voice of 36-year-old Jack Benny as a radio announcer, two years before his real-life radio debut.

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

A VARIETY OF TOPICS

Doesn't matter if you're on the left or right -- everybody says Hollywood (the catchall word for all things showbiz) isn't what it used to be. But has the entertainment world really changed all that much? Let's thumb through the October 2, 1929 issue of "the Bible of show business" Variety to see.

You can't turn on any news program without another actor or politician complaining about the possible merger of Paramount and Warner Bros. And yet, it almost happened in 1929-- the same month that Fox Film was going to take over Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. The only that stopped these mergers from happening? The stock market crash three weeks later. Like they say, Timing is everything. Honest to God, the idea of a contemporary studio still called Paramount-Vitaphone would have been the greatest thing ever. 

But this merger went through. RKO and Pathe weren't going to let the
destruction of our financial system stop them! And nobody cared about no damn merger!

Remember when pop stars Britney Spears, Amanda Byrnes, Drew Barrymore, and Selena Gomez were provided with room & board at psych wards? Maria Orska, star of German stage and screen, got there before they did. 

Think stage plays today have a tough time turning a profit? The Casino Theatre in Newport, RI says, "Hold my Narragansett."

A day doesn't go by without protests regarding A.I. taking the jobs of real people like carpenters and set designers. But the Schufftan film process had a head start. 

Tell me about it! Have you seen The Real Housewives of Boise?

What's the difference between having to pay for a livestream of a lousy, 27-second heavyweight boxing match and buying a movie ticket for the privilege a week later? (Answer: about 40 bucks.)

Nothing changes in the Motherland. You'd they'd catch on that their people just wanna have веселье. (That's "fun" for all you running dog capitalists.)

Admittedly, this is more political than showbiz, but -- are you listening, Mayor Mamdani?

Killing workers over the stupidest things is an American tradition.

Suing people over the stupidest things is an American tradition.

This is from four years earlier, but I couldn't resist. Threatening to deport people for the stupidest reasons is an American tradition.

                                                                

                                                                  ################

TODAY IN NEW YORK

 So what's going on in the city I've called home for 45 years? Let's pull back the curtain and take a look.

Cyclospora, otherwise known as the "explosive diarrhea" bug. We're back to the early days of covid, washing our foodstuffs with everything other than Clorox before eating them. 

And which ones are possibly infected? Fresh fruit. Fresh vegetables. Meat. Dairy. Coffee. Alcohol. Well, thank God I don't drink alcohol anymore! 

As of this morning, five more ZIP codes, all in Central Harlem, are infected, bringing the total to eight neighborhoods. I've lost track of the number of cases, hospitalizations, and deaths, but trust me: it's a lot. 

Seventy-six infected cooling towers have been cited, including the rich kids' private girls school on our block, along with my wife's gym and the CVS where she recently received her pneumonia shot. There's no escaping this damn thing!

As in 2023, we say Thanks a heap, Canada! On the upside, with the air quality index at only half of the previous 415 -- you remember, the day New York had the worst air quality in the world -- the sky won't turn quite as orange or be quite as death-inducing.

On the other hand, the city has a vague aroma of a campfire gone out of control, the sky is a hazy grey, and everyone is advised to stay home, hide under the couch and wear a covid mask. Oh, and don't breathe until the city gives the all-clear. (New York's air quality hasn't been all clear in about 200 years, but we'll let that pass.)

 

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. It's hot as hell.

And yet with all this plague-like madness going on, I went out early this morning to get some errands out of the way. 

What did I see? Well, aside from the Canadian smoke, there were people. Jogging, walking their dogs, going to work, picking up garbage. Even setting up outdoor seating at restaurants. 

Why? We are fucking New Yorkers. There are things to do, people to serve, a city to run. We shut down for 24 hours after 9/11, then got back to work, school, and took our kids to the playground and parks. You think we're going to let legionella, explosive diarrhea, a little smoke and heat stop us? Hell, no! Now let me seal the windows, get out the toilet paper, crank up the A.C., and wash the veggies for 20 minutes. I've got a life to live! 

