One film journalist’s stream-of-consciousness cinematic journey through the pandemic, Part 61 By Laurence Lerman / New York City The great American composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim, whose repertoire stands as the most influential, respected and beloved in musical theater, died on November 26 at his home in Roxbury, Conn. He was 91. With more than a dozen major musicals and hundreds of songs to his credit, Sondheim was active for nearly 70 years in a career that garnered him an astonishing collection of accolades: eight Tony Awards (one for Lifetime Achievement), eight Grammy Awards, an Academy Award, an Olivier Award, a Pulitzer Prize, a Presidential Medal of Freedom and a Broadway theater officially renamed in his honor (the former Henry Miller’s Theater on West 43rd Street). But it was lovers of musical theater who received the real awards—make that rewards—which came in the form of the remarkable music and lyrics Sondheim crafted. His rich, varied and innovative creations redefined the nature of Broadway musicals, which up until the late-Forties, were primarily the straight-ahead stuff of love stories and comedies. With the arrival of Sondheim, the complexities and shadings of real life and human nature came to the fore—in song! From the spirited (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum; 1962) to the savagely spectacular (Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street; 1979) to the superlative (West Side Story; 1957), Sondheim’s works gamely reflected his goal to take on a wide mix of subjects—from wisecracking’ ancient Greeks to blood-thirsty Victorian barbers to a forbidden romance on the Upper West Side of New York City in the Fifties. While a number of his musicals were made into films (like the above trio), it’s not really a surprise that nearly as many never made the jump to the big screen. Honestly, it had to be tough for prospective producers to imagine film versions of musicals like 1974’s The Frogs, a bizarre metaphorical comedy adapted from a play by Aristophanes about a plot to resurrect George Bernard Shaw from Hades. Or 1976’s Pacific Overtures, which concerns the Westernization of Japan in the 19th century as told from the Japanese point of view. Though Sondheim’s relationship to the movies wasn’t really a symbiotic one, it’s worth noting that a pair of his most romantic and personal works—1973’s A Little Night Music and 1994’s Passion—were inspired by foreign films. The former was sparked by Ingmar Bergman’s 1955 romantic comedy Smiles of a Summer Night, and the latter by the 1981 drama Passione d’Amore by Italy’s Ettore Scola. Over the past couple of decades, Sondheim also fiddled around with a never-produced musical combining two movies by surrealist filmmaker Luis Buñuel, 1962’s The Exterminating Angel and 1972’s The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. Another of his foreign affairs was with French New Waver Alain Resnais’s 1974 crime drama Stavisky, for which he composed the sumptuous score. Still, even as Sondheim’s vocation was primarily fulfilled onstage in the theater, his involvement with the movies—apart from film versions of his Broadway musicals—did yield a few interesting results. Sondheim’s one and only screenwriting credit is for the lively 1973 murder mystery The Last of Sheila, which he cowrote with Anthony Perkins. Featuring an ensemble that includes Richard Benjamin, Raquel Welch, James Mason, Ian McShane and Dyan Cannon, the film is set aboard a yacht in the Mediterranean where a group of well-heeled guests engage in a puzzle-filled scavenger hunt over the course of a weekend. But what begins as a game quickly become a little deadlier than expected. Inspired by a series of elaborate, real-life scavenger hunts devised by buddies Sondheim and Perkins for their circle of Manhattan friends, Sheila was helmed by Broadway director-filmmaker Herbert Ross. The setup and ensemble are a lot of fun, particularly Ms. Cannon, whose brassy character was based on the well-known Hollywood super-agent Sue Mengers. It plays like a drawing room mystery, albeit one set on the water that is more intricately scripted and complicated than your average whodunit. Years earlier, Sondheim actually launched his professional career writing drawing room-styled teleplays for the 1953 fantastical drawing-room sitcom Topper, starring Anne Jeffreys, Robert Sterling and the great Leo G. Carroll. In the late Seventies, Sondheim was conscripted by no less a Hollywood powerhouse than Warren Beatty to compose the score for his 1981 historical epic Reds. It didn’t wholly work out; Dave Grusin ultimately came in and wrote the majority of the score. But Sondheim did contribute the film’s recurring love theme, the very beautiful “Goodbye For Now,” which winds its way through the picture as Beatty and leading lady Diane Keaton’s characters find themselves separated by their beliefs (political) and borders (geographical). It’s at its most lovely when the two are reunited in a Moscow train station at the film’s climax. Several years later, Sondheim wrote five songs for Beatty’s 1990 colorful comic book fantasia Dick Tracy, four of which are sung by Beatty’s co-star and then-girlfriend Madonna. One of them, the Thirties-styled, bluesy torch song “Sooner or Later” won Sondheim his Oscar that year. Along with presenting Madonna a clearly challenging vocal workout—she sings in a lower register than she’d ever attempted before–“Sooner or Later” contains one of my favorite Sondheim lyrics. The deceptively simple words and wit of the verse find Madonna’s slinky Breathless Mahoney character sizing up her future with the titular cartoon-inspired cop: It's just a question of when When I get a yen Then baby, amen I'm counting to ten And then… So now, the week of his passing, Stephen Sondheim is as busy as ever. A revival of his 1990 musical Assassins is currently running Off-Broadway at the Classic Stage Company (he attended the opening on November 14) and a Broadway revival of 1970’s Company is currently in previews and is opening on December 9. (Check out D.A. Pennebaker’s 1970 short documentary Original Cast Album: Company, an outstanding chronicle of the original production.) And on December 10 comes the premiere of Steven Spielberg’s hotly anticipated new film version of the glorious West Side Story, the lyrics of which Sondheim wrote opposite Leonard Bernstein’s music. The fact that Sondheim’s legacy is everywhere and thriving like a Broadway hit even as I write this tribute is the kind of morbidly shticky joke one might find in a darkly brilliant Sondheim musical like Sweeney Todd or Assassins. In keeping with that tone, I’ll leave the final word with Krusty the Clown of The Simpsons. In “Yokel Chords,” a 2007 episode of the venerable TV show, the half-baked harlequin approaches guest star Sondheim to write new songs for his children’s television program—with mixed results. “Complex harmonies, sophisticated lyrics, pithy observations on everyday life—what is this crap?,” groans Krusty as he listens to Sondheim’s efforts. The legendary composer quickly moves on to craft a jingle for the show’s popular Buzz Cola soft drink: President or Ayatollah Everyone loves new Buzz Cola! With lemon! The first two phrases are exactly the kind of “peppy vamp” that Krusty was imagining. That it’s countered by a final, sour flourish makes it pure Sondheim. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist, former editor of Video Business--Variety's DVD trade publication--and husband to The Insider's own Gwen Cooper. Over the course of his career he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major director working today, including Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, Clint Eastwood, Kathryn Bigelow, Ridley Scott, Walter Hill, Spike Lee, and Werner Herzog, among numerous others. Once James Cameron specifically requested an interview with Laurence by name, which his wife still likes to brag about. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site DiscDish.com.

