I was walking back to the car after visiting a shoe repair place on Van Sant Street in East Norwalk when all of a sudden this ruddy-faced, shaved-head guy wearing long baggy shorts is right next to me and saying the following in quick succession, like a Gatling gun: (1) “Whassup, Elvis? “, (2) “I like your shoes” and “put it there.”

A voice told me not to shake his hand, and I knew I’d made the right call when he said a second later, “Don’t wanna be friends, huh?”

I’ll shake hands with a stranger over a point of mutual agreement (i.e., “You don’t want a trans person with monster elephant boobs teaching your five-year-old? Put it there, pardner”) but I’ll never shake hands just to shake hands, especially with a skeezy guy.

This really actually happened around 3:15 pm today.

** He didn’t actually say what I said he said. He actually said “whass goin’ on there, Elvis?” I didn’t like how that looked as a headline so I shortened it. Then the lie began to burn through my soul.

At least once a year I stare at the night sky and think of all the hundreds or thousands of intelligent civilizations living on hundreds or thousands of planets out there. Tonight is one of those nights.

Note: This doesn’t change HE’s negative opinion of Jupiter, a pretentious gas planet that you can’t even land on. I used to think of Jupiter as the home of the 2001 black monolith as well as the site of Dave Bowman’s 18th Century condo. No longer!

Since glimpsing this college film-course chart, I’ve been reading about the influential Dziga Vertov. who was very close to Vladimir Lenin. But before this morning I had never heard of the guy. At least I’m willing to admit it.

N.Y. Times writer Kim Severson shares some scoopy material in Charles Leerhsen‘s “Down and Out in Paradise: The Life of Anthony Bourdain.”

We’re mainly talking abut the contents of some “raw, anguished” texts between Bourdain and his ex-wife, Ottavia Busia-Bourdain, as well as Bourdain’s hellcat lover Daria Argento, whose aloof and callous behavior just prior to his death…uhm, may have had something to do with his decision to hang himself. Or not. Who knows?

AB to Busia-Bourdain: “I hate my fans, too. I hate being famous. I hate my job. I am lonely and living in constant uncertainty.”

HE comment: “Living in constant uncertainty, eh? I eat constant uncertainty for breakfast, hoss. But I certainly understand your despair about your job, and about being famous. What a shitty, soul-draining way to spend your life…God! Constantly travelling from one fascinating destination to another, eating scrumptious food, meeting fascinating people, discovering and re-discovering the soul of things in every new situation. We all have our crosses to bear, and you certainly had yours.”

AB to Argento #1: “I am okay. I am not spiteful. I am not jealous that you have been with another man. I do not own you. You are free. As I said. As I promised. As I truly meant. But you were careless. You were reckless with my heart. My life.”

AB to Argento #2: “Is there anything I can do?” Argento to AB: “Stop busting my balls.” AB to Argento: “Okay.”

Hours later he offed himself.

Eric Clapton and Van Morrison earned their disrepute for Covid-ignoring, mask-refusing obstinacy. But Roger Waters has outdone them by becoming a Putin admirer, or at least a supporter of Russki slaughter in Ukraine.

To me the Nuart has always been the West Los Angeles version of the Cinema Village — a certain storied, neon-marquee, down-at-the-heels atmosphere but never a theatre to get excited about attending, much less write home about.

If you ask me it peaked in the ‘70s and ‘80s, which many regard as the summit of L.A.’s arthouse era (Fox Venice, Beverly Canon, LACMA’s Bing, the varied Laemmle westside showplaces).

From a presentational or impressionistic viewpoint, the Nuart has always been a bowling alley-slash-quonset hut with a smallish screen.

My last viewing at the Nuart was the restored Becket (Glenville + O’Toole + Burton). The quality difference between that subdued, somewhat murky-sounding presentation and what this 1964 film undoubtedly looked and sounded like in big-city, first-run bookings, not to mention the first-rate Bluray….forget it, man.

The best aspect of the vaguely grubby Nuart is still the pinkish-red neon marquee, and even that isn’t what anyone would call spectacular. Okay, maybe I’m being too harsh.

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…posted by Mad Magazine in a June 1969 issue. I’ve never written about the flophouse “hit” scene in Peter Yates’ Bullitt (‘68). A professional assassin, armed with a pump shotgun, nonsensically fails to do the job. Written by Al Jaffee, drawn by Mort Drucker .

The term “male gaze” was coined 37 years ago by feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey. The basic idea is that men have been objectifying women for their physical appearance since…uhm, prehistoric times.

And this, perversely, has led to an artistic tradition where males get pleasure from looking at females who take on passive roles blah blah. In the world of Mulvey’s “male gaze” society is still teaching young girls that they need to look desirable in order to get attention from boys while also teaching young boys that it’s okay to view women as sex objects.”

Friendo: “This again? Who gives a fuck? They’ve all but obliterated men by now. There’s nothing left but a grease stain. And that’s still not enough?”

Nina Menkes’ Brainwashed: Sex-Camera-Power (Kino Lorber) debuts on 10.21 at Manhattan’s DCTV Firehouse Cinema; it will also open at the Laemmle in West Los Angeles. Some kind of national rollout wiill follow.