TRASH TALK

God save the King.

 As we await conspiracy theories involving the death of Lindsey Graham -- personally, I think he drove off a cliff after misplacing his moral compass -- let us turn to the Goon Show-style antics otherwise known as British politics. 

Nigel Farage, a self-styled "man of the people", got himself elected as Member of Parliament via the Donald Trump route: pretending to be a right-wing populist while being part of the establishment he was ostensibly campaigning against. His Reform Party was catching on in a big way until it was discovered Farage had accepted £5 million from a British crypto bro. 

Even the Brits know how to make "the
politician face".

Farage, a clever lad from Farnborough, huffily stated he didn't have to declare the money because it was a "gift" and not a campaign donation. Unlike Trump's MAGA zombies and the Republican party in general, Farage's "explanation" didn't go over well with anyone in any UK political party. 

Instead of simply retreating to his estate in order to write his unread and unreadable memoirs, he resigned and called for a by-election in Clacton (could anything sound more British?) with himself in the running. 

This puts a temporary halt to the Parliamentary investigation into his finances. Farage is convinced that he'll win, giving him the chance to say something like, "The people have spoken, so an investigation into my sketchy finances is a waste of taxpayer's shillings."

The "establishment" parties quite rightly consider this a dodgy wheeze, and refuse to run their own candidates against him. Therefore, it was up to a real man of the people to give Farage a run for his £5 million. Enter Count Binface, the 5,900-year-old "intergalactic warrior" from the planet Sigma IX, who covers his face with a garbage bin.

Bin there, done that.

Wait, I know what you're going to say: How can someone from another planet
represent Clacton? And isn't he a little old for the job? 

Read his platform before judging. Outside of the more attention-getting promises -- nationalizing Adele, force lawbreaking bicyclists to ride unicycles, renaming the London Bridge to Phoebe Waller Bridge -- there are others no politician would touch. Requiring water company execs to swim in polluted rivers "to see how they like it"; banning "loud snacks" from theatres; and demanding "trains that work" 

Count Binface au naturel.

If a candidate in New York made these promises, they'd get elected in a heartbeat. And as things stand now, the same might be true in the UK, where Count Binface is beating Farage in the polls 33% to 21%. Yesterday, one of the British news shows I listen to reported that betting parlors that had Binface's chance at 500-1 a month ago are now putting the odds at 5-1. Nigel Farafe must really be what the Brits call a prat.

And here's what's funnier. It's no secret that Count Binface is really a comedian named Jonathan David Harvey. And that if he were to win, the biggest problem is that MPs are not allowed to wear suits of armor or non-religious headgear. 

Let's see David Muir try this.

Still funnier? Watching "news readers" keep a straight face while conducting serious interviews with a guy wearing a garbage can on his head. Damn, I love the British style. 

Political nerds around the world will slavishly watch the results of the by-election in Clacton on August 13. And although even Count Binface himself doesn't expect to win, neither did Donald Trump in 2016. Let this be a lesson to so-called political experts everywhere: forcing polluters to swim in their own waste has a certain appeal. Don't count out the Count!

                                                            ###############

HOT TOWN, SUMMER IN (AND OUT OF) THE CITY

 Summer started with a bang -- literally.  Around 9:30 p.m. of our final night of a quick getaway upstate, the wind picked up from out of nowhere. Within five minutes, the show got started real good, with rain, thunder, and lightning out of an old monster movie. By 9:45, the power went out.

For about an hour, there was never a second that the sky wasn't blue with lightning, the air constantly exploding with thunder, the wind wasn't threatening to blow the trees down, and the rain didn't drop from the sky with a fury not seen since Noah went for a sail with his animal friends. You've never seen a thunderstorm like the ones they get in upstate New York.

When morning came, the sky was blue, the air was calm, and the power still off -- as was the water. That's the charm of country life. You not only loose electricity, but you have to pour pails of hot tub water into toilets to flush the damn things.