By Naomi Serviss / New York City The revival of The Public Theater’s 2003 Caroline, or Change is crushing it at Studio 54. With Tony Kushner’s brilliant book and lyrics and Jeanine Tesori’s deft musical ‘60s reimagining, Caroline nails the fraught relationship between Blacks and Jews. And that just scratches the surface of this timely revisit. Caroline Thibodeaux (the majestic powerhouse Sharon D. Clarke) is a bone-weary Black woman employed in 1963 by the Gellmans, a wealthy Jewish family with a basement “16 feet below sea level.” Set in Lake Charles, La., Caroline is tasked with household cleaning and running endless laundry in a dank basement, her living hell. Basements are rare in the floodplains of the Deep South. The washing machine has a mind of its own and bubbles forth in neon glory. Caroline’s true self only emerges, blossoms and soars when she’s alone with the feisty appliances and aerial fantasies. They’re good company with singular, multi-tasking entertainment. Caroline is also charged with precocious eight-year-old Noah when he returns home from school. Noah, still reeling from his mother’s death, is emotionally invested in Caroline. She’s not having it, figuring her emotional investment is focused on her own progeny. Not an easy task for $30 a week. Caroline begrudgingly tolerates the over-thinking kid. When he accidentally leaves money in his pants pockets before they’re washed, Caroline plunks it in a plastic bleach cup and returns it to its rightful owner. Until she doesn’t. Noah and his father’s new wife Rose implore Caroline to keep any found pocket change. Insulted, Caroline at first refuses. And there’s the rub. What to do? Take the pitiful pittance for her kids? A slight ethical dilemma. To complicate issues tenfold, a $20 bill pitches the family into a frenzied tizzy. The $20 bill, a Hanukkah gift for Noah, creates a domino effect that disrupts the family irrevocably. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Staged by Michael Longhurst for the Roundabout Theater Company, the gloomy misery evoked is deliciously broken up by singing appliances and a seductive radio. Spangles, sequins and an unexpected rain shower heighten the tension and secure audience attention. The Gellmans’ Hanukkah fest includes Rose’s left-ish father from New York City, as well as other more middle-of-the road-ish in-laws. Singing, dancing and merrymaking ensue. Rose’s father delivers the aforementioned 20 bucks to Noah. With a caveat about how money’s true value Should be carefully measured. Caroline is a head-spinning musical teeming with aerial delights, and a musical smorgasbord of girl-group pop, Mozart, Motown, klezmer, Broadway and blues. Drum-tight tension spikes during the two and a half hour musical, which at times recalls Angels in America in media fanfare. Clarke’s powerhouse, eleventh-hour song drew audible audience gasps. Her majestic register is otherworldly, angelic and gut-grabbing. Caroline is a curious lead character. She never smiles, and cringes when Noah’s stepmom Rose mispronounces her name. A small insult writ large. Unsympathetically grim, Caroline tolerates Noah, letting him light her daily cigarette. But she disavows his longed-for friendship. Both literal and metaphorical change propels Caroline’s world. She single-handedly toils for her children in hopes they will escape her dead-end world. Clarke won an Olivier Award for the British production, and leaves her mark on Broadway’s. You have until January 9 to catch this breathtaking, star-making machinery. The change will do you good. Naomi Serviss is a New York-based award-winning journalist whose work has been published in The New York Times, Newsday, The Philadelphia Inquirer, Highroads (AAA magazine), in-flight publications, spa and travel magazines and websites, including BroadwayWorld.com

By Madeline Barry / New York City Jerry Garcia, the leader of the Grateful Dead, the beloved rock and roll band known for its super-charged shows, extended improvisational jams, and zealously dedicated fans known as “Deadheads', may have died 25 years ago, but he remains a countercultural deity. Thus when actor Jonah Hill announced on Instagram that he would be playing Garcia in a new Grateful Dead biopic directed by Martin Scorsese for Apple TV+, scores of fans rushed to the Internet to voice and meme their opinions. There were no shortage of places to do that. On Instagram alone, there are thousands of accounts dedicated to the Grateful Dead. Many of these are humor-based, sharing a variety of funny memes, photos, and videos on their pages; while others are virtual museums that archive and share moments from the band’s wild history. Hill’s announcement about the forthcoming film was immediately reposted on a number of these Grateful Dead-themed sites. When the account “MusicNeverStopped” (named for the Grateful Dead song) shared Hill’s post on their page, some followers digitally raged at the idea of Hill playing Garcia. One angry user commented, “Leave [Garcia’s] legacy alone, we don’t need a Hollywood blockbuster to tell his story.” One displeased user simply stated, “This makes me uncomfortable.” Similarly, when another meme account, “IHavePhisues” (an Instagram page named after the rock band Phish, who many believe carry on the legacy of the Grateful Dead because of their jam-fueled songs and immersive live show experience) alerted their followers to the biopic, Deadheads did not hold back. “Don’t really get this whole project though…” one confused follower wrote, “what’s the story going to be? There was no real drama with the Dead like with The Doors or Freddie Mercury or Elton John. Jerry wasn’t some egomaniac dictator. There was fun and excessive drug use, but never slimy. There was a couple of deaths before Jerry, but not so dramatic to make a movie out of. Or big break ups, etc. There’s no air of mystique like around Dylan where they made that I’m Not There movie. Whole project seems forced.” This sentiment is shared by many devotees, who believe a project about the band, and specifically Garcia’s life, would not make for an authentic cinematic experience, in the way films like Bohemian Rhapsody did with Queen’s Freddie Mercury. Deadheads are notoriously protective of Garcia and tend to view him as a rock god or prophet. In 2015 a few surviving members of the Grateful Dead banded together to revive the music of the Dead in the form of a new group that they called Dead & Company. John Mayer was selected to fill Garcia’s role. When he was introduced as the new frontman, Mayer received plenty of flack. I’ll admit it—even I was wary. But Dead & Company has been hugely successful. Between 2015-2019, the band grossed over $200 million, according to the website Live for Live Music. There’s a good bit of déjà vu happening. The Scorcese project is backed by surviving members of the Grateful Dead Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Mickey Hart, and Bill Kretuzmann, who are signed up to be executive producers. There are of course many people who are more optimistic about the biopic because they trust famed director. “Seems like an effort bound to disappoint to portray the man in a film. I mean it’s Jerry, he was so unique, powerful and humble that a movie about him doesn’t feel right. But it is Scorsese, which means it could be a quality movie” one user commented in his MusicNeverStopped post. Scorsese is hardly new to the music documentary world. He is the man responsible for directing The Last Waltz, which documented The Band’s star-studded final performance in 1976; No Direction Home, the Bob Dylan documentary released in 2005; “The Rolling Stone’s” 2008 concert film Shine a Light; and the 2011 documentary about George Harrison, George Harrison: Living in a Material World. Scorsese has also dipped his toe in the Grateful Dead pool before. He was an executive producer of the 2017 project Long Strange Trip directed by Amir Bar-Lev, which was a six-part miniseries that documented the history of the band from its beginnings in San Francisco in the mid-1960’s until Jerry’s death in 1995. The industry feedback about Hill’s news was overwhelmingly positive online. A number of supporters applauded his upcoming role, including actor David Krumholtz, who is known for his roles on the CBS show Numb3rs, HBO’s The Deuce, and the Harold and Kumar and Santa Clause franchises. Krumholtz enthused, “as a massive Deadhead, I’m thrilled that this is happening! Congrats! Jerry was celestial.” Mike Gordon, bassist of Phish also expressed his support with the clapping hands emoji, and Monet Weir, daughter of the Grateful Dead’s rhythm guitarist Bob Weir ‘liked’ the Instagram post. Hill and Scorsese are not strangers. The pair worked together on The Wolf of Wall Street, the 2013 movie that gave Hill his second Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor. Deadline reports “The two have been looking for something to work on together ever since, and the opportunity to play a rock legend like Garcia was too good for Hill to pass up.” There is no news as to when the biopic will begin filming, but in the meantime perhaps Dead & Company’s Jerry Garcia fill-in Mayer can give Hill some advice. Madeline Barry is a junior high school teacher at the Ronald Edmonds Learning Center in Brooklyn, New York. Listening to music and writing for The Insider has kept her semi-sane during the pandemic.

