I wanted to see MSNBC’s “All The President’s Men Revisited” doc last night, but Tatyana and I were riding around Santa Monica on bicycles and couldn’t get home in time due to the slow-as-molasses 704 bus (Santa Monica to downtown on S.M. Blvd.). Why can’t I find information about rebroadcastings or at least ways to stream it? What is this, 2003?

I was rumbling around the WeHo Pavilions parking lot on the two-wheeler, looking for a spot. Five or six car lengths ahead I saw a little red Mercedes pull out so I gunned it, drove around an idling SUV and pulled in. I was stowing away the helmet when I heard this wailing sound coming from behind me. It was some 40ish guy going “haaayyy!” He was frowning from behind the wheel of his white four-door something or other and whining, “I was waiting for that spot…Jesus! I was waiting for it!” As if to say, “S’matter with you? Have you ever heard of parking lot manners?”

Law of the jungle, pal. Okay, if I’d seen you “waiting” for the spot I might not have taken it. I would actually rather not occupy any parking spot as I don’t really need one. But I didn’t see you so I took the spot and that’s that. You chose to go bigger and slower with four wheels and I chose smaller with two wheels, and look who has the spot, asshole!

There’s a scene in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre that applies. Bearded Humphrey Bogart is dead broke and on the bum in Tampico. He’s walking down a cobblestoned street when he sees a smoking, half-gone cigarillo that’s been tossed into the gutter. Bogart wants to grab it but he hesitates out of pride. Fred C. Dobbs doesn’t drop to his knees for a few puffs of tobacco…too late! A little Mexican kid grabs the cigarillo and saunters down the street, puffing away, cock of the walk. Bogart is seething. I wanted that damn cigarillo and…okay, I hesitated but then I decided, and now some kid is enjoying it instead of me! Life sucks.

The pissed-off Pavilions parking-lot guy in the white four-door was Humphrey Bogart, and I was the little kid with the lightning reflexes. Life is like that from time to time. Unfair, I mean, but I didn’t rig it.

“There were brawls. I had guys die. You know, the show would end and someone’s still sitting there and then you realize they’re never getting up. I had a projectionist die one time in the booth. I heard the crowd booing, and then the movie’s off the screen. This is when there were carbon arc projectors, so a lot of times these projectionists would just fall asleep or they’d be screwing somebody up there and they’d forget to change the carbon arc. So I go up there…and the guy’s dead on the floor. I called the cops, and then I thought — this is how sick you’d get after being in New York for a few years in those days — I thought, ‘This is my big chance to actually shame a New York audience.’ So I went into this theater and I looked at them, and I said, ‘I’m very sorry for the inconvenience [but] the projectionist has passed away. We have someone going up there now, and your film will be on shortly.’ And they booed me!” — Savages author Don Winslow recalling a Times Square movie-theatre gig in the ’80s, reported by Bilge Ebiri in the Village Voice.

True story #2 (i.e., my own): I worked as a Brooklyn theatre manager sometime around late ’79 or early ’80. I honestly forget the name of the theatre, but it was a midsize house that played mainstream films. I remember telling the guy who’d hired me that I’d been a licensed projectionist in Connecticut and that I’d worked at the Carnegie Hall and Bleecker Street Cinemas under Sid Geffen. So I got the gig, but I became bored with the job very quickly. On top of which I was never all that reliable about keeping track of ticket sales and whatnot. I wasn’t skimming — I just wasn’t an efficient mathematical type. And then I decided to play Warren Zevon‘s Excitable Boy over the theatrical sound system before the show began. And I didn’t play it quietly — I had the sound levels up to at least 7 or 8. I was eventually canned, of course. The story of my life from the time I was 17 to the launch of Hollywood Elsewhere in August ’04 was “and then I got fired.”

Last night I watched the fourth and final segment in Oliver Stone‘s interviews with Russian president Vladmir Putin. Stone asked and asked about Russian hackings of the 2016 U.S. election, which of course Putin denied any involvement with. Like any gifted politician, the 64 year-old ruler is very good at deflection and evasion. And yet two weeks ago he acknowledged that Russian “patriotic hackers” may have cyber-meddled on some level. So there’s that.

Did I expect Putin to admit that he’s an iron-fisted authoritarian whose hand is obviously strengthened with other like-minded strongmen (like Orange Orangutan) in power around the globe? That he didn’t want Hillary Clinton to beat Donald Trump? That he has a copy of the pee-pee tape in his private safe? Of course not.

Stone’s questioning of Putin struck me as direct but collegial — i.e., not overly friendly but respectful, appropriately non-aggressive. I’ll tell you one thing. Say what you will about Putin but he’s a much smarter, wiser, better educated fellow than Trump. And certainly more emotionally mature. Putin may be a brutalist and a murderer of his enemies, but he’s no dummy. Putin is a player who knows how to behave; Trump is an animal.

Go to 3:40 in this Real Time with Bill Maher sit-down with Breitbart Editor Alex Marlow:

After more than 50 hours of deliberations, Bill Cosby‘s trial on three charges of aggravated sexual assault against Andrea Constand was declared a mistrial today (i.e., Saturday, 6.17) after the jury declared it was “hopelessly deadlocked” on all counts.

