THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 65

Frank Capra makes his Early Show debut, an honor he likely would have refused, while Bela Lugosi, Walter Huston, and Edward G. Robinson return to join an antediluvian vaudeville act in their first (and last) appearance. 

THEY LEARNED ABOUT WOMEN (1930): Here's a story you've never seen before: two lifelong friends are torn apart by a no-good dame. The twist: the friends are professional baseball players who moonlight as vaudeville entertainers. Or the other way around, it's never made clear.

One doesn't watch a picture like They Learned About Women for entertainment any more than archeologists explore pyramids to find a new place to live. It's strictly historical study, for this is the only feature starring Gus Van & Joe Schenck -- in their time (c. 1915-1930) the most popular singing duo in show business, who are now as au courant as the allosaurus. 

And here's where it gets fascinating for nerdy amateur showbiz historians. Put aside for a moment that Van has the face of a human bulldog, and Schenck possesses the voice of Neil Sedaka turned up to 11. They are great at what they do if -- and this is important -- you remember what audiences enjoyed a century ago, like harmony as loud as the lead voice, or songs featuring dialect humor. They Learned About Women feature three of the latter: African-American (despite the potential offense, a fantastic number you can watch here), Irish, and Italian, (You can find Van & Schenck shorts where they do their "tributes" to Jews and Chinese as well.)

Not all the music in They Learned About Women is culturally unacceptable in the 21st century; it's artistically unacceptable as well, although I enjoyed them tremendously. Without Van & Schenck, They Learned About Women would be an exercise in ennui. It's best to fast-forward through the "drama" and go straight to the songs -- IF you have any interest in the kind of pop music that was already going out of style by the time of the movie's release (Schenck himself died six months later). Don't miss leading lady Bessie Love's jazzy solo "I Got Me a Real Man", either. She's kind of a hot mama in her own innocent way.

BONUS POINTS: Authentic footage of the old Yankee Stadium is featured in the climactic ballgame. 

AMERICAN MADNESS (1932): For a director remembered for uplifting movies, Frank Capra had a pretty cynical (meaning accurate) eye for corruption, unbridled capitalism, and the sheer idiocy of the average American. His movies' tacked-on happy endings are nothing more than fairytale codas meant to make you forget the reality you just experienced. 

American Madness may be the first entry in that quasi-genre, and is definitely better than its forgotten status would have it. It also plays like the blueprint for It's a Wonderful Life, seeing that it focuses on a down-to-earth bank president facing a hostile takeover and a hostile clientele when hysterical rumors lead to a run by panicked depositors. 

Walter Huston, as usual, knocks it out of the park as Thomas Dickson, the big city bank president with a heart of gold and a knack for seeing the good in everybody -- even when one of them, cashier Cyrill Cluett, engineers the bank's robbery to pay off a debt to a gangster. Pat O'Brien is Matt, a colleague who believes Cluett is fooling around with Dickson's wife, winds up being the prime suspect in the robbery. But it's Huston who's the star of the show; his casual chit-chat and gangly walk suggest a friendly small-town businessman who goes by his gut feeling when it comes to loaning money. He's the boss you've always dreamed of having yet has never existed in real life. 

Strangely, American Madness feels at times more like a Howard Hawks picture, with realistic overlapping dialogue and fast paced action, leading an eye-popping climax with what looks like the biggest group of extras since the Babylon scene in Intolerance.  Brimming with humor, drama, and outright misanthropy, American Madness is the work of a moviemaker still questioning the so-called wisdom of both the ruling class and middle class. 

BONUS POINTS: American Madness is one of the last movies to feature the credit DIRECTED BY FRANK R. CAPRA. Maybe he dropped the "R" because it didn't have the same ring as Darryl F. Zanuck or Louis B, Mayer. 

THE DEATH KISS (1932): Gangsters are setting up a hit. As the target exits a nightclub, their moll gives him an unexpected kiss, allowing the hitmen to ready, aim, fire. CUT! It turns out we're on a movie set. As the director arranges for a second take, the crew realizes the actor was killed for real. Is Alec Baldwin on the loose again?