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. The Rittenhouse jury delivers its verdict The not guilty verdict in the Kyle Rittenhouse murder case is outrageous on so many levels that it’s hard to know where to begin. First, in what universe can an underage 17-year-old carry an assault weapon he has no legal right to own into a volatile situation, falsely claim he is an emergency medical technician, play at being an unofficial adjunct to the police (better described as a vigilante), and create a dangerous circumstance which results in him killing two people and maiming a third—but then claim self-defense and walk away from his bloody actions without even a slap on the wrist? The shameful answer? This universe. This country. In the Rittenhouse case, a baby-faced crybaby was able to claim he was afraid for his life—in a situation he created—and be acquitted of several charges of murder, attempted murder, and reckless endangerment on the grounds of self-defense. Never mind that Rittenhouse was the one with the AR-15 assault rifle. Never mind that those who chased him were unarmed and courageously trying to stop a man they had every reason to believe was a mass shooter. These were facts that should have made the jury recognize Rittenhouse’s victims—not Rittenhouse—as the ones acting in self-defense and defense of others. But his victims, Joseph Rosenbaum and Anthony Huber are dead. They don’t get to go on the witness stand, to cry, and to make their case. Only the surviving victim, Gaige Grosskreutz, was able to testify. Maybe he should have cried on the stand like Kyle Rittenhouse did. In this Wild West version of law and order, the person with the gun gets to kill those trying to apprehend him and claim he was only defending himself. Based on that topsy-turvy logic, I ought to be able to rob a bank, kill the guard who pulls his gun to stop me, and successfully claim I shot him in self-defense. President Biden's reaction to the Rittenhouse verdict After the not guilty verdict on Friday, President Biden said he stands by what the jury has concluded. He stated, “the jury system works, and we have to abide by it.” Later in the day, the White House issued a statement in which Biden urged Americans to express their views peacefully, noting that the verdict “will leave many Americans feeling angry and concerned, myself included,” but “we must acknowledge that the jury has spoken.” Biden added, “I ran on a promise to bring Americans together, because I believe that what unites us is far greater than what divides us. I know that we’re not going to heal our country’s wounds overnight, but I remain steadfast in my commitment to do everything in my power to ensure that every American is treated equally, with fairness and dignity, under the law. … Violence and destruction of property have no place in our democracy.” I do not expect the president of the United States to advocate that we refuse to abide by a jury verdict. But the nation needed a more proactive reaction than empty and Pollyanna-ish words about healing, accompanied by a statement treating violence against life and destruction of property as coequal concerns for democracy. His phrasing appeared far more concerned with sidelining protests over the Rittenhouse verdict than addressing the violence with which such protests might be met. And while I do not think we would be better off with cases decided by judges rather than juries, it was clueless, under these circumstances, for the president to pronounce that the jury system “works.” Often—especially lately, and especially in this case—it has not worked as it should. While we must accept this jury’s verdict, we do not need to respect it. The president would have better served the nation with a terse statement like that of Vice President Kamala Harris, who said simply: “The verdict really speaks for itself. As many of you know, I’ve spent a majority of my career working to make the criminal justice system more equitable and clearly there’s a lot more work to do.” There are many layers to the Rittenhouse case, including its societal fallout and its effect on the constitutional right to peacefully assemble without violent vigilante intimidation. The interplay of these various layers is complex. To fully understand the extent of this miscarriage of justice and the dangers for our society, it is necessary to peel back the layers and lay bare all the facts. The Basic Events In May 2020, Kyle Rittenhouse gave Dominick Black, a friend who was dating one of Rittenhouse’s sisters, money with which to buy him the AR-15 assault rifle because Rittenhouse, age 17, was too young to legally buy it for himself. They agreed to store the rifle at the house of Black’s stepfather in Wisconsin until Rittenhouse turned 18, when his ownership and possession of the weapon would be legal. The testimony of Dominick Black, who bought Rittenhouse's gun for him On August 23, in Kenosha, Wisc, a white police officer shot Jacob Blake, a Black man, seven times, leaving him partly paralyzed. Nationwide protests followed, and locally, on the first nights, there was some property destruction. On August 24, 2020, Rittenhouse drove himself the approximately 20 miles from his home in Antioch, Ill. to Kenosha, Wisc. (Despite early reports, his mother was at work as an assistant nurse and did not drive Rittenhouse to Kenosha. Nor did he transport the AR-15 rifle across state lines in the car.) In his testimony, Rittenhouse claimed that he went to Kenosha to provide first aid after seeing online pleas for people to come to the city to help protect it. Rittenhouse’s friend Dominick Black testified that he invited Rittenhouse to join him at the Kenosha protest to protect a car dealership, and they went together to Black’s stepfather’s home to get Rittenhouse’s gun. (Black has separately been charged with two counts of intentionally giving a dangerous weapon to a minor, causing death. His trial was delayed until after the Rittenhouse trial was completed.) While his friend Black apparently stayed at the car dealership they were supposedly protecting, photos reveal that Rittenhouse wandered off, striding down a road, flaunting his weapon—not slung across his back by its sling, but held poised in front of him, ready for action. Chillingly, in one photo, he is some paces behind a policeman, chest out, as if following in the officer’s footsteps and gaining from the moment a sense of self-importance. Video footage presented during the trial showed that Rittenhouse was chased into a parking lot by Joseph Rosenbaum. Rosenbaum, who had been released that day from a hospital where he had received psychiatric care for bipolar disorder and depression, was unarmed but behaving erratically. According to Rittenhouse as well as a witness called by the prosecution, Rosenbaum threatened to kill Rittenhouse if he found him alone. As Rittenhouse ran into the parking lot, a man nearby fired a handgun into the air, and Rittenhouse turned in the direction of the gunfire just as Rosenbaum lunged at him. Rittenhouse then fired four shots, killing Rosenbaum. One witness, Richie McGuiness, a videographer for The Daily Caller, a right-wing publication cofounded by Tucker Carlson, said Rosenbaum had reached for the barrel of Rittenhouse’s rifle just before Rittenhouse fired. However, Rittenhouse did not stop after Rosenbaum ceased to be a danger but continuing to fire as Rosenbaum was falling to the ground. After Rittenhouse shot Rosenbaum, he fled, pursued by a crowd that correctly thought he was the shooter. One of his pursuers, Anthony Huber, swung his skateboard at Rittenhouse, and Rittenhouse shot him in the chest. Gaige Grosskreutz who, unlike Rittenhouse, really is a medic, testified that after he heard several shots, he ran toward the gunfire, intending to help whoever had been injured. He soon encountered Rittenhouse, holding his rifle, and followed him, holding his own pistol. After Huber was shot, Grosskreutz continued his approach, first with his gun pointed in the air, and then toward Rittenhouse—who shot him. While protesters were trying to point Rittenhouse out to the police, the police ignored them, , and hurried past Rittenhouse towards the scene of the shooting. Rittenhouse called his friend Dominick Black to tell him he had shot someone. Black then drove Rittenhouse back to Antioch, Ill. His mother then drove him to surrender himself at the local Antioch police station. Ultimately, I do not know whether Rittenhouse