A stroll down the road showed the damage. Fallen trees, power lines laying on the ground like dead snakes, charred wood where lightning had struck. A fellow coming from the opposite end had to drive his car under a fallen tree to get home. This is the 21st century?

It was our final day before returning
home, and a good thing, too, since the power didn't return to the town until the following afternoon. A tip to all towns and cities: do what Manhattan did in the late 19th century and move the powerlines underground. Your population will thank you the next time a storm hits.

We returned to the city during the final portion of the gruesome heatwave you might have heard about. But just to make sure our lives were that much more fascinating, a recent outbreak of Legionnaires Disease had settled in our ZIP code and the adjoining one. By Tuesday, it had spread to a third nearby neighborhood. 

For those not acquainted with the patriotic-sounding illness, let's study this handy guide:

We've got the old school water tank, so that puts us in the clear. As for potential victims, the most likely are those over 50, smokers, and/or with immunodepression illnesses. Since I fall into only the "over 50" category, I suppose I'm only 30% liable to drop dead if were to breathe in contaminated mist.  

The map to the left shows the possible causes of L.D. as of Tuesday. The numbers have likely grown since the addition of the 10075 ZIP code. I think our street has the blue pushpin of death, although our particular block is safe. Doubtlessly the more elite Upper East Siders chartered the first Gulfstream to the safest tropical isle they could find until this thing blows over. Although I don't want the mist to blow over my building, immunodepression or not.

If this wasn't enough to contend with, a four-block area of Midtown was closed
for a couple of days to a "buckling building" that was being converted from office space to apartments.

Well, what did they think would happen when they added 11 additional floors to the top of a 66-year-old building? That it would just stand there and take it? It's like people who are surprised every time their above-ground powerlines go kablooey during storms. or when there's an outbreak of Legionnaires Disease in buildings with cooling towers. I can't wait to see what the next 10 weeks of summer bring. Maybe people being severely injured by setting off fireworks in their back yard. That's something nobody expects, either.

                 ############

BOULEVARD OF BROKEN SCHEMES

Your grandparents went to the
movies 46 times in 1929. You go twice
a year. Ergo, it's your fault.

Hollywood is dying, so the YouTube videos tell me. Prop supply businesses closing up. Writers becoming building contractor supervisors or -- gasp -- writers' assistants. Agents moving back to the East Coast, actors working fulltime at Home Depot, productions moving to Canada, Hungary, Bulgaria...

And why? Covid, strikes, A.I., unions, overpaid A-listers, overstaffed writers rooms, overpriced cinema tickets, streaming, the new Supergirl movie -- it's all very familiar to me. Only my roadblocks and detours started earlier.

Note: much of the following information will be familiar to some. I write about it here to, as they say, put things in perspective. And take up space.

My former writing partner and I churned out several scripts starting in the late 1980s. Our years of work amounted to one option and a near-miss that otherwise could have been our ticket to success. (It's still a good idea, but that's another story.) I continued on my own for a few more years, to no avail. Scripts dropped off with agents wound up dropped off in their trash cans.

They do a pretty good job keeping my books 
from falling over, too.

Then a lucky break. An old college friend, now working at NBC, hired me to write network promos, freelance, at $500 a day. My first job won three Promax awards, and more years of work, not just at NBC, but other networks and one movie studio. 

At last! A steady writing gig, with my name becoming familiar with a growing number of showbiz execs! Would this lead to a full-time job writing from the comfort from my Upper East Side bedroom? Or would I be moving to L.A. with my own office on a studio lot? Who cares, as long as those checks keep coming!

Thanks a lot, Osama.

All that came to a roaring stop on September 11, 2001. For reasons I didn't understand at the
time and no longer remember, the networks started belt-tightening almost overnight. NBC got rid of 25% of all its full-time employees, and 100% of the freelancers. Other networks, studios and production houses followed suit. Even my full-time job in New York used 9/11 as an excuse to start chopping the payroll. 