Cheap joke aside, The Death Kiss is actually quite a decent picture, reuniting the stars of the previous year's hit, Dracula: Bela Lugosi, Edward Van Sloan, and David Manners. Disappointingly, Lugosi, as studio manager Joseph Steiner, doesn't have a lot to do other than seem awfully anxious to pin the murder on the leading lady, who had been divorced from the now-dead actor. Van Sloan (as director Tom Avery) merely wants the set locked down, while Manners (wisecracking scriptwriter Franklyn Drew) wants to find the real killer since he's in love with the sexy suspect, as all scriptwriters are.

For a Poverty Row production from Sono Art-World Wide (the abhorrent Lucky Boy and Peacock Alley), The Death Kiss is a quite the meta-mystery in that it gives a behind-the-scenes look at the picture business, making good use of the equally-low-budget Tiffany Studios (where The Death Kiss was filmed) as we visit the sound stages, screening room and back lot. And typical of "inside" movies of the time, the guy running the studio is a malaprop-slinging Jewish caricature. (His response upon hearing about the murder of his star: "Oy, that's going to cost me a fortune!"). Figuring out whodunnit is beside the point; The Death Kiss is a fun watch, with some clever camerawork and familiar character actors helping to speed things along -- literally. You won't realize until the end that it all takes place in one day.

BONUS POINTS: As with The Vampire Bat, The Death Kiss uses the occasional hand-tinted sequences for cheap but interesting effects, especially when a movie reel goes up in flames. And did you know that the iceman often slid his delivery into the icebox through a special door in the wall of the house? The things you learn in old movies!

NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES (1948): Sometimes a movie can make you rethink
your admiration of an actor (like Robert de Niro in most movies not directed by Martin Scorsese). Night Has a Thousand Eyes, on the other hand, increased my appreciation for Edward G. Robinson.

Its story isn't anything new, A phony showbiz psychic named Triton acquires a sudden gift (if you can call it that) of real prognostication which eventually sets off a chain of events that prevents the death of one person and causes the death of another --an idea previously explored in The Clairvoyant with Claude Raines. And as with The Clairvoyant, Night Has a Thousand Eyes deliberately makes you wonder if the tragic climax was inevitable or caused by the psychic's own actions: a cop-out ending to please the censors, I'd say. 

None of this negates my belief that Edward G. Robinson was the best of the major tough-guy actors of his time, including Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. Because while those two gentlemen are great at what they do, Robinson goes one step further by creating enormous empathy for characters like Triton. You can picture Robinson in, say, The Caine Mutiny or White Heat, but neither Bogart nor Cagney could have starred in Night Has a Thousand Eyes -- or Scarlett Street, The Woman in The Window, Tales of Manhattan, and other dramas where Robinson shows a side painful in its melancholy. Kind of lost in the shuffle among the "classic" Robinson movies, Night Has a Thousand Eyes needs a million more viewers.

BONUS POINTS: William Demarest has a rare "straight" role as Police Lieut. Shawn, occasionally cracking wise as a sop to his fans.

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

ZOHRAN OVER TRUMP

In the weirdest political courtship since James Carville and Mary Matalin (or Josef Stalin and Adolf Hitler, depending on your feelings toward the men in question), Mayor Zohran Mamdani and President Donald Trump were on the same page concerning two New York issues. Issues that, theoretically, should have put them further apart than Jelly Roll and Joan Baez. 

The first of Mamdani's asks was for help in getting $21-billion in grants for affordable apartments and -- get this -- a new neighborhood in the Sunnyside section of Queens. I didn't even know you could build a new neighborhood, but that's why I'm not a mayor or real estate developer. Well, there are other reasons, none having to do with the Epstein files (where the real estate developer is mentioned over 1,000 times).

How did it go? According to Mamdani's press secretary Joe Calvello, “The president was very enthusiastic about this idea." Maybe Trump's addled mind thought the housing would be used to imprison people with non-white skin color. But let's be optimistic and take him at his (usually misanthropic) word.

Their voters would ask, "What's not wrong with
this picture?"

Aware that Trump is a sucker for positive headlines and phony awards, Mamdani sweetened the deal by gifting him with a mock-up of a New York Daily News front page paying fealty with “Backs new era of housing" and “Trump delivers 12,000+ homes, most since 1973.” You can see by the photo how both men felt about this folderol. Or, as it's called now, performative politics.