This despite the obvious fact that Costand’s account of having been violated by Cosby after being drugged closely matched complaints from dozens of other women (over 40 according to the L.A. Times, 58 according to the Washington Post) — i.e., that the same thing had happened to them.

“The Cosbies” on the cover of New York a year or two ago.

Two of the Cosby jurors were black. Do I know for a fact that the O.J. syndrome was a factor? No, I don’t. But who wouldn’t be very, very surprised if they were told this wasn’t a significant reason for the jury’s inability to reach a verdict? We know that at least one juror was unable to vote guilty and send the beloved Cliff Huxtable to jail.

Cosby faced up to 10 years in the slam on each of the three counts. This is the jury system, the social values of this country, the way people tend to see things. You’re rich and famous and played a nice guy on TV? A juror or two will find a way not to convict.

Will Pennsylvania authorities re-try the case? Yes, they will.

“It’s a Cosby sweater….A COSBY SWEAT-AHHHH!”

The once-great John Avildsen has departed this realm at age 81. Hugs, regrets & condolences to family, friends, fans. Avildsen’s peak achievement years happened in the early to mid ’70s — Joe (’70), Save The Tiger (’73) and the original Rocky (’76). That was his glory period, tapping into the zeitgeist, as good as it got.

Joe was his rawest and most explosive — a low-budgeter that caught the hardhat vs. hippies thing at exactly the right moment. I re-watched Rocky in high-def last year and found it even better than I’d remembered. Save The Tiger probably hasn’t aged as well but it has its moments. Avildsen directed three others that were at least decent — The Formula (’80), Neighbors (’81) and Lean On Me (’89).

Very few directors can point to a respectable roster of grade-A films made over two decades; fewer still can say “I made three…okay, two that really rocked the culture.” Avildsen can say that.

I relate a lot more to Mark Wahlberg and Mel Gibson‘s characters than I do to Will Ferrell and John Lithgow‘s. Because the former are real, studly, straight-talking guys and the latter are overly sensitive p.c. candy-asses with shrivelled appendages. That’s the intended response when you watch this, of course. And you’re not meant to be bothered by the fact that in real life Wahlberg and Gibson are right-wingers. If I didn’t know better I’d say that Daddy’s Home 2 is Republican propaganda.

It feels icky to post Alex Jones‘ recordings of his pre-interview conversation[s] with NBC’s Megyn Kelly, during which they discussed the tone and perimeters of their then-forthcoming sitdown. Jones says he told Kelly in the interview that he believes that the Sandy Hook massacre “probably happened.” He actually says this — that the massacre of all those little kids probably fucking happened. Then again it might not have since “probably” suggests that not all the facts are in.

From 6.13.17 Media Matters post containing links to what Alex Jones has actually said about the Sandy Hook massacre:

“While we don’t know how the Sandy Hook exchange will play out in Jones’ full interview with Megyn Kelly, what can be proved is that Jones is a liar who has attempted to sanitize his definitive past claims that the shooting was a ‘hoax.’

In 2013, Jones called the shooting “staged” and said “It’s got inside job written all over it.”

In March 2014, Jones said, “I’ve looked at it and undoubtedly there’s a cover-up, there’s actors, they’re manipulating, they’ve been caught lying, and they were pre-planning before it and rolled out with it.”

Stephen Rodrick‘s Esquire profile of Bill Maher (“Bill Maher Knows Exactly What He’s Doing“) does a fairly standard job of looking for chinks in the armor. Rodrick hung with the HBO talk-show host and comedian several weeks ago and discovered two things: (1) Once a nocturnal party animal who drank and toked with the best of them, Maher now lives a semi-solitary, somewhat lonely life (“only three chairs at his dining-room table”), in part because he has no apparent interest in getting married or even investing in a semi-serious partnership. And (2) Maher isn’t as knowledgable about certain political topics (like French presidential candidate Marine Le Pen) as he could be, or is at least less knowledgable than John Oliver.

Rodrick excerpt #1: “Maher spoke dreamily about hosting dinner parties, but I noticed that there were only three chairs at his dining-room table. He’s never been married, and his predilection for dating young women is well known. His last serious girlfriend was a Guyanese-Canadian musician a quarter century his junior. But while Maher readily admits that he’s spent much of his adult life making up for his crummy adolescence, he thinks he’s taken way too much shit for the age of his companions over the years. ‘You know the definition of sleazy, don’t you?,’ Maher says. ‘Anyone who’s having more sex than you are.'”

Rodrick excerpt #2: “It was at this point that I realized Maher’s Doubting Thomas ideology is, in its way, as rigid as any dogma, a reflexive contrarianism that works spectacularly well for him right up until it convinces him that it’s okay for a white person to call himself a ‘house nigger.’ He can be just as dependent on slogans and talking points as the politicians he skewers on his show. And here, perhaps, was another important difference between him and his peers. Unlike John Oliver, who did seventeen minutes on the French election, Maher clearly had not done his homework about the most important European election of this century so far.”