A couple of days ago I happened to listen to Jimmy Webb and Richard Harris‘s “MacArthur Park.” It was quite the innovative single in the spring of ’68, and I still like the complex orchestration (or at least portions of it). But it hasn’t aged well. It feels too precious and weepy and forlorn.

It’s based on a shattered affair Webb had when he was 19 or 20. The girl worked in an office building near MacArthur Park, and they used to meet there for lunches or something. Some of the things Webb noticed at the time (the melting green cake icing, old men playing checkers) went right into the song.

But it sounds a little stodgy now, and Harris’s singing is labored — he’s pushing too hard and a bit outside his range.

In 1992, Miami Herald humorist Dave Barry conducted a poll among his readers, and they selected Harris’s recording as the worst song of all time, both in terms of “Worst Lyrics” and “Worst Overall Song”.

Barry: “It’s hard to argue with this selection. My 12-year-old son, Rob, was going through a pile of ballots, and he asked me how ‘MacArthur Park’ goes, so I sang it, giving it my best shot, and Rob laughed so hard that when I got to the part about leaving the cake out in the rain, and it took so long to bake it, and I’ll never have that recipe again, Rob was on the floor. He didn’t BELIEVE those lyrics were real. He was SURE his wacky old humor-columnist dad was making them up.”

But “MacArthur Park” reminded me of one serious, real-deal thing, which is that young people (late teens, early 20s) don’t deal well with romantic break-ups, as a rule.

I certainly didn’t. Whenever it happened I would collapse into a puddle. And it was almost always me getting dumped and not the other way around. (The same seemed to happen with Jett at that age.) After an especially painful jilting I remember being in my ex-girlfriend’s kitchen late at night (she was attending Marlboro College in Vermont while I was staying in a converted chicken coop on her parent’s spread) and just weeping my ass off.

The first time I dropped someone was in ’79, and I recall feeling really, really badly about it. But I had to because I’d fallen in love with someone else, and it felt like the real deal. (Plus she was sexy and super-smart) That “someone else” dumped me four or five months later. Life is a comedy written by a sadist.

The Loudest Voice won’t be on Showtime until 6.30 (a little more than seven weeks hence), and I’d really like to see it sooner. As in right now or, you know, this weekend. You can tell Russell Crowe is obviously feeling his madness oats as Roger Ailes. Showtime must be sending links to critics by now. I haven’t inquired, but here goes…

I know this is nuts. I know it’s irrational. I know there’s no reason the rest of the world thinks like this. I know this is just me and my private weirdness. But I have to add another item to my list of pet peeves, quirks, caprices, obsessions, superstitions and animal dislikes**.

So here it is: I hate people who wear maroon or burgundy-colored clothing — especially sweaters, sport jackets and scarves. Okay, I don’t “hate” people who wear maroon or burgundy, but I can’t fathom why anyone would want to wear such a horrid color and so the instant I see someone strolling around in a burgundy T-shirt or wearing maroon socks, I’ll mutter to myself, “The fuck is wrong with that guy?”

I’ll never “say” anything, mind. I keep it to myself or write about it, but I’ll never go up to some maroon-wearer and actually make a crack or something. I always keep that shit holstered.

I’ve hated maroon sweaters ever since I first glanced at the cover of “The Beach Boys Today” and noticed that Brian Wilson (who was always kind of nerd when it came to apparel) was wearing one of these horrid things. I didn’t have to think about it. One look and I went “Jesus H. Christ.” From that moment I knew — I knew that maroon and burgundy were musts to avoid, and I didn’t know why or how or whatever. It was a gut call.

There are a lot of people with animal dislikes out there. Some people will just glance at you one time and say to themselves, “Okay, that’s it, I hate that guy.”

There are frothy-mouthed Twitter dogs who hate me today. They seethe and bark at the sound of my name. I don’t much like them either. But you know the difference between me and them? I keep it to myself, and I sure as hell don’t say “these guys should be hounded out of the business…don’t hire them or give them advertising!” I would never dream of tweeting something like that. No offense, but those who do this fall under the heading of “diseased scum.”

I can remember strolling into a mixed-company beer bar when I was in my early 20s, which is when I looked a bit feminine with my long hair and high cheekbones and slender features. And I just scanned the people sitting at the bar, and right away I spotted a guy who was giving me a look that said “oh, man, you’re fucking disgusting…I hate your ass….c’mon over and say something…I’ll punch your lights out,” etc.