Time passed. Seeing that showbiz was no longer where it was happening, I took a course on selling freelance pieces to newspapers and the budding world of online news sites.

Boom -- suddenly, the New York Daily News started buying my stuff for its op-ed page. Double boom -- a contributor to The Weekly Standard hooked me up with his editor. Suddenly, I was a regular contributor to the online version of their magazine. I'd wake up early almost every morning, bang out a piece and submit. 

Bill Kristol isn't so sure about me.

The checks were coming day after day. A lot of my Weekly Standard pieces were reprinted on Bloomberg, Business Insider, Forbes, and, once, CBS News (pre-Bari Weiss). At last! A steady gig, with my name becoming familiar with a growing number of news outlets!

All that came to a roaring stop with the rise of "free" news sites replacing newspapers and magazines that cost money. Over the years, full-time writers and freelancers got tossed overboard like unnecessary weight off a leaky zeppelin. It didn't help that my editor at the Standard left and was replaced by two people who didn't like my style -- the style that their predecessor loved.

No way! I'm gettin' the benjamins, bro!

Time passed. I was laid off my full-time job. Seeing that news commentary was no longer where it was happening, I went
back the showbiz route by doing background work. This coincided with becoming an occasional contributor to Next Avenue, the PBS-owned site for the over-50 crowd. 

Once again, my creative side was being fulfilled, this time with two outlets. Covid derailed the background work for several months followed by my busiest, most satisfying year ever.  At last! Two steady gigs, with my name becoming familiar with a growing number of casting agents, and an editor who liked my pieces!

Too bad Mickey doesn't stand with either of you.

Then came the double-whammy of actors and writers strikes. Throw in the Trump administration cutting off funding for PBS -- meaning Next Avenue -- and it's a triple. 

Background work has been slashed for union and non-union alike. The few sites paying freelancers do so in cents per word, the fewer the better. 

 I'm not looking for sympathy or pity. Frankly, I'm lucky I did as well as I did, considering I was already in my 40s when the good times started, grew when in my late 50s, and peaked when I was at the age when most people retire. Finding whatever success I had in each field kept my spirits and finances afloat; I look back on those times with nothing but good memories. They were fun, and fun is something not to be taken lightly.'

God, that's clever.

9/11. The rise of the internet. Covid. Strikes. Streaming. Artificial Intelligence. I
experienced it all before it became a meme. Before images of the HOLLYWOOD sign crumbling down the mountain became as much of a cliche as anything you'd see in a Jennifer Lopez movie. 

Maybe it helped I never quite got the brass ring. No matter how promising things got with each job, I never had far to fall when it stopped. 

Otherwise, I could be that Academy Award-winning sound mixer I saw online, who worked just 10 days last year in his chosen field, and is now toiling away at a big box store. His Oscar is likely taunting him from his mantlepiece -- How's it feel to be one of the crowd, Mr. Hollywood? My Promax awards are content to be flashy bookends.

Good news, though. I worked one three-day background gig on an A-list movie in May -- the first in a year -- and am scheduled for another job on a popular TV series next month.  A comeback at age 70, or a bone tossed to an old dog? Let me scratch behind my ear and think about it.

                                                         #########

MOST LIKELY YOU GO YOUR WAY (AND HE'LL GO HIS)

 For all the curveballs life throws at us, there are always a few things we can count on. Journalists using the word "earthquake" to describe any political result they weren't expecting. Commercial breaks on Netflix appearing in the middle of a vital line of dialogue. Some oaf sneezing without covering his mouth just as you walk past him on the street.

"It's not changing one goddamn bit."

Towering above all these, steadfast as the sun rising in the east or the tides controlled by the moon's gravitational pull, is this: People complaining about Bob Dylan concerts. 

You know the drill. I couldn't understand the lyrics. He sounded terrible. He never acknowledged us. He didn't sing the hits. He sang the hits but gave them different arrangements. I didn't know he was singing "John Wesley Harding" until 10 seconds before the song ended. 