The second issue centered on the arrest of Columbia University student Elimina Aghayeva by -- who else? -- ICE goons. In a rare moment of not condemning or mocking a person with a name he couldn't pronounce, Trump agreed with Mamdani that it wasn't a good idea and had her freed a few hours later.

I repeat: Donald Trump freed from ICE custody a foreigner with a funny name on the request of the Socialist Mayor of New York from Kampala, Uganda. What kind of a world are we living in?

When hardcore Mamdani supporters ask their hero How can you work with that terrible person?, he can reply, That's how you get shit done sometimes. You don't like it? Vote for Adams next time. 

When hardcore MAGA screams, Why did you help that Commie mayor with tax money and freeing a foreigner from ICE, Trump can reply, Look, I just bombed Iran!

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

LITTLE RHODY, BIG LIARS

 Outside of the recent record-breaking blizzard, my birth state of Rhode Island doesn't make much news. That's probably a good thing. Better to pass through life unnoticed than be in the spotlight for the wrong reasons -- as just happened this week.

I know I'd lie if I belonged to a club like this.

A recent census found the states with what can be considered the worst

citizens in the country. Florida is populated by the biggest scammers (romance, not politics, oddly). Nevada is the most deceitful (you mean where Las Vegas is? Shocked!). And in little ol' Rhode Island, forty percent of its citizens admit to lying most of the time.

And the Rhode Island Red is actually
brown!

Assuming that the Rhode Islanders answering this survey were telling the truth -- which is sketchy, judging by the numbers -- close to 500,000 residents cannot be trusted when they say, "Love your boat shoes" or "Of course the fried clams won't make you sick." 

For a state that was founded on the principle of freedom of religion, these numbers are either shocking or to be expected. There's no reason given for Rhode Islanders' deceit. Maybe they learned from their politicians, who were some of the most corrupt in the country for decades. 

 Rhode Island was also the home of the New England Mafia, with the Patriarca Family calling (and shooting) the shots. Those guys usually refer to themselves as being in "hospitality", which is definitely falls under the category of lying, or "waste management". Come to think of it, that could be considered true, if by "waste" they mean "wiseguys who aren't forking over all the vig they're collecting", and "management" means "whack".

Or it could come down to the simple fact that, outside of beach-going or the Newport Jazz Festival, there's nothing fun to do in Rhode Island except lie. Speaking personally, the number of untruths and secrets going on in my birth-family when I was growing up was staggering. It wasn't fun, but it's nice to know we weren't outliers. Or is outliars?

North Dakota: The Sundown State
for Democrats.

A couple of caveats regarding this survey. First, the most truthful state was North Dakota -- politically, one of the reddest in the country, marching in lockstep with Donald Trump, the biggest liar that has ever occupied the White House. Either there's a serious disconnect between voters and their electees, or they're the biggest liars.

Second, the survey was commissioned by Tarotoo, an online astrology service that took zodiac signs into consideration. That points to a 40% chance they're located in Rhode Island. No lie. 

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

PARSING THE KING

 The official press release, followed by the translation:

I HAVE LEARNED: The coppers gave me a heads-up three hours ago.

WITH THE DEEPEST CONCERN: Concern that the royal family is about to go the way of the Hindenburg.

THE NEWS ABOUT ANDREW MOUNTBATTEN-WINDSOR: Notice I didn't say "my brother"? Pretty clever, right?

AND SUSPICION OF MISCONDUCT IN PUBLIC OFFICE: Because emails and photographs aren't really evidence, are they? 

WHAT FOLLOWS IS NOW THE FULL, FAIR AND PROPER PROCESS BY WHICH THIS ISSUE IS INVESTIGATED IN THE APPROPRIATE MANNER AND BY THE PROPER AUTHORITIES: Now that my mother and I can no longer cover up for Andrew's crimes.

IN THIS, AS I HAVE SAID BEFORE, THEY HAVE OUR FULL AND WHOLEHEARTED CO-OPERATION: After we spent over 15 years hiding it and threatening anyone who asked about it.

LET ME STATE CLEARLY: THE LAW MUST TAKE ITS COURSE: After over 15 years of preventing it.