should be spending the rest of his life in prison. But allowing him to walk away from his actions with no consequences fails justice at both the individual and societal level. The Charges Rittenhouse was charged with first-degree reckless homicide, use of a dangerous weapon for the death of Joseph Rosenbaum, and first-degree intentional homicide, use of a dangerous weapon for the death of Anthony Huber. The jury was also given the option of second-degree intentional homicide and first-degree reckless homicide in Huber’s death. In addition, Rittenhouse was charged with attempted first-degree intentional homicide for the shooting of Gaige Grosskreutz, and two counts of first-degree recklessly endangering safety, use of a dangerous weapon for the danger to people who were in his line of fire, but who, lucky for them, were not hit. Despite all, after more than 25 hours of deliberation over the course of four days, the jury's inexplicable, unsupportable verdict: not guilty on all counts. Arguing that Rittenhouse had acted in self-defense, his lawyer maintained that Rosenbaum “lit the fuse” by “trying to take Kyle’s weapon from him to use against him.” But, as Harvard law professor Noah Feldman wrote in Tulsa World, it was only “the presence of Rittenhouse’s own weapon” that gave him “the opportunity to claim he was in fear of bodily harm.” It was Rittenhouse who instigated the situation by parading as if he were part of law enforcement and brandishing a gun he had no right to possess. Even if one granted that in the moment when he shot Rosenbaum, he believed he needed to defend himself—it was Rittenhouse who had created that need. On the other hand, Anthony Huber and Gaige Grosskreutz had every reason to believe Rittenhouse was an active shooter and that use of his assault rifle for mass murder was in the offing. Unarmed, Huber attempted to stop him with a mere skateboard, and died a hero’s death—for all the comfort that might give his grieving family, which is not likely to be much. And Grosskreutz, who survived with a maimed arm, testified that he pulled out his handgun because he believed Rittenhouse was an active shooter. “I was never trying to kill the defendant,” he said. “In that moment, I was trying to preserve my own life.” Judicial Partiality The judge, Bruce Schroeder, of the Kenosha County Circuit Court, demonstrated bias in numerous ways. Claiming that “victims” is a loaded term, Judge Schroeder ruled that prosecutors could not refer to those shot by Rittenhouse as "victims." Yet he agreed to allow the terms “looters” and “rioters” to be used to refer to Rosenbaum, Huber and Grosskreutz, if the defense could establish evidence that they were engaged in those activities that night. The judge was, in essence, allowing the victims to be put on trial by the defense without being legally charged or afforded an opportunity to defend themselves. Even worse, the judges’s ruling suggested that if they had been looters or rioters, that fact could have justified Rittenhouse’s actions. Judge Schroeder treated portions of jury selection like a game show. According to The Daily Beast, the judge had the defense team put 18 slips of paper with the ID numbers of the possible jurors or alternates into a raffle hopper and let defendant Rittenhouse draw out six slips of jurors who would become alternates, the rest becoming his 12 jurors. Letting the Rittenhouse defense team and defendant do this is likely to have made the jurors feel as though the judge was on the defendant’s side. Schroeder later tried to defend this action by claiming that he used to let a clerk choose the juror names, but in one case when the only juror eliminated by this method was “a Black, the Black, the only Black” he decided to let defendants pick because “people feel better when they have control.” Of the 12 jurors in Rittenhouse’s jury, seven were women, five were men, and all but one of the 12 were white. (According to NBC, the sole juror of color was a man in his late 20s who told the court that he had friends with views on both sides of the matter and that a police officer from a nearby Wisconsin city was once a roommate.) In addition, on Veteran’s Day, in front of the jury, Schroeder requested “a round of applause” for a force expert witness for the defense who was a veteran. This might well have biased the jurors in favor of that witness. And the night before the verdict was returned, Schroeder let one juror bring his legal instructions home. Both the prosecution and the defense were concerned that this could encourage the juror to do his or her own research. Schroeder’s reason for letting the juror bring the 36-page document home? --That the jury instructions were “very confusing.” But this is unacceptable since it was Judge Schroeder who delivered them. It was his responsibility to make them clear. Right-Wing Circus Initially, it was rumored that Rittenhouse was connected with right-wing militias and that he specifically went to Kenosha to hunt protesters. His social-media accounts showed him handling long guns, cheering for Trump in the front row at a campaign rally, and participating in a Police Explorers program for teenagers. In addition, he strongly supported Blue Lives Matter. However, the Anti-Defamation League examined these social media posts and said that they found no evidence of extremism. Furthermore, if the trial testimony can be believed—and that is an if—Rittenhouse did not go to Kenosha with the specific intent of being a Rambo for right-wing extremism. Nevertheless, the right-wing adopted Rittenhouse as a poster boy for their cause from the start and raised money for his defense. Not surprisingly, they were jubilant over his not guilty verdict, and are now courting him. Rep. Paul Gosar, recently censured by the House for posting a video that depicted him killing Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, has invited Rittenhouse to attend college at Arizona State University. Reps. Matt Gaetz and Madison Cawthorn are each offering him internships in their offices. Their purpose, of course, is to use Rittenhouse’s success in getting off after killing those protesting police murder, to further their own goals. An extensive article in the June 26 issue of The New Yorker presented the Rittenhouse family as having almost no financial means which, faced with the need for a $2 million cash bail, made them easy prey for exploitation by the right-wing machine. John Pierce, a lawyer who has had several high-profile clients like Rudy Giuliani and Tulsi Gabbard, contacted the Rittenhouse family, offering his services. A Trump supporter, he had launched a charitable nonprofit, the #FightBack Foundation, whose ostensible mission was to raise money to fund lawsuits to “take our country back.” Pierce agreed to represent Rittenhouse based on a retainer of $100,00 and an hourly billing rate of $1,075 . The New Yorker characterized that as “more than twice the average partner billing rate at top U.S. firms.” Pierce was to be paid through #FightBack, which solicited donations through its website. Pierce’s representation largely was delivered in the form of public relations associating Rittenhouse with the militia movement, even taking Rittenhouse and his mother to Florida to dine with Enrico Tarrio, chairman of the Proud Boys, shortly after the January 6 attack on the Capitol. Pierce is not a criminal-defense lawyer and since Wisconsin requires local representation in homicide cases, Rittenhouse hired two local criminal lawyers. However, they quit once they determined that the Rittenhouse donations were not being handled appropriately. Eventually, #FightBack hired established defense lawyer Mark Richardson to represent Rittenhouse. That defense team refused to let Pierce join them based on the fact he had substantial debts, and that #Fightback’s finances were “unregulated and opaque” with “ample opportunity for self-dealing and fraud.” It’s not clear whether Rittenhouse is an undeveloped kid who allowed himself to be used by the far right-wing in order to pay for his defense—or whether he is a willing tool of right-wing militias and hate groups. Either way, his not guilty verdict for the killing of two people and maiming of a third is certain to embolden militias and paramilitary organizations to deliberately instigate violence while claiming self-defense against the true defensive response they engender. Brittany Packnett Cunningham, an activist who organized protests in