BACK IN THE UK THEY ARE

 Has it been six years? Why, it seems like yesterday that Harry and Meghan turned royal tail and fled their no-show jobs in the UK for their no-watched shows in the US. 

Why, it was just a little over a year ago when Harry told the BBC, "I can't see a world in which I would bring my wife and children back to the UK at this point." 

Well, it appears Harry found a good ophthalmologist to clear up his eyesight. Or was there something else that changed his and the little lady's collective minds? 

It couldn't have been the weather (the UK seems to ping-pong between chilly grey skies and record-breaking heat with nothing in between). Or the possibility of a welcome-home celebration from the family Harry said were racist. Or positive coverage from the press he referred to as "dweebs and crones and cut-rate criminals and clinically diagnosable sadists". 

Here's another rhyme: Take the hints, prince.

Could it be they're counting on the goodwill of the British public? Not with 2/3 of the nation having an unfavorable view of them. One former Royal security chief I saw interviewed claimed that the real negative number is 85%, while 20% are dangerous enough to be considered genuine threats. Let me tell you, if that's the way my fellow countrymen felt about me, I'd take the next dogsled to the North Pole. 

So what in the name of McVite's Digestive Biscuits would bring Harry and Meghan back facing that kind of hostility? Well, according to the Sun front page, they're doing it for the kids. in fact, the tykes are already enrolled in a posh private school. This makes this whole "sudden" decision to move back something of a big question mark. Because if that enrollment process was anything like what we had to go through for our daughter's public school, then Harry and Meg must have started filling their U-Haul last spring. 

With a name like Dickie Arbiter, he should be
judging neckwear rather than royals.

The usual talking heads -- make that grumbling heads -- on the Talk TV channel have become distracted from taking target practice at Prime Minister Andy Burnham in favor of returning to what they call "the gruesome twosome" (a nickname right out of a Hanna-Barbera cartoon circa 1962). Their theories regarding the end of Megxit range from the couple's American business failures to losing their Hollywood friends to sensing the end is near for King Charles. 

Then Harry & Meghan could take
X-rays of their heads to see if
anything's in there.

Not that Harry and Meghan want to be around for the funeral. According to the hosts, they just want to win back British hearts in order for big bro William to feel forced to make amends with them. Otherwise, they'll set up a rival "royal court" down the road, the way John Lennon formed the Plastic Ono Band to record "Cold Turkey" when the other Beatles rejected it. 

So much speculation over the most prominent yet dullest couple of the 21st century! At least William and Catherine are having their thrones warmed up by Papa and Stepmom. Harry and Meghan are returning to nothing more interesting than giving speeches at schools, hospitals, and military bases (which are paying rent to the royals). And as for the kids' education, I bet there are plenty of good private schools in or around Montecito. No need to travel 6,000 miles to learn about how well-equipped British troops lost the Revolutionary War to a ragtag band of rebels.

So what is behind the big move? Let's put the question to Google's AI function and see what it says:

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle's planned relocation back to the UK is directly linked to hitting a six-year non-residency milestone that clears them from major British tax liabilities. Financial and tax experts note that their return coincides perfectly with the completion of six full UK tax years abroad (from the 2020/21 tax year through the 2025/26 tax year).

Huh. Maybe there's something rattling in their brains after all. Hope the working class doesn't mind taking up the slack.

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 72

 
These four movies live up to the phrase Now I've seen everything. Whether you want to see them is another story.

THE BLACK STORK (1917): If The Very Idea presented the funny side of eugenics, The Black Stork is shocking in its casually positive perspective. Named for the animal that allegedly kills the newborns it deems unhealthy, The Black Stork is based on the career of Dr. Harry J. Haiselden, a surgeon infamous for doing likewise to human babies. Despite Haiselden's notoriety, his movie counterpart, Dr. Dickey, is presented as a hero doing God's work. And if you want proof, when the doctor goes to work on one unfortunate newborn, Jesus cradles the baby's soul in His arms upon its death, so there.

The story, about a man carrying a "defective" gene via his grandfather's "unclean" housekeeper, is extended an extra half hour or so by the mother's nightmare of how her newborn's child's life will turn out if he lives: ostracized by children, rejected and mocked by society in adulthood, killing the surgeon who let him live, and eventually fathering a whole brood of "unfit" kids with what used to be referred to as a downtrodden woman. And in The Black Stork, people unfit to live include those with Down's Syndrome and epilepsy. Oof.