AS THIS PROCESS CONTINUES, IT WOULD NOT BE RIGHT FOR ME TO COMMENT FURTHER: Bloody hell, leave me alone! 

MEANWHILE, MY FAMILY AND I WILL CONTINUE IN OUR DUTY AND SERVICE TO YOU ALL: Just don't ask what our duty and service is outside of covering up family messes, avoiding taxes, and eating quail for lunch.

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

GONE WITH THE WINDSORS

 

That's the least of his problems.

As the world's most famous sex predator/ pedophile/ traitor who isn't named Trump lives the good life in the English countryside on the taxpayer's dime shilling, bad news continues to rise like acrid smoke from the town dump.

One of the latest pieces of burning trash: whenever Mumsie was out of town, Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor would swoop in and use Buckingham Palace as his personal knocking shop (British slang for brothel). The codename he gave his "dates" was "Mrs. Windsor". As in, when giving a heads-up to the security detail, "Mrs. Windsor will arrive shortly, please let her in and show her up."

Which one had the worst taste?

The real ex-Mrs. Windsor didn't mind. Not as long as Jeffrey Epstein kept paying her bills. Her feelings for Epstein wavered from familial ("Thank you Jeffrey for being the brother I have always wished for") to something more, er, personal ("Xx I am at your service . Just marry me"). Not that it would ever happen. Even Jeffrey Epstein knew where to draw the line. And he's the guy who thanked an Arab CEO for providing him with "torture videos"!

Not surprisingly, Andrew Mountbatten- Windsor and his former wife continue to be the object of derision, loathing, and ridicule. And that's from people who like the Royal Family.

That's no joke. I've noticed an odd thing among the right-of-center hosts of the "breakfast programmes" and "chat shows". They report with justifiable disgust that the family has been covering up Andrew's behavior for at least 15 years. 

"But then again, who hasn't fibbed now and then?"

But even when admitting they've had it with the whole lot, the hosts add, "But I support the Royal Family" or "But I am a monarchist." It's like saying, "Even though it's terrible how the hitman accidentally shot innocent bystanders, I still support the Gambino crime family."

Yet to me it's the Corleones  who come to mind, albeit with some differences. Queen Elizabeth was the Godmother, no question, calling the shots and paying off the right people. You did not cross the Godmother. 

Charles is the eldest, and like Sonny Corleone has a hot temper. He cheated on his first wife, too. As for another similarity --  in the novel, [Sonny's wife] allows – and is grateful for – his infidelities because she is unable to take the size of his penis -- that's up for debate. A debate I want no part of.

Keep smirking while you can, Fredo. Michael's
having none of it.

Andrew is Fredo, the imbecile with the slutty wife and an inability to do his job

correctly. All he focuses on are women, to the detriment of his family's "reputation", who continually have to clean up his messes.

This leaves William as Michael Corleone: the "good" son who was vaguely aware of what was going on, but never took part in the crimes themselves, and made his family proud. It's only when he took over the family, he started cleaning house. 

You remember what happened to Fredo, right? William is polishing his ring even now. Pucker up, royals, the fun is about to begin!

 

                                                               *******

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 64

There are actually actors you've heard of here. I must be slipping.

BEHIND THE MAKEUP (1930): Thanks to copyright expiration laws, a treasure

trove -- make that a pile -- of movies released in 1930 are appearing on YouTube every day. Most of them have been forgotten, and for good reason. But any starring William Powell is always a good bet, for he stands out in his early talkies like an ICE agent at a Quinceanera. But in a good way!

Still transitioning from character actor to leading man, Powell is Gardoni, a comedic entertainer from Italy stuck in New Orleans (why? how?) who teams up with third-rate vaudevillian Hap Brown. Even if you've never seen another movie in your life, you know what's coming. Gardoni steals Hap's material, his girlfriend Marie, and money, but eventually gets dumped by his sidepiece named Kitty. Drowning in gambling debts, Gardoni drowns himself for real, allowing Marie to return to Hap. Frankly, had I been that sap Hap, I'd have said "No sloppy seconds for me, lady!" and let her wallow in misery for the rest of her life.