Ferguson, Mo, following the police shooting of Michael Brown, has tweeted, “The whole sequence of events” in the Rittenhouse case “was literally a vigilante and legal instruction manual for how to protect and defend white supremacy.” New York Times columnist Jamelle Bouie wrote that police lack of action against armed militias is troubling. She has stated that tacit support from Kenosha police, like thanking Rittenhouse’s group for being there, “almost certainly contributed to the permissive environment that led to the shooting.” But the family of Anthony Huber issued the most articulate statement of the problem with which the nation is faced: “Today’s verdict means there is no accountability for the person who murdered our son. It sends the unacceptable message that armed civilians can show up in any town, incite violence, and then use the danger they have created to justify shooting people in the street.” Next Steps Gaige Grosskreut is suing Kenosha in civil court on the grounds that their law enforcement allowed militia groups to roam the city the night Rittenhouse committed his shootings. His attorney, Kimberley Motley issued the statement: "That night in Kenosha, Gaige Grosskreutz, Anthony Huber, and many others acted heroically…While today's verdict may mean justice delayed, it will not mean justice denied. We are committed to uncovering the truth of that night and holding those responsible to account." Anthony Huber’s parents may also bring a civil suit. While these suits may bring some small modicum of justice to the families of the victims, they will likely have no effect on public policy, the police, or right-wing vigilantes. For Kyle Rittenhouse to pay no serious penalty for the two lives he has taken and the one he has injured is not only an individual miscarriage of justice, but a result that indicts our entire justice system. It sets a precedent that is already making right-wing fascists think they can use violence with impunity against Black people and their allies who work to retrieve and enhance civil rights, and against those attempting to protect and preserve democracy. Political columnist Jessie Seigel had a long career as a government attorney in which she honed her analytic skills. She has also twice received an Artist’s Fellowship from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, and has been a finalist for a number of literary awards. In addition, Seigel is an associate editor at the Potomac Review, a reviewer for The Washington Independent Review of Books, and a dabbler in political cartoons at Daily Kos. Of this balance in her work between the analytic and the imaginative, Seigel jokes, “I guess my right and left brains are well-balanced.” More on and from Seigel can be found at The Adventurous Writer, https://www.jessieseigel.com.

By Madeline Barry / New York City It was a Friday afternoon on a clear, chilly November day in Brooklyn and four of my seventh grade students (all girls) at the public school where I teach were in my classroom during lunchtime, chatting away about the dresses their favorite celebrities wore to the Met Gala earlier this month. Soon the conversation shifted to music, my favorite subject, so I chimed in. “What are you guys listening to these days?” I asked. A classic rock girl myself, I feel a little disconnected from the rap world my students occupy, but being in the know as a teacher of teens is important, and of course I was curious. The girls stopped the fashion talk and looked at one another. Though their masks were on, I could tell by their eyes that they were smiling. I pressed on. “What’s the deal with A Boogie wit da Hoodie? I always hear his name.” The girls giggled and one young lady declared that she thought he was cute. A debate ensued as to whether or not he was indeed cute, and then it was decided that “some people like him for his looks.” “But what about his music?” I asked. “His first album smacks.” “Yeah, and he can hype you up sometimes or calm you down.” “Sometimes he gives you life advice.” Boogie, a 25-year-old rapper whose given name is Julius Dubose, is originally from the Highbridge neighborhood of the Bronx and has more than 15, million monthly listeners on Spotify, a popular music app.. His biggest hit is “Numbers” which debuted at No. 23 on the Billboard Hot 100 list. But “Swervin,,’ a song that features the highly controversial rapper Tekashi 6ix9ine,((he was convicted of a child sex crime two years ago), has the most plays of his catalogue with over 650 million listens on Spotify. I asked about their favorite Boogie songs and they mentioned “Drowning,” a melancholy song with haunting, repetitive piano chords and a booming bass line accompanying the artist’s autotuned voice. “Ok,” I pushed on. “Who else?” “Lil Baby!” they said. “What’s his deal?” I asked. “He has a good beat and he gets you hyped up too.” Lil Baby, whose real name is Dominique Armani Jones, has a whopping 24 million monthly listeners on Spotify. The 26-year old Atlanta, Ga.-based rapper’s best-known song is “Drip Too Hard,” which features the rapper Gunna. “He fell off the stage!” one girl added and they all burst out laughing. Later on, I googled “Lil Baby falling off stage” and there it was on YouTube. In the middle of addressing the crowd at a concert in Dubai October 31., the rapper tumbled down a set of small stairs on the side of the stage. To his credit he bounced back fairly quickly and blamed the fall on the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed that night. “Okay, okay. Lil Baby. Keep them coming.” “We gotta represent the women!” the girls decided. I nodded in agreement. “Okay, so what female rappers are we listening to?” I asked. “Megan Thee Stallion! She makes you want to dance all over the place.” “Yeah, she’s got those Megan knees--she can get down.” “Megan knees?” I inquired. “Yeah--she drops it low!” Upon further research later, I found there is a trend on TikTok called “The Knees Like Megan Challenge” which the entertainment website HITC describes as “...completing a specific dance routine that sees you slowly squatting to the floor. All you have to do is copy the routine and upload your video to TikTok with the hashtag #kneeslikemegan.” Videos of those who have bravely accepted the Internet challenge feature mostly women (I found one compilation that even showed a young woman doing the squat challenge holding her little one) with the song “Knees Like Megan '' by female rapper Mouse on Tha Track providing the soundtrack. I took a quick break from my rap scholarship, and tried the #kneeslikemegan challenge myself. I can report that it is as hard as it looks. Megan Thee Stallion has some incredibly strong knees. But anyway, back to the story at hand. “Any other ladies?” I asked. “Cardi B!” They all agreed. “Ah yes, of course! Cardi B!” I enthused. “She is a whole different vibe from other artists…” one of the young women explained. “She likes to play around, she makes her songs funny.” “She has good vibes.” “And her outfits are iconic!” But her outfit at the Met Gala was not it.” I am perhaps most familiar with Cardi B (real name Belcalis Marlenis Almánzarthe), the Bronx native who is known for being outlandish, outrageous, and downright hilarious. Cardi B achieved stardom by appearing on the VH1 reality show Love and Hip Hop: New York and cultivating a presence on Instagram. A former stripper, Cardi B has fearlessly entered the male-dominated rap world and gained a group of very loyal followers. Her single “WAP” which features none other than Megan Thee Stallion, came out August 2020 and swept the nation. I will not go into what the name “WAP” means or any details about the extremely provocative song, (ask Mr. Google), but I will say it is catchy. “Alright, so who is the best?” I asked. The girls conferred for a minute. “Okqy, in order we think it’s Megan, Cardi, A Boogie and then Lil Baby.” “Yeah, that's the best to worst.” “Got it,” I said. “I feel cooler already.” They laughed (either at me or with me. I couldn’t tell for sure) and then upon hearing that there was some sort of delicious snack being handed out in the cafeteria. They ran out of the room in a gale of giggles and excitement. When they left, I naturally googled Cardi B’s Met Gala outfit. They were right. It was not it. Madeline Barry is a junior high school teacher at the Ronald Edmonds Learning Center in Brooklyn, New York. Listening to music and writing for The Insider has kept her semi-sane during the pandemic.