Not once are society's visibly horrified reactions to these people considered out of line; instead, it's those people's fault for living. In order to give The Black Stork a documentary feel, authentic "deformed" children and adults are featured exploited, with Dr. Haiselden himself playing the hero eugenicist! Re-released in 1924 as Are You Fit to Marry? with an additional framing story, The Black Stork played the grindhouse circuit until the early 1940s, when Hitler made the concept of eugenics less acceptable for (public) endorsement.

BONUS POINTS: Henry Bergman, who plays "The Defective" in the mother's nightmare about her child's future, would go on to better things as a regular co-star and assistant director for Charlie Chaplin.

THE DEVIL'S ASSISTANT (1917): The long-forgotten, barely-known-in-his-time Harry Pollard careened between directing mainstream studio pictures and exploitation dreck involving the usual cinematic sins -- drugs, sex, and Satan. The Devil's Assistant combines all of them in a two-reel (cut down from its original five) whirlwind of madness. 

Oh wait, madness is the fourth sin here, suffered by our heroine Marta upon the birth of her baby. She's being treated by the evil Dr. Lorenz, the man who has secretly loved her forever, eventually turning her into a drug slave under his spell. During an attempted rape in a thunderstorm, the roof caves in on them, sending the shamed Marta brief to Hell for a look-see. But maybe it was only a dream, as her husband Jack rescues her from the clutches of the late Dr. Lorenz. (Jack had been dallying with Marta's friend Marion, but we'll forget about that.)

Other than not explaining what happened to Marta's baby -- it isn't clear whether the kid died at birth or went the way of the black stork -- the 30-minute hack job done on The Devil's Assistant's later rerelease doesn't matter to the story. Movies like this exist strictly for shock moments, like Lorenz briefly turning into Satan at Marta and Jack's wedding, Lorenz's chauffeur leering with approval at Lorenz assaulting Marta (probably the creepiest moment in the whole show), and the red-tinted visit to Hell.

Like the similar scene in Spencer Tracy's Dante's Inferno, The Devil's Assistant passes this off as a moral lesson rather than the cheap thrill it really is. But give director Pollard credit for attaching two phony heads and a cheap pair of wings on a real dog to create Cerberus, even if he looks no more evil than the participants in the canine costume contest in our neighborhood every Halloween. All things considered, The Devil's Assistant, even in its barely-rescued-from-self-destruction condition, is a morbidly fascinating psychoactive experience. But the only lesson you'll likely learn: if your current PCP sports a goatee and sinister smile like Dr. Lorenz, find yourself a new one.

BONUS POINTS: Say what you want, but there's something creepy about Death being portrayed by a guy in a skeleton costume and hooded cape.

IMPRESSIONS OF DISRAELI (1931): We're all used to celebrities making political endorsements. But the 15-minute Impressions of Disraeli takes it one step beyond by starring George Arliss as the famous 19th-century Prime Minister promoting Britain's Conservative Party. 

Mind you, Arliss never comes out and says, "Vote the straight Tory ticket!" Instead, he recreates a few of Disraeli's speeches that explained what the Conservatives stood for and why they were better than the Liberals. And what's fascinating is that they appeared to support equal rights, freedom of speech and justice for all, where no class was better than the other -- you know, liberal ideals. The closest he comes to sounding "conservative" is when he endorses tariffs, but only against countries who impose their own. If this is what the current American conservatives were like, I could sleep better at night.

By 1931, Arliss had portrayed Disraeli on the London and New York stages, as well as a silent and talking movie. As far as audiences were concerned, he was Disraeli the way Hal Holbrook was Mark Twain. And, gosh darn it, Arliss really pulls it off. Not that I was around during Disraeli's lifetime (1804-1881) to know for sure. Arliss' make-up and hairstyle appear closer to the real thing than in his 1929 bio talkie, which makes me think he applied it here himself, as he likely did onstage. Never seen in the US (and, for some reason, repeating one speech twice in a row), Impressions of Disraeli is riveting historically and artistically -- this is as close as you'll get to knowing what George Arliss was like onstage. Like anybody but me cares.

BONUS POINTS: The movie is introduced by Conservative Party leader and future Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin (I had to go online to learn who the hell he was).

BOOM (1968): Tennessee Williams' Boom (the exclamation mark exists only in the posters, not the credits) encapsulates everything wrong with "edgy", "stylish" movies from the mid to late 1960s. Bad dialogue, gaudy color schemes, camera movements that call attention to themselves, and an A-list cast wallowing in trash, led by Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, and Noel Coward. Oh, what a free trip to Italy and a good paycheck will do to some people! 