This is how I feel about burgundy-maroon minus the physical threats.

I’m okay, however, with hand-crafted burgundy or cordovan lace-up shoes.

** People who take extra-long showers, people who shriek with laughter in bars and cafes, couples who obliviously block escalators or moving sidewalks, twenty- and thirtysomething Millennials who wear the same fucking outfit from coast to coast (baggy shorts, T-shirt, backward baseball caps, mandals or canvas slip-ons), the term “Portugese water dog,” people who can’t sing “Happy Birthday” on key, bar owners who won’t let me eat an innocent slice of pear cake as they’re stacking chairs and closing up shop, grandma types who would give my cowboy hat to the police, etc.

27 years after the horrific events that took place in Derry, New Hampshire in 1989, the “Loser’s Club” — now in their late 30s — are back in the old town and looking to settle this nightmarish Pennywise shit (hauntings, spookings, self-reflections) once and for all.

Let me tell you something — if on the cusp of 40 you’re still seriously haunted or even psychologically imprisoned by your childhood traumas — if you’re seriously inhibited or impaired by bad shit that happened when you were nine or ten years old and you can’t seem to get past it, then you’ve got a serious problem on your hands. Most people get past their childhood shit, but here you are still frowning and fretting and grinding your teeth about it. The applicable terms are (a) arrested development and (b) pity party.

I for one don’t give a damn if you resolve your problems with Pennywise and the other bugaboos or not. You can all take a walk in a swamp

You didn’t have to be a megaplex moron to rave about the first It film, but it probably helped if you were. It (’17) was not a Hollywood Elsewhere film, and the same probably goes for the forthcoming sequel — It Chapter Two. The It films are for popcorn munchers — lowbrows who prefer their horror films to howl and jolt and gush blood and vomit in their laps.

And I love the fact that the there’s no colon or dash between It and Chapter Two on the poster — it’s like the filmmakers are shouting “hello, idiots…over here!”

Jonathan Levine, Seth Rogen and Charlize Theron‘s Long Shot is a bust. After costing “roughy $40 million to make and another $30 million to market,” according to the N.Y. Times‘ Brooks Barnes, it made a lousy $10 million last weekend (it’s currently at $12 million) and will almost certainly suffer a 40%-or-higher diminishment during the next round (5.10 to 5.12).

The odds of tripling that opening weekend tally by the end of the run are not high. Face it — the movie was intermittently funny at best (I found it flat-out unfunny), the premise was absurd or at least distasteful (the toad-gazelle pairing of Rogen and Theron) and Joe and Jane Popcorn said “nope.”

No, wait — that’s not why it died. The handicappers are claiming that Long Shot sank beneath the waves because the competition from Avengers: Endgame was too fierce. So HE’s above-mentioned issues were incidental to its failure? I doubt it but you tell me.

Theory #1: Rogen is only 37 but he looks 49, and I’m wondering if the guy he’s been playing in film after film for the last 12 years (or since Knocked up) is starting to wear thin among his followers. I personally love the guy when he’s spouting impudent, sharp-edged dialogue, but his Long Shot character was a 16 year-old. Theory #2: It’s Charlize Theron‘s fault! The public accepts/respects her as a dramatic actress who takes chances, but is wary of watching her in a romcom mode. Theory #3: The movie blew chunks and the word got around. Theory #4 (see below): It’s Jon Feltheimer‘s fault!

“At his rally tonight, Trump says the government is unable to violently attack immigrants, someone in the crowd shouted ‘Shoot them!’

“The crowd & Trump erupt in laughter & cheers. Trump says, ‘Only in the panhandle can you get away with that statement.'” .twitter.com/SgQd2OH9ti

— jordan (@JordanUhl) May 9, 2019

Got up late, slow to start, interruptions aplenty. A high point was learning how to mirror iPhone content on the Sony HDR 4K 65-incher. Suddenly it was 4:30 pm and time to hit Runyon Canyon. I might be subconsciously downshifting with the big flight to Stockholm and then Nice only three days away (Saturday at 6 pm). Tomorrow’s another day.

5.9 Update: I can’t do this. Too many last-minute, 48-hours-and-counting errands and clean-ups to take care of. The clock always speeds up and actually oppresses when you’re about to leave on a longish journey.

