From the second half of a 2008 HE piece called “Obama 2.0,” posted on 8.25.08. It alludes to Beto O’Rourke and the notion that Presidential candidates have to be deeply experienced with the right kind of governmental background, etc.

“A guy on a Yahoo answer page wrote the following about two weeks ago, to wit: ‘Experience is evidently not a reliable measure. When judging presidential performance vs. their experience, it’s all over the map. No reasonable correlation between experience and performance exists.

“Of course, the same is true in business. For example, most of the computer companies that are now mega-corporations were started by kids in garages.

“I myself got hired by a very big, very famous company into a pretty important position with no experience, I just convinced them to do it. I wound up being one of their two top performing executives and brought very significant turnaround to several departments in the company. No experience.

“Nowadays, I hire people because of what they can do, not what they have done (or not).

“If experience was so important, then only the top senators would have a chance in elections, the ones that have been in the senate for 25 years or more. Has this been the case? Ever?

“Experience does not matter, either to performance nor to the American people. Because we’re smarter than that. Experience doesn’t guarantee a person — it just tells you about what type of person they are.”

Most of us, I suspect, are at least half-convinced that the alleged attack upon Empire costar Jussie Smollett was performed and not real. Given the latest reports there doesn’t seem to be any way to dodge this tentative conclusion.

Smollett apparently paid Olabinjo and Abimbola Osundairo to “attack” him on 1.29 in the Streeterville section of Chicago, “according to multiple sources with direct knowledge of the investigation.”

If things pan out as they seem to be panning out, this episode obviously indicates a worrisome pathology and a reckless streak. Not to mention a lack of street smarts.

And yet no one was physically harmed and no real felonies were committed. It was basically a self-produced staging of live political theatre.

My prevailing reaction is one of sympathy for the poor guy. To go to all this trouble and obviously risk his whole career…words fail. But I don’t believe in capital punishment. I believe in therapy and potential probation and temporary exile (i.e., Moses in the desert) and second chances.

I couldn’t stand Martin Scorsese‘s New York, New York when I caught it in mid-July 1977. It made me go numb. I’d fallen deeply in love with Scorsese and Robert DeNiro after seeing Mean Streets three or four years earlier, but New York New York was so bad that I thought they’d both done serious harm to their careers.

How could two gifted guys who understood the urgent, nocturnal culture of Manhattan and all the undercurrents that propel that…how did they manage to make such a busy, agitated, synthetic downer?

Everyone understood what Scorsese was going for — a dysfunctional love story within a deliberately glossy, sound-stagey tribute to flamboyant big-studio musicals of the ’40s and early ’50s.

There were no difficulties with Liza Minnelli‘s performance as gifted singer Francine Evans, and certainly none with the music or production design. The problem was that Robert DeNiro Jimmy Doyle, a saxophonist, is one of the most infuriating assholes in film history.

The other problem is that New York, New York was a cocaine movie — actually one of the most infamous coke films ever made. It’s all there, chapter and verse, in Peter Biskind‘s “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls.”

Posted almost exactly nine years ago: “HE reader Bobby Rivers has pointed out that during last night’s Martin Scorsese montage before he accepted his Golden Globe life achievement award, there was no clip from New York, New York, even though the band played the Kander & Ebb title tune as Scorsese walked to the stage.

“The reason, of course, is that very few people feel much affection for New York, New York.

It has, however, one electric scene — i.e., when De Niro is physically thrown out of a club that Minnelli is performing in, and he kicks out several light bulbs adorning the entrance way as he’s manhandled out by the manager and a bouncer. I would never buy the Bluray, but I would stream this calamity (which Pauline Kael called “an honest failure”) just to watch this bit again.

There’s a piece of it in the above trailer — it begins at 1:55.

Better late than never: I’ve finally watched Marshall Curry‘s A Night At The Garden, which is nominated for Best Documentary Short Oscar. It took me long enough — watch it below.

We’ve all read what it’s about, but these seven minutes of archival footage (which I wish had been colorized) are creepy and chilling all the same.

There isn’t a dime’s worth of difference between the flag-saluting American Nazis who filled Madison Square Garden 80 years ago, and those rural, under-educated redhats who always cheer at President Trump‘s hillbilly Nuremberg rallies. Jews were the villains back then; today it’s African Americans, Mexicans, LGBTQs and others who are looking to poison this country with their heathen-like views and traditions.

Curry: “It really illustrated that the tactics of demagogues have been the same throughout the ages. They attack the press, using sarcasm and humor. They tell their followers that they are the true Americans (or Germans or Spartans or…). And they encourage their followers to ‘take their country back’ from whatever minority group has ruined it.”

Ten years ago Hugh Jackman hosted the 81st Academy Awards, which aired on 2.22.09. He did a good enough job, I suppose, but God, that opening number. And the winners that year! I will never, ever watch Slumdog Millionaire again. I talked myself into thinking I liked it, but I didn’t actually. That game-show host drove me up the wall. The only part I really liked was the Bollywood number at the end.

I wasn’t all that delighted or levitated by any of the ’08 Best Picture contenders, to be honest — Frost/Nixon (good but calm down), The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (the idea of Brad Pitt as a man-child became more and more irritating), Milk (Sean Penn was/is too short to play Harvey Milk), The Reader (Harvey steamroller) and the Danny Boyle.

My favorite ’08 films: Che, Man on Wire, The Visitor, Gran Torino, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Burn After Reading, Tropic Thunder, The Wrestler, WALL*E, Doubt, Three Monkeys, Waltz With Bashir, I’ve Loved You For So Long, Rachel Getting Married.

Aching rib cages aren’t conducive to good writing. They play hell with your concentration, partly because you’re so fearful of the next acute pain spasm that…well, it’s hard to concentrate. See? I couldn’t follow through all that well on the premise of that second sentence.

Plus I was so afraid of the pain last night that I “slept” (if you want to call it that) on my back the whole time. Plus I’m using a cane to help me stand and walk around.

That said, I feel better now than I did last night. Well, somewhat. Maybe the recovery won’t take as long as I feared. Last night the pain was excruciating; today it’s merely grueling and oppressive. I don’t feel all that great but I’m half-sensing that recovery is just around the corner.

This morning a well-meaning commenter said I need to be more careful, etc. HE response: “I fell on slick ice and crashed into brutally hard ground yesterday and broke nothing. No stiff neck, no bruises, no cracked ribs, no sprained fingers…nothing. I have a painful condition now but I’ll be past it in a week or two. I slipped and fell on the ice in Park City four or five years ago and nothing happened that time either. I’m bionic, a battleship, nearly bulletproof…the biological exception to the rule.”