Taylor is Mrs. Goforth, living in splendor on her private island where she screams at her employees between glasses of vodka and bottles of pills, when visited by Chris Flanders (Burton). Flanders, a distant acquaintance of Goforth's, is nicknamed the Angel of Death, which alerts you how the movie is going to end. At that point, you could go out to dinner and return to catch the climax because nothing but nothing outside of reams of bad dialogue happens in between. Trashy movies can be entertaining (see Machine Gun McCain), but Boom is a stupefyingly pretentious bore.

Aside from Michael Dunn as Goforth's security chief, the only person you'd miss by skipping the bulk of Boom is Noel Coward as the, uh, Witch of Capri. Thanks to his brilliant delivery, Coward actually makes his dialogue sound wittier than it is. Tennessee Williams seems to have had given up all pretense of offering some kind of a "message" in his screenplay, lapsing into either self-parody or the crime of WWI (Writing While Intoxicated). When near the end of Boom Taylor moans, "This is the worst day of my life," I thought, You don't know the half of it, Liz.

BONUS POINTS: Tennessee Williams considered Boom the best movie adaptation of any of his plays, which goes to show artists aren't necessarily the best judges of their own works. 

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A MORE PERFECT UNION MEMBER

"Over here! Hire me!"

 At my age, so the experts say, it's good, even necessary, to take a few chances,
have a new challenge or two, to keep your mental and physical skills intact.

Yesterday, I took a chance that would be considered financial to any right-thinking person. After a decade of doing background work as a non-union extra, I finally joined SAG-AFTRA. 

If you've been paying attention to the news or even this blog (hah!), you might think that such a move is like joining an anti-war movement the day after Pearl Harbor. But seeing that there have been fewer non-union gigs available, I couldn't possibly work less than I have been for the last year without giving up entirely.

1933: George Raft, Warner Oland, Fredric March,
Adolphe Menjou, Groucho Marx, and James
Cagney join SAG. Now they have great looks.

Union extras have been urging me to join, with everyone telling me that I have a "great look". Well yes, that's true. So why wasn't I being hired? These people were all in my age range, so maybe, as SAG members, they were getting the jobs I could do. 

I'd put off joining for years, despite qualifying early on. Back then, one had to jump through hoops to become SAG, or so I was told. Too, I'd heard horror stories about extras who joined, only to barely work again, if at all. Not being the gambling type, I decided to stay in my non-union lane, believing that more work at lower pay was better than less work at higher. 

That actually worked out for a long time. My spreadsheet shows close to 300 gigs from 2016-2024 -- fewer than many of my colleagues, but still enough to keep me working fairly regularly. As I've mentioned before, the 2024 strike, along with health issues that kept me sidelined for a few months, changed that. In the last year, I've worked three, count 'em, three times.

At least I won't have to go through this for a few
more years.

So why join? It boils down to, Well, what the hell, why not? There are certainly a few reasons why I probably shouldn't, like wondering if I'll make back the entry fee (that's the financial challenge mentioned near the beginning of this piece), along with the biannual dues. I mean, I can afford it at this stage of my life. But is it worth it?

It worked for Chaplin.

Maybe. A while ago, I grew a goatee, which got me a gig. When I showed up on the first of my three-day shoot, they decided I'd look better with just the moustache. Bzzzz went the beard. Thinking it was an interesting change-up, I kept my new look. Last week I was hired for a three-day gig on another production because of the mustache. 

It would be nice if the one-two punch of moustache and SAG membership proves to be the key to a resurgence in employment. If not... well, at least my obituary will describe me as a proud member of SAG-AFTRA. I might not become part of the 2% to 5% of the 160,000 members who make a living at it, but I'm officially retired anyway. 

On the other hand...

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DAY OF METRO MOVIE-A-TONEMENT

WARNING: Lengthy, unusually nerdy movie column to follow. Proceed with caution. 

From 1928 to 1930, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer released a couple dozen short films known as Metro Movietones. Most were filmed at the MGM Eastern Studios on Second Avenue and 126th Street (shown below) and featured some of the most acclaimed music stars of the New York stage.

Just to get an idea of what Broadway and bigtime vaudeville was like, I sat through all the Movietones -- three hours' worth -- over two days. (When you get to be my age, you realize what's important in life.)

