This recent beating of a mouthy 67 year-old East Bay woman by a 21 year-old Latina Amazon delivery driver is a woke rage thing — white people need to understand their place and check their attitude, and if they fail in that regard beatings from non-white assailants will be severe — fair warning. Check your white privilege, bitch.

All due respect to ancient Mayan culture and their awesome pyramid structures, which have stood tall for several centuries. At the same time it’s highly unfortunate that Mel Gibson‘s Apocalypto is the first association that comes to mind.

Friendo: You’re going to absolutely hate In The Heights (Warner Bros., 6.10.21).
HE: Why will I hate it? I like the energy in the trailers. Obviously more part of our world than West Side Story.
Friendo: I think you’ll hate it, but who knows! It’s a woke jerkoff fest.
HE: Do you like musicals?
Friendo: I like old musicals like Singin’ in the Rain and The Band Wagon. This is a hip-hop musical
HE: I like good rhythmic hip-hop.
Friendo: There isn’t really a villain in the movie. If anything, the antagonist is “gentrification”.
HE: Okay, so it worships native flavor, identity, neighborhood. Sounds fine to me.
Friendo: I don’t think I saw a single white person. There must be some white people living in Washington Heights, no?

Friendo #1 responds: “In the Heights is fine…exuberant, soulful, compellingly staged. Plus the story of Dominicans or whatever with one foot in each country is valid and moving.

“Okay, it might have worked even better on stage; I’m not sure that they totally overcome the (intentionally) anecdotal structure of it. But any ‘it’s too woke for my blood!’ complaints seem bizarrely misplaced.”

Friendo #2: “It’s about as traditional as movie musicals get — a lot of musical numbers interrupted by lightweight plotting designed to move easily to the next tune. There is even a Busby Berkeley homage here.”

Please name your all-time favorite awful endings. Grease, Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, Tim Burton‘s Planet of the Apes…you choose.

For me, the conclusion of Steven Spielberg‘s War of the Worlds (’05) is easily among the worst.

Having survived the Martian onslaught Tom Cruise and daughter Dakota Fanning arrive at the Boston home of his ex-wife’s parents, who are annoyingly played by Gene Barry and Ann Robinson, costars of George Pal and Byron Haskin‘s War of the Worlds (’53). The ex-wife (Miranda Otto) is also there; ditto Cruise’s son Robbie (Justin Chatwin), who’d impulsively joined the military in a brutal battle with the aliens and obviously had no chance of survival…and yet there he was. Bullshit. No Sale.

Jett and I saw Spielberg’s film at the Ziegfeld press screening. During the closing credits Jett said, “God, what did Spielberg do that? He had it and he blew it.”

Back in the day Alfred Hitchcock‘s The Birds was roundly despised for ending without any sort of resolution or catharsis. In so doing Hitchcock was essentially telling his audience that The Birds is an art film, and that it’s saying something about a permanent feature in the human brain — complacency.

I still say that the worst ending of 2020 was delivered by Pete Docter‘s Soul

My original complaint: “Soul betrays its audience by (a) encouraging them to identify with and believe in Joe Gardner‘s long-denied dream about becoming a jazz musician instead of a frustrated middle-school music teacher, only to (b) pull the rug out on Joe’s dream in Act Three and end things with Joe feeling uncertain about what he really wants to do with his remaining time on earth. Possibly jazz, possibly teaching…who knows?

“And what of our jazz-loving protagonist changing his mind at the last minute so he can save Tina Fey’s ’22’? I hated that. A major audience betrayal. I didn’t hate that he cared for and wanted to save 22, of course, but his whole big dream is to escape the perceived mediocrity of being a middle-school music teacher. We’re encouraged to identify with his quest to become a real musician and to share the joy of being in the groove.

“And then, after interminable delays, temporary blockages and goofy complications, he finally gets to play with the hot jazz group. And finally, all is well.
But then Joe changes his mind! He decides to go back to the celestial nether realm to ‘save’ 22 from her hellish deflated existence, and in so doing sacrifices (according to the Great Before rules) his own chance at life.

“And THEN the Picasso-like powers-that-be decide to bend the rules because he’s inspired them.

“And THEN when he’s back on planet earth Joe is STILL not sure what really matters to him. Will he continue to gig with the jazz group? Or will he embrace his full-tine teaching job? He’s not sure, but one thing he’s ABSOLUTELY sure of is that he’s going to treasure each & every day of his life from then on.”

A murder melodrama began unfolding nine days ago in Belize, over an accidental shooting of Henry Jemmott, a 300-pound Belizean police superintendent, on Ambergris Caye. His allegedly accidental assailant is Jasmine Hartin, 32, the “partner” of Andrew Ashcroft, the son of Conservative party donor, former House of Lords member and billionaire Michael Ashcroft.