Wednesday, 5.8: Tomorrow morning Hollywood Elsewhere will be attending what boils down to a Pete Buttigieg rally. It’s technically a “Yes on EE” rally but c’mon. It’ll happen at SEIU 99, 2724 West 8th Street in Los Angeles, at the corner of 8th and Hoover. (Four or five blocks southwest of MacArthur Park.) The event, which Mayor Eric Garcetti will also attend, begins at 10:30 am. I’ll need to jump on the Yamaha rumble-hog so I can arrive at 8 or 8:30 am. A big crowd is expected.

Legend has long had it that sometime in late ’65 the once-friendly Bob Dylan and Phil Ochs had a falling out. While riding around Manhattan in a long black limousine, Dylan, who was into his “uptown Bob” phase, played a new unrecorded song for Ochs (reportedly “Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?“) and the latter, who had gradually developed a view that Dylan’s post-1963 material was too vague and mercurial and not political enough, told Dylan he didn’t like it.

“Whaddaya mean you don’t like it?” Dylan asked. “It’s not that good,” Ochs replied. Dylan told Ochs to get out of the limo.

I haven’t listened to “Window” in ages, and it’s a lot better than I’d remembered. I’m not saying Dylan was justified in giving Ochs the boot, but I understand why he might have succumbed to an angry impulse. It’s a good song. Ochs was wrong.

Dylan will turn 78 later this month. I don’t like to say or even think stuff like this, but he’s a year and a half older than effing Joe Biden. Like DeNiro and Scorsese, I wish Dylan could somehow stop aging and be allowed to remain on the planet earth forever.

At 10:30 pm on Friday, 5.24, Sylvester Stallone will take the stage at the Grand Lumiere in Cannes with three motives in mind. One, to screen clips from Rambo V — Last Blood, which Lionsgate will open stateside on 9.20. Two, to be celebrated with a career-tribute montage and an SRO from those in attendance. And three, for a screening of a 4K restoration of Ted Kotcheff‘s First Blood (and not Rambo — First Blood as the Cannes press release states).

Rambo V — Last Blood was directed by Adrian Grunberg (Get The Gringo) and produced by Millennium Films (aka Alchemy)?

Rambo V synopsis: “In the fifth episode of franchise, when the daughter of one of his friends is kidnapped, Rambo, who has been working on a ranch, crosses the U.S.-Mexican border and quickly finds himself up against the full might of one of Mexico’s most violent cartels.”

The script is by Stallone and Matt Circulnick. The costars include Paz Vega, Adriana Barraza, Oscar Jaenada, Joaquin Cosio and Yvette Monreal.

For anyone with half a brain, Russ Buettner and Susanne Craig‘s N.Y. Times report about Donald Trump’s massive losses between 1985 and 1994, as revealed by Internal Revenue Service tax transcripts, totally pops the myth-bubble about Trump being a shrewd, swaggering, super-rich businessman.

Trump was in fact propped up all those years by his father, Fred Trump, and was subsequently propped up, most likely, by Eastern European or Russian interests at some point within the last 10 or 15 years.

Will the popping of this myth have any effect on the blind loyalties of Trump’s hinterland, red-state supporters? The basis of his legend, after all, is that he’s a powerful financial hotshot who knows the ins and outs of the system and how to finagle things, and now it’s clear he was never a winner and in fact was a clumsy, profligate loser through and through.

Will this make a difference in Bumblefuckland? Of course not. All they care about is Trump as a symbol of rich-white-guy power and the way things used to be when The Brady Bunch was a hit series. As long as he continues to push back against immigration and embraces the fossil fuel industry (and thereby helps to hasten the end of the natural world as mankind has known it for thousands of years), they’ll stand behind him.

The most entertaining portion of this Last Word discussion comes when Lawrence O’Donnell tells Craig that the IRS transcripts that she and Buettner drew upon to write the story “have to have leaked out of the IRS.” Craig says nothing, but her facial expression (a slight nod, a smile) is priceless.

There are three kinds of happiness, for the most part. I could crank myself up and say there are ten or fifteen kinds (and maybe there are), but let’s keep it simple.

The first kind of happiness is the mild, steady-as-she-goes, non-euphoric kind that’s based upon a general, good-enough satisfaction with the basics (fulfilling job, loyal friends, a more-or-less happy relationship with a significant other, financial security) and trusting that good things are in the offing. I’m basically talking about believing in your future — a belief that things are pretty good for the most part, and that you’re not looking at an ongoing or worsening tragedy (like having neurofibromatosis or incurable cancer or living under a hellish police state) and that some of the miles to go before you sleep will be interesting..

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