Nowhere do you see familiar names like, say, Eddie Cantor, the Four Marx Brothers, Ethel Waters, George M. Cohan, Bessie Smith, or anyone else who might, just might, ring a bell. Just why MGM didn't convince them or their 14-karat brethren to step before a movie camera for a few minutes is a puzzlement.

Most of the female singers of this time, like Marion Harris, were considered jazzy, which now would be considered something of a stretch. But in 1928, any piece of music with a hint of rhythm beyond that of "Old McDonald" was considered syncopated. Harris is certainly a fine, personable thrush; calling her a "jazz singer", though, is like considering Taylor Swift profound.

While we're talking women, a Movietone favorite was singing siblings: The Brox Sisters, the Ponce Sisters, and, no kidding, the Five Locust Sisters. While the Brox and Ponce sibs are fairly easy on the eyes, the Locusts are about as sexy as a Biblical plague. What all of these acts share are cartoonishly high voices and 1-2-3 rhythm that make them sound far more dated than, say, the Andrews Sisters, whose 1940s big band warbling can still get a room to jump 'n' jive. 

Men get more of their fair share of screentime, which is too bad for them. Leo Beers ("world renowned whistling songster") trills some "naughty" songs in a vaguely effeminate manner while accompanying himself on the piano. Not to be outdone, George Rose, a forgotten vaudeville MC, tells a few "naughty" jokes in an equally effeminate manner before going into a dead-serious Mammy song, Which is strange for a white guy born in the UK. Irish tenor Joseph Regan gets in on the Mammy act as well, proving how influential Al Jolson could be even when it's totally inappropriate. 

It wouldn't be a vaudeville show without novelty acts. Fuzzy Knight ("And His Little Piano") and Jack Pepper appear to have taken a few dexies before ripping off Cliff Edwards' scat-style singing, interrupted by jokes lacking punchlines. Miss Ella Shields, an American by birth, sings and dances as a male British sailor. Frances White does three numbers: one as a Gilded Age matron, another as a child in a onesie, and a third in a strapless gown while swinging a feathered fan. That's versatility right there, folks.

For those who enjoy humor aimed at nationalities other than their own, Van & Schenck perform in Jewish, Irish, and Asian dialects, and the Happiness Boys sing (and bark) a number about a German threatening to kill his dog. Someone else does a blackface stand-up routine about Christopher Columbus. Oh, and there's a guy who plays a musical saw. Maybe this wasn't entirely bigtime vaudeville.

George Dewey Washington is one of the few performers whose style holds up today, as he possesses a strong baritone and a weird hold on your attention. But in what might have been the only way he could have performed on an otherwise all-white bill, Washington is dressed like a stereotypical hobo instead of a tux like the other guys. Still, he receives top billing over four ofays, so no complaining!

The only person in any of these Movietones who went on to better things is Jack Benny. As the MC of The Song Writers' Revue, Jack introduces eight of the best-known pop composers of 1929. Only 35, Jack's famous physical mannerisms are already solidly in place. Unfortunately, he was still years away from his loveable cheapskate persona, making his sarcastic, mildly aggressive delivery even less funny today. (Bonus point: Jack briefly speaks Yiddish, perhaps the only time he ever made a reference to his Jewish background.)

Few viewers today would find the Movietone entertainers, well, entertaining. At best, they can be studied as one does unique specimens of extinct peoples that were wiped out by an "extreme event", otherwise known as Bing Crosby.

Once Bing crooned his way to stardom, his sexy, sophisticated style suddenly made all the Movietone singers, male and female, obsolete. Just a few years after appearing in these shorts, most of them were reduced to "and featuring" status or disappeared entirely from the stage and screen.

These Movietones, then, are valuable because we get to see certain stage folk before being ushered offstage by a new, hipper generation of entertainers. Marion Harris, Jack Pepper, the Brox Sister, George Rose -- they and the rest received huzzahs from audiences and newspaper columnists alike, no matter how moth-eaten they appear now. And don't kid yourself: you would have loved them, too. Possibly.

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YOU CAN'T SING WITHOUT OPENING YOUR MOUTH

Hey don't forget, a bunch of swell women, too!

In 1938, the sponsor of Bob Hope's radio series switched from Woodbury Soap to
Pepsodent. Hope, already known for political jokes, received only one piece of advice from his new boss: "Remember, Democrats and Republicans brush their teeth." 