By Emmy Serviss / Boston Since getting vaccinated back in May, I’ve managed to take a couple quick trips to visit my parents in NYC and see my brother get married in Indianapolis. And while spending time with my family provided some much-needed love and hugs, my need to travel wasn’t quite quenched. However, way back in the early days of Covid-19, my ComedySportz friend Lucas and I came up with the idea that we should take a two-week road trip around Texas. Why, you ask? Lucas and I are both improvisers with our local ComedySportz teams – he a member of CSz Buffalo, and I a member of CSz Boston. And since ComedySportz has locations in over 30 cities across the US (and one in Manchester, England) we had become online friends with other improvisers who lived across Texas that we had never met in person. Plus, neither Lucas nor I had been to Texas before, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity! Talk about embodying the age-old improv proverb of “Yes, and!” So, Lucas and I decided that we should run with our absolutely ridiculous idea and while together on a Discord video call, we booked our flights. The plan was to fly into Dallas, meet up with our friend Manny and then drive to Austin, Houston and San Antonio, and then fly home from San Antonio. We booked our flights on April 6, which meant that we had to then wait seven whole months until it was Texas time. It felt like an eternity. I kept reminding myself that I had spent 18 months locked away in an apartment, and I could make it through the next seven months. Time ticked by sloooooooooowly. But finally…the big day arrived. It was time to saddle up and fly south. From Fort Worth to Dallas First stop was Dallas. Lucas and I were both lucky enough to get our booster shots the week prior to flying out, so I had absolutely no qualms when our friend Manny picked us up at the airport and immediately engulfed us in a massive bear hug. We got to perform with CSz Dallas, tried fried Okra for the first time (it tasted like a cross between eggplant and zucchini), visited some amazing waterfalls right in the middle of downtown and watched a mini-cattle drive in the historic Fort Worth Stockyard. We spied with our little eyes a BIG eye and had our first taste of Texas BBQ. From the very early stages of planning this trip, Lucas and I were adamant that we sample BBQ in each city we visited, in order to make an informed opinion about which city had the best BBQ. In Dallas, we ate at Intrinsic Smokehouse and holy cow (pun intended), did they set the bar high! Their brisket was tender and flavorful and the ribs fell right off the bone. Additional adventures in Dallas included: • Eating deep fried bacon. • Viewing the site of JFK’s assassination. • Exploring a Neiman Marcus and almost getting kicked out. • Learning the difference between Mexican and Tex-Mex cuisine. • Discovering that Texas REALLY enjoys taxidermy. • Like, a lot. • Starting the tradition of saying “boots” every time we encountered boots. • Which was also a lot. Batty for Austin Next on the list was Austin! I had heard the expression “Keep Austin Weird,” but I also lived in Portland, Ore. for three years, so I felt like I had a good handle on the weirdness that was in store. Turns out I was pleasantly surprised by Austin’s weirdness! We watched the daily parade of bats emerge from underneath the Congress Avenue Bridge, had a drink in a spooky Halloween-y themed bar and enjoyed some delicious boozy milkshakes at Hopdoddy Burger Bar. But the weirdest thing that happened in Austin, was when Lucas and I got matching crab tattoos. You may be asking, “Emmy…WHY did you and Lucas get matching crab tattoos??” The short version is this: over the course of our quarantine, our group of friends that played Jackbox games together adopted a crab as our unofficial mascot. Instead of applauding for each other or cheering, we’d turn our hands into pretend claws and repeat, “Crabcrabcrabcrabcrab.” It’s silly, but sometimes we need a little silly. Anyway, Lucas and I had discussed it and decided that we’d get our crab tattoos while in Texas, and surprise everyone with photos later. I had already gotten three tattoos previously, but this was Lucas’ first tattoo! Donny from Mom’s Tattoos took amazing care of us and we couldn’t have been happier with our newly inked crustaceans. The only downside was that Austin BBQ is really hard to acquire. Every time we tried to plan a meal, the establishments we called either had a 60–90-minute wait for a table, or they were sold out. Like, completely out of BBQ. Apparently, this was typical, and some restaurants would run out of BBQ at 2 p.m. and that would be it for the day. We did manage to sample some brisket during brunch at Phoebe’s Diner on our way out of town, so Lucas and I were still able to check Austin off our BBQ list. Hungry in Houston Two cities down – two to go! While en route to Houston, we made the obligatory pit stop at Bucee’s – a Texas staple. If you’re like me and you had never heard of Bucee’s before, it’s essentially a glorified highway gas station. However! It’s the biggest and nicest gas station I’ve ever seen! Bucee’s is a Texas chain, so each location has a gas station that is attached to a GIANT convenience store, which sells far more than your typical 7-Eleven fare. You really could do your Christmas shopping there and not even feel guilty about it. Anyway. Moving on to Houston. First stop was CSz Houston to perform with them for their 31st anniversary match! The following days were filled with new friends, kolaches and lots of shopping. And if you’re like me and had never eaten a kolache before, it can be either a sweet or savory pastry that is very popular in Texas. The most noteworthy purchase was the most ridiculous shirt anyone has ever seen. When I tried it on, I became a walking sequin. Naturally, everyone demanded that I buy it. Who am I to disappoint? For BBQ experience #3, we went to Goode Co, Barbeque. The brisket was succulent, the mac was cheesy and I didn’t dare touch the jalapeño bread. (my tolerance for spice is spectacularly nonexistent) The meal was made complete when I was chatted up by a very nice man who was at least 25 years my senior, and he decided to tell me all about the Doctor Who spec script he intended to write. (Best of luck, Norman!) Bonus Houston shenanigans included: • Finally mailing out the postcards I had written back in Dallas. • Getting my first experience of Texas queso! (seriously, so tasty) • Meeting my friend’s adorable 2-year-old and watching Tangled together. • Lucas deciding that getting French toast at 10 p.m, was an immediate need. • Trying to convince my friend Scott to follow us to San Antonio, so he could finish my meals and I could stop hoarding leftover containers. Unfortunately, we had so much fun hanging out with our ComedySportz friends, we didn’t actually get to see much of downtown Houston. I guess I’ll have to plan a return visit in 2022! Reunited in San Antonio Somehow, we found ourselves on the last leg of our road trip to San Antonio. Our first stop was at La Marginal – a Puerto Rican restaurant that served food so authentic, it made Lucas and Manny embrace in utter joy. I had never had Puerto Rican food before and it was absolutely delicious. We had intended to go back for a second meal, but sadly we weren’t able to squeeze it in to our schedule. The next few days were absolutely jam-packed with all that San Antonio had to offer! We shopped at The Pearl and Market Square. We walked through the River Walk and the Japanese Tea Garden. We remembered The Alamo and the Tower of the Americas. And finally, we ate at El Mirasol, The Magnolia Pancake House and Two Bros BBQ Market. Somehow, we did all that and also had time to perform with CSz San Antonio, have an in-person game night and go out to karaoke. I think I remember sleeping at some point, but maybe that was just a fever dream between activities. Back to Boston Finally, it was time to return to life in Boston. I honestly don’t think I could have fit all my Texas gifts, snacks and souvenirs into my luggage, but thankfully one of our Houston friends gave Lucas and I duffle bags, so crisis averted! While flying back home, I replayed all the amazing fun I had on my very first trip to Texas. I thought about how happy I was to finally travel again, and that I had enough money saved up to make this trip happen. I thought about how lucky I am to have friends like Lucas and Manny who will not only agree to go on a whirlwind vacation with me but will ‘yes, and’ every step of the way, and make the trip an absolute joy. I thought about grateful I am to have made such amazing friends through ComedySportz during a global pandemic, and then to be able to meet them and continue those friendships in person. While I can’t say that I’m thankful for Covid-19, I WILL say that I’m thankful for the opportunities that were born from the aftermath. And I’m also thankful that my cats remembered me after having been gone for two whole weeks. Emmy Serviss is a Boston-based writer, actor and video editor. Once it is safe to return to live theater, you can find her performing with ComedySportz Boston and the sketch group SUZZY. When not on the stage, Emmy enjoys indulging in her new pandemic hobbies, laughing way too loudly and counting the days until Halloween.