Right off the top you know Hartin will ultimately skate, although right now she’s being held in Belize Central Prison, an allegedly stinky, cockroach-infested hellhole in Hattieville. She’s currently regarded as a flight risk so no bail.

Guardian report: “[The shooting] happened just past midnight on the Friday before last on the island of Ambergris Caye. The gun, by all accounts, was fired by Hartin. Her apparent explanation, as reported by the press, is relatively simple”…except it isn’t.

“Hartin, the director of lifestyle and experience for her partner’s luxury resort, is believed to have told police that she had been receiving threats on her life. Jemmott — a father of five or six who was apparently taking time off to address personal issues — suggested that she procure a gun license.”

“Jemmott visited Hartin at her apartment. According to her alleged statement to the police, they started drinking and decided to go to a nearby pier to enjoy the moon. Jemmott began to complain about an ache in his shoulders, and Hartin responded by giving him a massage.”

All right, hold it right there. Jemmott, who sounds like the Hank Quinlan of Ambergris Caye with the massive bulk and the drinking and gun-twirling, “taking time off [from his marriage] to address personal issues”…that means catting around. This plus asking Hartin for a massage…give me a break. Jemmott was obviously nursing fantasies of carnally possessing Hartin.

Jemmott and Hartin were boozing it up a bit. Plus he had encouraged her to learn how to shoot — an assertion of his power as a protector, teacher and authority figure plus a potential favoring factor in his dream-attempt to “have” Hartin (at least in his mind). Don’t tell me — sexually speaking younger men are dogs.

“During the massage, Jemmott asked Hartin to pass him the gun. She is said to have claimed that the gun accidentally went off, and a bullet hit the back of his skull, fatally wounding him. His obese body fell onto her. In fright she pushed him off, and he toppled into the sea.”

…how and why boomers (i.e., easily the greediest, most selfish and most generally destructive generation in American history) turned out the way they did.

Sometime around ’92 or ’93 I had a brief chat with Allen, whom I’d long worshipped for his ’50s and ’60s hot streak as the original Tonight Show host (’54 to ’56 — three years), the Sunday night Steve Allen Show on NBC, and the Hollywood-based, Westinghouse-produced Steve Allen Show.

Not to mention his having written more than 50 books plus his prowess as a composer-songwriter (over 8000 tunes). Easily the brightest guy of that generation (i.e., my dad’s) I’d ever spoken to.

My face-time session happened at the House of Blues. We only spoke for 15 minutes or so, but it was electric. (For me at least.). As I was thanking him and saying farewell I cried “schmock! schmock!” Allen laughed, patted me on the shoulder. [Originally posted on 6.23.19.]

This is how evil righties could win the ’22 midterms — not with a bang but by leading a “fuck you” charge in a pushback movement against Critical Race Theory fanatics.

Average Wonderbread Joes do not want their kids being taught that white folks harbor an evil racist code in their blood, and yet teaching this to young kids is a solemn priority of wokester hardcores like Anastasia Higginbotham, author of “Not My Idea: A Book About Whiteness.”

Higginbotham’s book is part of a children’s-book series called “Ordinary Terrible Things,” which focuses on the root cause of American racism. No one’s disputing that racism is a dark and pernicious feature of American Anglo-Saxon culture, but the assertion that whites are inherently malevolent and beyond redemption except by way of Critical Race Theory teachings…I don’t know, man. If you ask me white demonizing is just as racist as any Jim Crow facet. Putrid water from the same well.

‘
From an Atlantic discussion piece titled “Nobody Wants White Kids to Feel Bad About Their Race,” in which author Conor Friedersdorf discusses the content of Higginbotham’s book:

Higginbotham: “The book I made teaches young children about whiteness — it is not about police brutality. Whiteness is the reason these killings by police happen — the white cultural mindset that tells us white is good and innocent, while Black is bad and dangerous. Whiteness is the reason cops make split-second decisions to fire their weapons into the body of an unarmed person who is Black, while not even reaching for their weapon during interactions with armed and violent criminals who are white.

“You ask what is the appropriate age to tell children about police brutality, but which children do you mean? The siblings, cousins, children, and grandchildren of people whose family members are targeted know about it. You mean white children. When is the right age to tell white children about a system so cruel, we fear it will be traumatizing for them to even find out about it? Yes, I think it’s appropriate to teach my book to white kindergartners.”

“The difference between the civil rights movement and CRT isn’t one of degree or shade. It’s foundational. Proponents of the former believe America can transcend Her flaws and sins, while the latter presents those flaws and sins as a pretext to destroy its liberal soul. One side pursues equality and progress, while the other makes a fetish of oppression and division. It’s easy to see which path leads to a brighter future for our country.”