Powell, per usual, towers over his co-stars, even with an Italian accent that sounds like... William Powell doing an Italian accent. As for his comedy partner/romantic rival, Hal Skelly's Hap doesn't come across well; you feel more contempt than empathy for allowing himself to be humiliated. Same with Fay Wray as Marie. Sure, Hap is a third-string vaudevillian, but how can she not see through Gardoni's "amore mio" routine? 

Likely the best thing to come out of Behind the Makeup was teaming William Powell with Kay Francis for the first of several times. Francis gives Kitty her usual chilly rich bitch style, taking delight in wooing Gardoni and ditching him for a millionaire. It's interesting to see Powell in the rare role of a rejected lover -- Myrna Loy never threw him overboard at MGM. As much as I like Powell, I say good for Kay Francis for giving what Gardoni deserved. Now if Hap had only done the same to Marie.

BONUS POINTS: Someone at Paramount's promo department played it cute, billing William Powell third in the posters and lobby cards, but second in the "cast of characters". 

FAST AND LOOSE (1930): The title of the goofy romantic comedy Fast and Loose seems to refer to the characters' behavior, their way with the truth, and the story itself: Spoiled rich kids fall in love with people beneath their class. Rich mother panics, rich father investigates for himself. Most of them wind up in the clink after a police raid at a restaurant. Stern talking-to, followed by love and kisses all around. You've seen it before, and are probably asking, So what?

This what. While Fast and Loose is predictable, the dialogue is... on the witty side. Sophisticated. Very often chuckle-worthy, going from Not bad to Hey, this is some funny stuff! The people credited with the original source material and screenplay are unfamiliar, but the "Dialogue by" goes to Preston Sturges. Ah ha, that explains it!

In only his second screen credit, Sturges is already displaying his talent for writing upscale dialogue that the average moviegoer could appreciate. Fast and Loose flirts with pre-code situations and conversations while never quite crossing the line -- or if it does, it's so subtle that many people wouldn't quite notice. And as with every Sturges movie I've seen, there's one moment that had me laughing loud and long, causing me to miss several subsequent lines of dialogue. It concerns the use of the word "cremated", which gives you a sense of what I find funny.

Oh, there's a cast, too. Miriam Hopkins (in her first feature), Carole Lombard, and Frank Morgan are the famous faces; they and the forgotten Charles Starrett, Ilka Chase, Barry O'Moore, and Henry Wadsworth all do a splendid job with Sturges' words. Had he written and directed Fast and Loose in the 1940s, it would have starred Veronica Lake, Joel McCrea, William Demarest, Rudy Vallee, and Eve Arden. It would have been even funnier, but the Fast and Loose that we have is more than good enough. 

BONUS POINTS: Miriam Hopkins resembles a 1970s model with her frizzy hair, while the pre-glamorous Carole Lombard is unexpectedly cute and innocent. 

LET US LIVE (1939): At the risk of being accused of heresy, I've never been a big Henry Fonda fan, He usually strikes me as flat and chilly, with cold, steely eyes that signals a hot temper seething underneath. 

Well, you can forget that for now, because the forgotten drama Let Us Live knocked me out of my chair thanks to Fonda's astonishingly emotional performance as Brick Tennant, who, along with his friend Joe, is wrongly sentenced to death row for murder. An upbeat, patriotic guy, engaged to his girlfriend Mary, Brick gradually loses his faith in the law, justice, and America itself as the public, the police, and the D.A. are hellbent on killing the two men even when Mary finds proof of their innocence. Only Lt. Everett, the original cop on the case, believes her, as they race the clock to prevent Brick and Joe from going to the chair.

Fonda's transformation from optimist to bitter cynic is remarkable in its believability. While Alan Baxter's Joe was already a skeptic, Fonda is shocked that everything he believed in America was a lie, making Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

look like a MAGA production (It also lays the groundwork for two future Fonda classics, The Grapes of Wrath and The Wrong Man.) Even the happy ending really isn't happy after all, because it's quite clear that the once-sanguine Brick has been changed forever, and nor for better. 

Credit needs to go to director John Brahm and his technical team for their splendid work with Let Us Live's proto-noir cinematography and lighting. A round of applause as well for Maureen O'Sullivan as Mary (this is the best acting of hers I've seen), and Stanley Ridges as the death-happy D.A. As with his other roles, it took me a few minutes to realize it was him -- he's absolutely the most underrated character actor of his time. And let's give Ralph Bellamy a pat on the back as Lt. Everett just because his character is essential to proving the guys' innocence. Let Us Live comes highly recommended from this movie dork. And it runs only 68 minutes!