By Jane Fishman / Savannah, Ga. Have you ever wished to host a salon, 19th-century style, in your own home, where a select group of friends sit around talking about literature (Jean Stafford: my new favorite writer), the best way to traverse Iceland (the new “it” country to visit), how to mitigate gentrification in our favorite cities (including Savannah)? Have you ever wished someone would deliver a gracious plenty of homemade chopped liver, a mold of green Jell-O with blueberries and strawberries, authentic Greek biscotti, an offering of baba ghanoush, perhaps a fresh baguette or a surprise package of macaroons sent in ice from a French bakery in Pittsburgh? What about the possibility of someone with a good voice who comes over to read aloud from a book of your choice and while you can’t always keep track of the plot, you know you are loving the sound of the written word? Have you ever wanted – please, please – someone else to polish your silver, do your laundry, arrange for play dates, take out your recyclables, clean the chicken coup, sweep your front porch, drop off your late library book, deposit your check to the bank or paint and shape your fingernails (someone with a steady hand who doesn’t forget to apply the all-important top coat)? How about someone who will bring you, unbidden, a choice of THC products, including patches, bath salts, tinctures, gummies? These things and more could be yours. All you have to do is get a little cancer, yes, that word your mother – so superstitious was she – would not utter, preferring to say “C.” Talk about bad timing. Talk about irony. A few months ago I released a book of favorite columns I’d written in the past 20 years. It was a fun project to work on during the isolation of Covid. I called the collection I’d Rather Be Seen Than Viewed. This rather cryptic title references the exchange that sometimes happens between people. “Nice to see you,” someone might say,” to which you, trying to be clever, might respond, “I’d rather be seen than viewed,” as in being laid out in a funeral home. Talk about prescient. I’ve thought about that a lot during the past six months. Like many of us, I’m not ready to be “laid out.” And why would I be? I’m healthy, I ride my bike. I walk around the park. I think good thoughts (mostly). I try to be generous. I floss. I can do 15 pushups. In other words, the diagnosis of that word starting with a “c” must be wrong. There must be a mistake. The doctor must be looking at someone else’s chart, someone who shares your birthday; it could happen. That’s what you think as you sit all alone in that room with those generic charts, the tongue depressors, the warning signs. Normally you’re impatient. You think, “Hey doc, you’re a half hour late; my time is important too.” This time you stare at the closed door and think, “Don’t come in here with your bad news; just stay away.” That when you recall Joan Didion’s book, The Year of Magical Thinking, as she comes to grips, gradually, with the sudden death of her husband. There’s denial. That’s when you consider Nora Ephron’s decision to keep her cancer from everyone but her family and a few friends. There’s shame. It all happens so quickly. Who has time to get a second opinion? Before you know it, you’re lying back in a Barcalounger-type chair just like on a train, only this time you’re in an “infusion” room, hooked up to your port, which you sometimes call your Porta Potty, your portulaca, your Port-au-Prince, the thing that transports heavy duty drugs that end in -cin, -xin, -tin You hear drip, drip, drip in no particular order. When the hose crimps you hear beeps, lots of beeps. The room is filled with patients of all ages, all genders. “We’re the chosen ones,” someone jokes. You don’t like this club you’ve joined but it helps to see other people bringing grace and courage to this subset. You look forward to the day when you have something else to talk about. Plastic dividers separate the chairs. A Covid thing, I guess. People who see one another regularly lean over and ask about dogs, children, hair (“One of my eyebrows grew back, not the other”). It could be a beauty parlor. People share their lunch. There’s always one person who talks too loudly, too much. You feel great when you leave. At home you slink from one couch to another. Your dog follows you, a pal nestled in the covers. You can’t do laundry, wash dishes, take out garbage. You cry. You sleep, more than you thought possible. You cry again. You think, “Why me?” Was there radiation in those contraptions you stuck your feet into when you went to buy shoes as a kid? Was it that one time you used Roundup on weeds? What about that Kit Kat habit you had for a few weeks? When you can speak, you say, “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” The days merge. Covid isolation has you in good shape for this, another form of isolation. When friends stay too long at the informal “salon,” you learn to say, “Talk about yourselves. I have to take a nap now.” When Yom Kippur comes and goes, you wonder if this is the year you’ll be inscribed in the “Book of Life” for the final time. You’re not ready. You learn how to say metastatic. You laugh (sort of) when you see a newspaper headline that reads, “How much exercise do we need to live longer?” It’s a good day when you can finally spend five minutes pulling weeds. You want to slap the person who says, “Think positive!” You are not, I can tell you, in the mood to think positive. You’re grateful for humor. The other day after I told someone I thought I was at the 75 percent mark, she said, “Seventy-five percent is good. I got through school at 75 percent.” I said, “I’ll take it.” Laughing felt good. I’ll take laughing. Jane Fishman’s got a great life in Savannah. She gets to grow garlic, write newspaper columns in the Savannah Morning News about any wacko she can find (and get paid for it), publish books (her latest: I’d Rather Be Seen Than Viewed, a collection of her columns; preceded by So What’s the Hurry? Tales From the Train ; I Grew it My Way, How Not to Garden; The Dirt on Jane; and The Woman Who Saved an Island, the Story of Sandy West and Ossabaw Island), listen in on conversations with her two grandchildren, Baker and Benny, while going on morning nature walks as they debate which is better, living in the country or the city (“I like both habitats,” says 7-year-old Benny). Fishman owned a laundromat in Eureka Springs, Ark., cooked in a French restaurant in Key West, won a bunch of journalism awards in Savannah for humorous and serious columns. When she lived in Chicago and worked at WTTW public television, she met Fran of Kukla, Fran and Ollie and watched Abbie Hoffman rant at the trial of the Chicago 7. Fishman grew up in Detroit (Huntington Woods, really), where she never owned a car. She was the sports editor of her high school newspaper (The Acorn) at Royal Oak Dondero. This is her first wedding.