“”The difference between the civil rights movement and CRT isn’t one of degree or shade. It’s foundational. Proponents of the former believe America can transcend her flaws and sins, while the latter presents those flaws and sins as a pretext to destroy its liberal soul. One side pursues equality and progress, while the other makes a fetish of oppression and division. It’s easy to see which path leads to a brighter future for our country.” — from “No, Critical Race Theory Isn’t a New Civil Rights Movement But The Exact Opposite,” written by Kenny Xu and Christian Watson

Albert Brooks‘ Modern Romance is one of the most uncomfortably honest films about the sort of highly sexual relationships that don’t seem to add up otherwise. And yet the lovers (Brooks, Kathryn Harrold) can’t seem to shake each other off.

According to Brooks, Stanley Kubrick was a big fan of the film. He tells the story that Kubrick called him after viewing the film and asked, “How did you make this movie? I’ve always wanted to make a movie about jealousy.” As I recall the tale, Brooks and Kubrick frequently faxed each other and spoke three or four times, or something like that. Their relationship was such that Brooks felt comfortable asking Kubrick about dropping by to visit while Brooks was in England for some reason. Kubrick’s response: “Oh, no, no, no, no…”

There can be no all-inclusive, across-the-board assessment of the attractiveness (or lack thereof) of human beings. If you insist on a general answer, the only optimistic verdict I can think of is “attractive with serious bugs.” Life has taught me that only about 10% to 15% of humans are genuinely attractive in terms of looks, intelligence, good energy, kindness, open-heartedness, inventiveness. Most people are slightly lacking (some more than slightly) in various ways, especially among the less affluent and less well-educated — the Trumpian dregs of society.

Hotshot criminal defense attorney F. Lee Bailey was one of the original high-profilers. Always or at least often with the headlines — Dr. Sam Shepard, Albert DeSalvo, Patty Hearst, Cpt. Ernest Medina, O.J. Simpson. I couldn’t think of much to say except boilerplate stuff when Bailey passed two days ago at age 87, but Marshall Fine knew him and wanted to make a doc about his career.

Wiki excerpt: “For most of his career Bailey was licensed in Florida and in Massachusetts, where he was disbarred in 2001 and 2003 respectively, for misconduct while defending marijuana dealer Claude Louis DuBoc. Following his disbarment, he moved to Maine, where he ran a consulting firm. He later sat for the bar exam in the state of Maine, though in 2013 he was denied a law license by the Maine Board of Bar Examiners, a decision upheld by the Maine Supreme Judicial Court in 2014.”

An ivy-league college education is a hustle masked as a reasonable trade-off. Put yourself into a six-figure debt situation that will take a good 20 or 25 years to pay off, and in return you’ll get…well, not that much when you get right down to it. College is worthless unless you embrace the discipline of constant education and curiosity into your day-to-day life. If you’ve ever been to a high-school or college reunion you know, of course, that most college grads are smug and incurious. People enslave themselves to college debt in order to feel less socially insecure, more confident. College is generally regarded as a stepping stone to better job opportunities and financial comfort, etc. But does anyone know any GenXers, Millennials or Zoomers who are genuinely, wholeheartedly glad that they owe all that dough, and are certain it was worth it?

“Never confuse eduction with intelligence — you can have a PhD and still be an idiot.” — Richard P. Feynman

The basic drill in the two Quiet Place films is that making the slightest sound can lead to terrible death. Because the idiotic, fang-toothed, gaping-cranial-plate crab monsters, constantly on the prowl for humans (not to eat but merely to kill), have highly attuned hearing, and all you have to do is drop a pair of scissors on the floor to put yourself in harm’s way. And so your entire life is about “shishhhhh” — be careful, step lightly, quiet as a mouse.

This is my life, in a sense, every night in West Hollywood.

After 10 pm or thereabouts I go into Quiet Place mode for fear of rousing a certain light sleeper in a nearby bedroom. The slightest jarring sound will result in a hellish response. The crack of a triple-A battery falling off the coffee table and onto the wood floor…the accidental clinking of a glass or the rattle of cutlery in the kitchen or the unwrapping of a loaf of bread…even the creaking of the floorboards in certain areas of the living room will lead to terrible repercussions. The punishment can happen straight off or sometimes the next morning, when your failure to maintain absolute radio silence the night before will be topic #1.

Due to no fault of their own light sleepers are unable to recover once woken up, you see, and their mood the following day, trust me, is inevitably sour and sullen. Light sleepers float on the surface of the pond, and woe betide anyone who rouses them from fragile slumber.

Deep sleepers like myself sink to the bottom of the pond, and are generally oblivious to odd glass-clinking or battery-dropping sounds. I can sleep anywhere, in almost environment. I can lie down on the floor of a carpeted airport lounge and nod off in less than two or three minutes.