What he was saying, of course, was Take it easy, don't offend our customers. 

Boy, does that seem quaint now. Social media has allowed celebrities to clue us in as to how they vote, what they support, and, in the case of John Leguizamo, who they don't want watching their movies. You'd think he'd appreciate the irony of making money off people who would like to arrest him, but they're already "boycotting" The Odyssey for political reasons, anyway.

Bruce Springsteen is now catching flack from right-wingers who are offended that he's taken stands against ICE shooting innocent Americans, the wannabe dictator in the White House, and his corrupt enablers who are doing their best to prevent a fair election. Only in 2026 America can this be considered divisive.

Greetings from Bristol, TN

The former fans who have turned their back on their former Boss clearly weren't listening to the lyrics back when Springsteen was still an Asbury Park phenom. Any lyric about "the working man" is political. (Even Tennessee Ernie Ford's "16 Tons" -- St. Peter, don't you call me, 'cause I can't go/I owe my soul to the company store -- could have been a Springsteen song.) 

That would have been made clear when he released "Born in the USA" in
1984...if he had made a point of enunciating the lyrics in an acoustic version rather than yelling them incomprehensively over an anthemic arrangement that rivalled "Born to Run" for sheer bombast.

Which, in my humble conspiratorial opinion, was the whole idea. Make sure the title was sung clear as the noonday sun, while the rest of the song -- about a Vietnam vet who returns to the USA without a job or anybody who really cares -- could be shouted out at concerts by fratboys as "Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah", and referred to by then-President Reagan as a "message of hope". As in Bruce and the producer hoping it would go to number one. 

Nah, he's not really pissing on the flag.

What's different now is that Bruce is explicitly political, on and offstage. It's a road that Mick Jagger recently said he doesn't take: "The bottom thing, really, is that my job in the live music world [for] those people that come is to have the best time they possibly can. For two hours or whatever it is, to forget all their problems of the world and their mortgages and whatever, just to give them the best time they can have." 

Well yeah, so does Bruce Springsteen. The difference is, the Rolling Stones' music was never political. People who tell Bruce to "shut up and sing" don't listen to him anyway -- or, if they ever did, never really paid attention to any of his lyrics that didn't include "car" or "drive". 

Springsteen fans eagerly come out for every album, every concert, every TV appearance because they know what he's saying. They agree with him. Democrats and Republicans both listen to music, but, as with toothpaste, ultimately prefer their own products. 

PS: The only Springsteen recordings I've ever owned are the 12-inch remix of "Dancing in the Dark" and an early mix bootleg of "Born to Run" that's even more bombastic and overstuffed than the single he eventually released. Many of his fans loathed the former due to its synth-dance arrangement, and would probably gag at the latter. I get a kick out of them. Ergo, I'm not a real fan.

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LOTSA BOTS

I have a rough idea of how many people read this blog. Some receive updates either from me or Blogger itself. Many of those readers forward certain pieces, usually involving politics, culture, or movies to friends who might enjoy them. And I can tell when the friends forward them to others. 

Once in a while there's a spike when either a piece really hits home, or a bunch of bots try to leave a comment without bypassing the "prove you're a human" page. But in the past week, my review of the 1958 drama Cop Hater, published five years ago, appears to have caught on in an alarming way, as this graph shows:

In the early hours of July 17, Cop Hater bounced from zero (where it had been for three weeks) to 250 and stayed in that general area for the next five days. As I write this (July 23, 1:00 P.M.), it's currently at 75. The total number -- 1,220 -- is primarily from that time frame.

Yeah, I wouldn't trust this crew.

No other piece has seen this happen during those five days. When similar weird spikes happened many years ago, they coincided with a rise in readers bots from Hong Kong, Russia, and a few Eastern European countries. This week, the majority of hits --35% -- have come from the U.S., followed by Singapore at 17%. The other countries are in the single digits. 

Is it possible all these Cop Hater hits are coming from Singapore? Well,
Singapore Business Review reports that bots account for 50.4% of internet traffic in that country. Of that amount, 45% are "malicious".  That sounded like Singapore would be the likely source, although note the phrase "in that country" rather than "from". 

A little more nosing around brought me to a recently published piece from something called SUURV, which in itself sounded pretty sus. But the headline definitely was the real deal:

Aha! Those Singaporeans were the culprits after all! You can read the how and whys here if you're interested (and if you, too, have noticed a sudden interest from a country you have never thought of without the word "Sling" following it). 

