I’d never before seen this Rebel Without A Cause set photo. Snapped sometime in late ‘54 or early ‘55. I eat this shit up. Second only to Times Square marquee photos, especially the color ones.

Now that Damien Chazelle‘s Babylon has been written off as a monumental flop as well as the second of Margot Robbie‘s box-office disasters this year (the first being Amsterdam), everyone is taking shots at it. Which is easy to do once a film has failed.

In an 11.18.22 piece called “1920s Bel Air Wasn’t Palm Springs Foothills,” I mentioned that Babylon‘s depiction of how Bel Air looked back in the mid ’20s seemed “untrustworthy.”

Excerpt: “For 80 or 90 years Bel Air has been a flush and fragrant oasis for the super-wealthy, but in the mid ’20s, according to Babylon, it was fairly dry and barren and desert-like — no trees, no bushes, no grass and definitely no golf course. Almost Lawrence of Bel Air. In fact Bel Air of the mid ’20s was starting to come into itself. Photos from that era show the beginnings of paved roads, smallish trees and shrubbery, yucca plants, a few mansions, a reservoir, the east and west gates and a little shade here and there.”

A 12.24 Paul Schrader Facebook post mentioned other historical inaccuracies, and commenters Matt Dorff and Farrran Smith Nehme (among others) chimed in with their own complaints and challenges.

I’ve driven through Buffalo two or three times, and every time the same question comes to mind: “Even under the best of circumstances, who would want to live in this godforsaken region, this cultural Siberia of Upper New York State?”

Hugs and condolences for those 26 Buffalo residents who’ve died and the countless others who’ve suffered grievously over the last three days, but again…why? Even the name “Buffalo” seems oddly repellent on some level. Who would want to live in a city named for (or having the same name as) a hulking prairie mammal? Boggles the mind. Plus it reminds me of the dreaded term “beefalo.”

I’m not saying anything as dismissive as “if I never visit Buffalo ever again, it’ll be too soon,” but I’m honestly wondering why anyone would say “yes, this is where I want to live.”

…to read Olivia Nuzzi’s 12.23 New York piece (8500 words, give or take) about Donald Trump’s slow and climactic sinking into the swamp of over-ness., here’s an hors d’oeuvres.

[3:50 am]. I’m taking care of Jett and Cait’s dogs (Joey and Luna) at the homestead in West Orange, New Jersey while they’re hanging out with Cait’s family in Tewksbury, MA. A solitary unit of three (me and the dogs), withdrawn and isolated by weather…reading, writing, snacking and streaming films (Mark Boal’s Echo, Walter Hill’s 48 HRS., William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives and no Brendan Fraser).

The fact of the matter is that we’re living in what I’ve been calling The Icebox or Chill House, i.e., not warm enough since the Arctic air mass arrived a couple of days ago. I’ve promised not to burn any extra heating oil and to rely on space heaters, and so I’m hanging out in layers, jackets, boots, a scarf and my black overcoat and cowboy hat. Okay, the upstairs guest room is warm but that’s all. It’s so chilly here that I’m afraid to take a shower. Nor have I shaved. A little gamey.

Plus I can’t seem to get a good night’s sleep. No more than three or four hours max. I routinely awaken at 2 or 3 am, read and write for three or four and then back to sleep for another three. I don’t sleep at night — I nap.

I was going to say I’ve become General Sternwood in The Big Sleep, coping nightly with “sleep so close to waking it’s barely worth the name.” But I’m closer to a half-and-half combination of Al Pacino in Insomnia and Dennis Hopper’s Tom Ripley in The American Friend. I’ll score some Melatonin tomorrow (i.e., later today) and see what happens.