BONUS POINTS: You'll get lockjaw from saying, "Oh, that guy!" due to all the recognizable character actors. In addition to the perennial Charles Lane, there's Byron Foulger, Dick Elliot, Henry Kolker, Charles Trowbridge, Clarence Wilson, John Qualen, Sam McDaniel...

CLIMAX!: "NO RIGHT TO KILL" (8/9/1956): It seems to be go-to idea for movie and TV writers: when in doubt, churn out an update of Crime and Punishment. If you're unfamiliar with the details -- other than there was a crime followed by punishment -- the TV Guide outline on the right will suffice.

John Cassavetes was still riding high on the previously discussed live TV play Crime in the Streets as a juvenile delinquent. His performance here as the doomed wannabe writer Malcom McCloud is more age-appropriate but less believable. He seems way too smart to declaim his grandiloquent dialogue ("I shall leave!") even though his character probably would likely speak that way to prove he's more intellectual than his Greenwich Village neighbors. Cassavetes is also saddled with direction that screams I killed the pawnbroker!, which only arouses the suspicion of District Attorney Profear when they meet at a party. (Just how McCloud has a friend who knows the D.A. goes unexplained.)

The two main costars come off better than Cassavetes because they're better fits for their roles. Terry Moore makes her cliched character of the dumb but kindhearted waitress sympathetic and kind of believable. She can't help feeling something for McCloud, who's different from the grabby guys who populate her restaurant. (Climax! host Bill Lundigan reminds us that Moore "appears through the courtesy of 20th Century-Fox and is currently starring in Between Heaven and Hell, a 20th Century-Fox production in Cinemascope". Thanks for appearing on the 15-inch TV screen, Terry!)

No offense to John Cassavetes, but Robert Harris comes out on top as D.A. Porfear. Without anything but a gut feeling to go on, the sly, witty Profear gradually allows McCloud to confess without using the third-degree. I will bet a C-note that Harris patterned his performance on that of Edward Arnold, who played the role in the 1935 version of Crime and Punishment opposite Peter Lorre. While Cassavetes is the draw today in No Right to Kill, Harris is the one you wind up remembering.

BONUS POINTS: The commercials for the 1956 Chryslers are impressive, seeing there are up to five on stage at one time, and have pretty cool windows, too! 

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

ANDREW THE LAST

 Anyone looking for a hard-hitting piece on Donald Trump's second Reich will have to go somewhere else, because there are a thousand or so professional scribblers who can do it a lot better.

This leaves me free to openly chaff, mock, and ridicule the Royal Family. And you know which one I'm talking about. 

Remember what happened to Robert Johnson
at the crossroads?

You've read the details about Andrew (the man without a title) and his pimp

Jeffrey Epstein (the man without a logical death certificate). Every day, the news gets worse. I suggest you wander over to YouTube and check out the pieces on the English-language France 24 news channel, where interviews and reports can last 20 or more minutes without commercial interruption. 

The art director is a graduate of the 
New York Post school of design.

British news programs, naturally, are all over this like blood on pudding. And I have to give credit to the conservative Talk TV channel, which has made room for tirades against Andrew and -- is it possible? -- King Charles for not doing more to punish his sexually demented sibling. 

Quick aside: The one funny thing they've reported is that Andrew feels hurt not by the accusations against him but being stripped of his membership in the Order of the Royal Garter. Funny because it sounds so childish. Funny, too, because the Royal Garter is an order of chivalry. Andrew and chivalry in the same sentence? The British really are incredibly droll.

Never was there a more
appropriate photo of the Queen.

As reporters comb through the three million pages of the Epstein files, one

interesting tidbit is being spoken of -- first in passing, but now more definitively. Andrew's moral and criminal misbehavior was known to the Royals going back years and years. And the Cover-Upper-in-Chief was none other than Queen Elizabeth II.

Cor blimey! The beloved monarch who reigned o'er her subjects for 70 years like the grandmother you always wanted even if she would never deign to touch you? That Queen Elizabeth was the obstructionist, accessory after the fact and consigliere for her sexually depraved favorite son? The mind reels, while the mouth laughs.