The SUURV columnist gives some helpful advice on how to stop the Singapore bot numbers from showing up on the blog, but I'm not likely not follow it. Not only do I not understand what he's talking about, I get a kick out of seeing how some mindless bots are trying to convince me to do whatever it is they want me to do.

But this leaves a very important question: Of all the movies that could have been chosen as their prime target, why Cop Hater? What was wrong with Ingagi, Myrt and Marge, or I Am Suzanne! 

To you it's for exercise. To the police in
Singapore, it's advice not to commit 
another crime.

Well, plenty, I suppose, but that's not the point. Something about Cop Hater -- or the title -- drew the attention of these bots or their programmers. Maybe even the police force itself. There's a site devoted entirely to three countries that use corporal punishment with a rotan for certain crimes -- in Singapore's case, 47 of them.                                                             Sounds like nasty business, to be sure, but Singapore also has one of the world's lowest cases of violent crime, to quote the site, "partly no doubt because the authorities have managed to make the island almost entirely gun-free" (not to mention gum-free, also!).

The weapon so nice, he named it twice.

Weigh the choice. In exchange for getting rid of guns, and thus having a very low rate of violent crime in return, would you be good with your local police force using what James Brown called a licking stick?                                                                          But we're getting off topic. Why Cop Hater? Who's responsible? And will Kash Patel come for me after his next bender?                   

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FRIENDS TO THE END (OF THE CHARGE)

You can forget about this, too.

 It's an adage as old as the hills: money can't buy friends. 

Sez you! All one needs is anywhere from $18,000 to $146,000 for the best bestie you could ever had. And that's just a one-time payment! Sure, it's pricey, but here's the beauty part: unlike your current friends, they'll never dump their problems on you. 

In fact, you can complain about anything you want, from your stupid boss to how your parents screwed you up by feeding you spinach out of a can. Not only won't they mind being used as an emotional garbage disposal, they'll nod and agree with everything you say. Now that's a friend. Oh, and did I say they're incredibly good-looking? 

Quick, which looks more human?

All you need to do in return is recharge them every few hours. For these perfect friends are robots, courtesy of
UBTech Robotics from, where else, China. You can tell they're Chinese-made because they look like your typical dreamboat anime cartoon characters -- not quite Asian, not quite white, but 100% hunh?

The idea behind these "ultrabionic companions" is that some people, particularly those who have been marked with the curse "May you live a long life", have seen friends and relatives exit stage right, left, and in between. Finally, they can have a friend or loved one who will never wither and die. (That's where the recharging comes in.) 

There's a joke to be made about incels
and "chest sensors" but you make one
up yourself.

This isn't to say only old people have all the fun. We hear plenty about the "loneliness epidemic" affecting all ages. Now those Gen Zers can put their winnings from crypto, gaming, and gambling to good use. 

What young man wouldn't love a girlfriend who didn't roll their eyes in utter boredom while he explained in mind-numbing detail about becoming the champion at the latest PlayStation Tournament? Someone who blinked her eyes like a doe, dressed like a classy 19th-century prostitute, and had the face of a girl who may or may not be at the age of consent? 

And if she's not? Who cares? There's no law against having impure thoughts about a robot!

Go ahead, ladies, take as many pictures as you
want. He doesn't care. Except about you.

And listen up, young women! You, too, can have the man of your dreams. And
not some A.I. Romeo who communicates only via text. Their cyborg sweetie speaks softly, gives a "tell me more" tilt of the head when you share secrets you wouldn't mention to a therapist, and never tries to fix your problems. He's there to listen, with no strings attached. Why can't all men be like robots?

And their clothing choices are just as
ridiculous as humans'.

And if it's a loved one you miss, not a problem. UBTech will create a duplicate for you with the help of photos and recordings. I know plenty of people who would be happy never to see certain people from their past ever again but to each their own. 

So far, 13,000 humanoid-hungry people have put in orders for simple, table-top armless companions whose bodies end at the navel, up to the real-life kinds that walk and wave their hands. I'm not sure which is creepier.

Killjoy therapists believe robo-pals will only worsen the problems lonely people already have. But as an Al-Jazeera reporter assures us, "The firm believes the business case is sound." Nice to see China embrace capitalism so heartily! As long as lonely people have five or six figures to drop on plastic, wires, and chips wrapped up in pseudo-skin, it seems the only companion that UBTech's president needs is a good money manager. 

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