Have any of these muttonheads not read a review of a Dylan show in the last quarter-century? This is Bob's whole shtick. This is how Bob is. This is who Bob is. Anyone expecting something different is being willfully stupid. It's like being stunned that Paul McCartney is an entertainer. 

Noel Paul or Bob -- which one looks cooler?

The latest person to be shocked, shocked I tell you, that Bob Dylan concerts don't replicate evenings at the Gaslight Cafe circa 1961 is Noel Paul Stookey, better known by his middle name when he was the tall guy in Peter, Paul & Mary. What is Mr. Stookey's reaction to Bob's "Never Ending Tour"?

 “I’m saddened by it. Because that’s all he’s got. I mean, that’s all he’s got. He hides behind a piano when he plays. I saw him recently in Boston. It must be really, really difficult for him to have a real relationship with somebody. I mean, unless he’s got a separate little place that he runs to, in which case, God bless you, Bob Dylan."

Did Mr. Stookey become Dr. Stookey, Psy.D. when my back was turned? Really, you can figure out someone's personal life by the way he plays piano? Unless that pianist is named Liberace, I call bullshit on Mr. Stookey's analysis. 

And don't forget Sebastian Cabot.

You know what kind of relationships Mr. Stookey has? I dunno! I can't analyze his private life by the way he plays acoustic guitar. But I know what he doesn't have: a musical legacy that reaches back roughly 65 years, and that has influenced musicians as varied as the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Bruce Springsteen, and David Bowie. 

Hell, if he had never written anything other than "Blowin' in the Wind", "Like a Rolling Stone", "Masters of War", and "The Times They Are A-Changing", he'd be legendary. You could read every book analyzing Dylan's songs, style, and impact, and still never live long enough to finish them.

Nothing says "folk music" like wardrobe from
from Bloomingdale's.

Peter, Paul & Mary, on the other hand, were created by music manager Albert Goldman to cash in on the folk craze. Only Peter Yarrow had a folk background. Paul was part of a band that combined pop music with comedy, while Mary Travers was a Broadway chorus girl. 

They were to folk music what Pat Boone was to rock & roll: well-dressed young people meant to record bland, non-threatening, chicken broth-smooth versions of the real thing for the masses. Oh, and "Puff the Magic Dragon"? More like "Choke the Tragic Flagon". (I'm sure that has some kind of meaning if you think about it hard enough.)

Pat Boone is a CIA psyop.

If Peter, Paul & Mary deserve any credit, it was adding to Bob Dylan's coffers by recording radio-friendly versions of his songs, the way Pat Boone crooning "Ain't That a Shame" and "Tutti-Fruitti" made money for Fats Domino and Little Richard. As Mr. Stookey would condescendingly say, God bless you, Pat Boone.

If Mr. Stookey hadn't believed Dylan would change his act just for him, his comments regarding the concert might have been, "What can you say? It's Bob being Bob. I knew what to expect. And you know, I tip my hat to him for following his muse, whatever it is, no matter what anybody says. That's Bob all over, isn't it?" And Mr. Stookey would chuckle and sip his dandelion tea.

How have other fans reacted to Bob over the years? And how did he react? Let's see,

Booed him when switched to rock & roll in 1965. Didn't care. 

Scratched their heads when he recorded a country album in 1969. Didn't care.

Hated the Self-Portrait album in 1970. Didn't care. 

Freaked out when he "went Christian" in 1979. Didn't care. 

Gave up on him when he used synthesizers in 1985. Didn't care. 

DGAF

Wept when he let an accounting firm use "The Times They are A-Changing" in a commercial in 1994. Didn't care. 

Choked when he sold his music catalogue to Universal for around $400-million in 2020. Didn't care.

Threw in the towel when he sold his master recordings to Sony in 2022. Didn't care. 

Keep showing up to his concerts even though they're going to complain in 2026. Doesn't care.

If you can't figure out Bob Dylan by now... guess what.

                                                    ##########