"I say, old chap, I would so appreciate
if you moved a little further down the road."

We can no longer lay all the blame on King Charles for merely wringing his hands and mumbling I've thrown him out of his house, what more can I do? as the entire British ruling class teeters on the precipice of ruin (oh, if only it were so everywhere). He's merely following the tradition that his dear mama learned from her parents, and they learned from theirs. Deny, deflect, lie. Picture Roy Cohn in jerkins and you get the idea.

Speaking as an American living under a racist, corrupt, mentally-deranged authoritarian, it's not my place to tell the Brits what to do with the freeloaders who live in Buckingham Palace. The difference is, we had it coming because Trump received enough votes (and Democrats had no idea how to speak to the American people without sounding like Yale economic professors). 

But the Brits! Remember how they made it clear they would be well rid of the royals until the Queen finally made a public statement showing a royal quarter-litre of compassion regarding the death of Lady Di? 

Now if only the police would post these.

That incident should remind the British public that they have the power to see justice done if they want it. Locals have already plastered "public safety announcements" in the village where Andrew resides, warning of a "SWEATY NONCE" ("nonce" being slang for pedophile). Andrew's royal servants have gone on strike rather than cook and clean for a deviant. The royal-friendly Daily Mail trashes him like his name were Meghan Markle. 

All of this would have been unthinkable in another era. But that's what entitlement does when the public -- or as Andrew would likely refer to them, "those yobs" -- has its fill of that lot. All together now: Off with their royal garters!

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

FILE UNDER: AWFUL PEOPLE

 As the Epstein files continue to roll out, people across the political spectrum may have to rethink their long-held beliefs. For the royalists, it's that Harry and Meghan were the worst things to happen to the Royal Family since the Duke of Windsor said, "Hi, Hitler!" to his charming host. Which, in their heart of hearts, they likely defend,

Remember, this was Queen Elizabeth's
favorite son.

For the left, it's that the crazy QAnon cult might not have been so crazy after all. Remember guffawing when they warned about an international sex/pedophile ring involving the world's elite? I sure do. It's like learning there really is a Santa Claus, only instead of children receiving gifts, they're being trafficked to the highest bidder. 

When I use the word "elite", it has nothing to do with education. For how stupid does one have to be not to wonder why your best friend is constantly snapping photos of you, preferably in the kind of compromising positions that two-bit private eyes would trade their best fedoras for? 

I didn't think anything could top Prince Andrew Andrew Mountbatten Windsor proudly pawing the prone body of a young woman -- or girl, perhaps? -- while making sure Jeffrey Epstein or one of his minions snapped away from various angles.

"Does it turn you on when I
commit treason, luvvie?"

But then came Peter Mandelson, the UK's Ambassador to the US, chatting with another young woman --or girl, perhaps? -- while clad only in a t-shirt and tighty-whities. Did it not occur to Mandelson to ask, "Hang on, mate, what's going on here?" 

Or had his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein gone so far from what is considered a normal friendship that he realized it was already too late to protest the most embarrassing image since your high school senior class photo? 

And talk about stupid -- this was the third time in his political career that Mendelson had been caught giving inside economic information to an American billionaire. It's good to know Prime Minister Kier Starmer is right up there with Donald Trump when it comes to hiring the best of the best. 

Woody and Soon-Yi follow their master in a rare
moment of sunshine.

Let's be fair, it isn't just the Brits who are up to their Wellies in Muck a la Epstein. Woody
Allen can no longer pretend to be just a regular schnook who spends his evenings listening to Benny Goodman 78s while banging out scripts on a 1960s manual typewriter. Not when he spent many wonderful evenings in Epstein's New York mansion he nicknamed "Castle Dracula" due to the "young women" roaming around. Did the Woodman not get the note that Epstein had served time for pedophilia in 2008? 

Let us, too, allow a moment of scrutiny of Woody's beloved Soon-Yi Previn's text to Jeffrey Epstein regarding Anthony Weiner's sexual hijinks with a 15-year-old girl:

Highlights for the TLDR crowd: I also thought it was disgusting what the 15-year-old did to him. She knew exactly what she was doing to him. What is her excuse for being a miserable human being?  And misspelling "weak" as "week".

This would actually make for a good Woody Allen movie! Can't you just picture Woody's character reacting to the New York Times publishing this correspondence? "What are you, crazy, I-I-I don't believe this!" Cue "Sing Sing Sing" as we see him pouring over every newspaper he can lay his hands on.

Alas, self-serious college students must be twisting themselves into intellectual pretzels as they ponder how their very own Plato, Noam Chomsky, hung with Jeffrey Epstein, billionaire enemy of the proletariat. 

No way is Chomsky going to fly coach with the
lowly working class.

They're not going to be able to explain this away Bill Maher-style by thinking It's good when opposing sides speak to each other. Not when Chomsky advises his private-jet-owning pal on how to handle the bad press surrounding his sex crimes:

" [...] the horrible way you are being treated in the press and public. It's painful to say, but I think the best way to proceed is to ignore it. What the vultures clearly want is a public response, which then provides a public opening of venomous attacks, many from just publicity seekers or cranks of all sorts -- which are impossible to answer." 

This is friend-to-the-workers Noam Chomsky advising one of the hated nomenklatura nine years after Epstein's sex conviction. His response to questions regarding their friendship -- "It is none of your business" -- is richer than Epstein. Had anyone else responded in such a way to their connection to a billionaire sex offender, Chomsky would have been on his high red horse like the Lone Ranger. 

"What, me worry?"

Not to worry, nobody is going to pay a price. Not Trump, Woody, Noam, Andrew, nobody. Unless you consider Andrew moving out of his house or Trump being on the receiving end of a toothless Saturday Night Live sketch or Woody not getting nominated for an Oscar or Noam not getting the Hasty Pudding Club award. 

We must all sadly admit QAnon might have been on to something. Now when will JFK, Jr. return to the grassy knoll as promised?

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ADIPOSE REX

 

Coming soon to a clinic near you.

Now that even the Trump administration knows it isn't a good idea to have silicone, superglue, and caulk injected into your butt, body-obsessed women are no longer relying on Home Depot for beauty supplies. Instead, they're returning to the good ol' days of grave robbing: ethically-sourced cadaver fat. 

Well, not grave robbing, per se. As folks can donate their eyes to the blind after they die, they can now do the same with whatever's left to those who need a little more of what their momma didn't give them. 

There was a time when women
wanted this gunk surgically removed.

But don't call it body snatching! The official trademarked name is alloeClae. More inviting, right? The same way you can refer to fatal disease as a "challenging situation". Let's see how AI describes it:

AlloClae is the first structural, donor-derived adipose tissue filler designed for non-surgical body contouring, providing immediate volume and long-term fat grafting results without liposuction. It uses processed, sterilized fat cells to enhance areas like the buttocks, breasts, and hip dips, offering a, low-downtime, and customizable alternative to traditional fat transfer. "Hip dips" is a new one on me, although I'm familiar with the other body parts mentioned. 

A life-changing difference.

The name of the lab responsible for alloeClae, Tiger Aesthetics, evokes images of big game hunting, which isn't ideal if you want to make this kind of thing seem perfectly normal. Their website uses scientific jargon like "Maintains extracellular matrix" and "Retains the innate 3D honeycomb structure of the adipocytes" that comes as naturally to plastic surgeons as "I don't accept insurance". To eager patients willing to take the adipose plunge, it sounds like the coolest sounding butt lift in the world, something out of, well, The (Extracellular) Matrix.

Translation: feast on corpses.

To me, it gives off a Soylent Green vibe, using medical double-talk in place of
saying "dead people's fat". Look at that Tiger Aesthetics screenshot on the left and tell me this isn't something out of a sci-fi/horror movie like The Substance. 

That would look odd.

Patients admit to the "creepiness" of the surgery, while one woman said, "It's like having a Birkin bag on my chest." That sounds like a procedure gone horribly wrong, but she was referring to the $35,000 price-tag. And when you consider that the procedure lasts only one to three years, you have to wonder if spending that kind of dough on a regular basis for the rest of your life is worth not having real Birkin bags. While I've got a butt flatter than a note sung by Madonna when she's not autotuned, I think I'll stick with posing with my own adipose.

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