By David Weiss | November 23, 2021 | From Deadline Detroit The writer, a Los Angeles freelancer, grew up in Oak Park. He has written for Newsweek, the LA Herald Examiner and Men's Journal and co-founded the band Was (Not Was). “Can you guys delete my social-media accounts?” Kyle Rittenhouse -- in police custody after making like Wyatt Earp on the mean streets of Kenosha -- didn’t ask about his victims' condition, but whether his breadcrumb internet trail could be swept up and disposed of. Obviously, incriminating subtext could be found there, if not a figurative smoking gun. “He didn’t do nothing wrong,” Kyle’s subliterate mom told ABC News a few days later. “He was chased by a bunch of mob.” Out on bail soon thereafter, Kyle was reunited with his family and none other than Ricky Schroder, eager for 20 more watts of limelight before fading to black forever. And of course, MyPillow moron Mike Lindell pitched in $50K to help get the virgin vigilante back home where a momma’s boy belongs. 'An anonymous nebbish' Which brings me to my point: Kyle Rittenhouse, whose vilification and lionization are two sides of a well-worn rhetorical coin, doesn’t deserve his role as poster boy for anything except adolescent impotence and a yearning need to be something other than an anonymous nebbish. Put an AR-15 in the hands of a callow, terminally lonely soul and he suddenly thinks he’s all that he can be. (By the way, the Marines rejected him when he tried to enlist, another telling detail in his unspectacular C.V.) While Saint Kyle (as he came to be known to his deranged, trigger-happy acolytes) was being pilloried on MSNBC and proclaimed noble-and-innocent on OAN and Fox, I saw neither hero nor villain, but was reminded of Hannah Arendt’s startling characterization of unspeakable Nazi atrocities as the “banality of evil.” In other words, one needn’t be a psychopath to be a cold-hearted killer -- merely a tradesman, a lawyer or even a doctor. Given the proper circumstances (one’s own fate hanging in the balance), any one of us is capable of behavior that transcends good and evil and is nothing more than evidence of our slavishness to Darwinian iron law – eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. Not that Kyle -- an angry, incel-wimp with an unhealthy fondness for male authority figures (I’ll leave that one as red meat for the Freudians among you) -- was in danger of being shot or strangled the night he strapped on his AR-15. But I can warrant you this (as a certified armchair psychoanalyst): The former janitor and lifeguard was going nowhere but sideways in life until he discovered the omnipotent feeling of squeezing off four lethal rounds in less than a second, as he did to actual psychopath Joseph Rosenbaum. “Pure adrenaline,” is how one assault weapon hobbyist describes the rush. Another 'Grade-A nobody' Mind you, we may have come to the nub of the issue when neurochemistry is the focus, and not the precious Second Amendment or talk of antifascists or vigilantes. Kyle Rittenhouse has the hollow, vacant eyes that fellow-travelers like John Hinckley Jr. or Mark David Chapman also possessed. They were Grade-A nobodies with delusions of grandeur, and innocent lives would pave their way from obscurity to infamy. Frankly, as I watched the recent trial, I was neither overcome with liberal bloodlust -- hoping they’d fry the kid or sock him away for life -- nor eager to see him walk, encouraging other solitary ciphers to arm themselves and go looking for trouble, which is exactly what Kyle was in search of that night, not poor bleeding victims needing tourniquets and Advil from a fake medic. He was desperately itching to use that monstrous firearm and stand taller than his actual five-foot-four inches. P.S., the only reason I felt compelled to write this minor-key diatribe is that not once in all of the coverage of his trial did anyone question his soundness of mind – certainly not his lawyers, who felt confident that self-defense alone would acquit their lovably innocent and blubbering Babyface Nelson. Seriously, that pathetic crying scene ought to win the kid a Golden Globe if nothing else. Maybe Ricky Schroder could stick around long enough to school young Kyle on the finer points of the thespian life. Then again, Matt Gaetz and Paul Gosar have threatened to hire him as an intern, but don’t bet on it. As fast as the kid rose like gunsmoke, he will fall with a thud like last week’s tabloid news. In five years, he’ll be back at the Y as a lifeguard, bossing kids around and signing autographs. Like the always eloquent former President Trump -- who seconded Kyle’s self-defense claims before the trial – often says: “Sad.”

FRED PLOTKIN is one of America’s foremost experts on opera and has distinguished himself in many fields as a writer, speaker, consultant and as a compelling teacher. He is an expert on everything Italian, the person other so-called Italy experts turn to for definitive information.  Fred discovered the concept of "The Renaissance Man" as a small child and has devoted himself to pursuing that ideal as the central role of his life. In a “Public Lives” profile in The New York Times on August 30, 2002, Plotkin was described as "one of those New York word-of-mouth legends, known by the cognoscenti for his renaissance mastery of two seemingly separate disciplines: music and the food of Italy." In the same publication, on May 11, 2006, it was written that "Fred is a New Yorker, but has the soul of an Italian."

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area There’s one thing I know for sure: I don’t want to be a queen bee. I always thought that would be kind of a nice position to be in. Everyone feeding you, waiting at your beck and call. But during my recent visit to an authentic beekeeper’s domain I learned otherwise. Yes, the queen is put on a pedestal. Does she get to rest on her laurels and soak up the adulation? Heck no! That queen works harder than all the other bees. Here’s the kicker: if she slacks off, the other bees kill her. Thanks a lot! The queen has laid every egg in the hive and that’s how the colony pays her back. Recently, I had the pleasure of visiting the hives of Madelyn and Julianna Mancini, mother and daughter, third-generation beekeepers in San Martin, Calif. They have two stacks of hives in their large backyard. I have wanted to see a bee operation for years and never had the opportunity to suit up to get up close and personal. The two women generously invited me over to see what it’s all about. In prepping for my visit, I soon learned that the amount of research that has been done on bees is vast. It has focused particularly on their importance to our food chain and the fact that bees are dying out in mass quantities, threatening our continued food source, hence, the human race. According to the USDA, “pollinators, most often honey bees,are responsible for one in every three bites of food we take.” Think about it. That is a staggering statistic, especially because the bee population has been declining in this country for 30 years. “Without bees to pollinate crops,” warned Business Insider in August, 2019., “yields on about 35 percent of agricultural land worldwide would suffer, and 87 of the world's leading food crops would be affected.” In short, the worldwide bee population is declining because of habitat loss, climate change, pollution, and disease. This is clearly a doomsday situation. What can we do right now as everyday citizens? For one, stop using bee-killing pesticides. Plant pollinator plants and trees. “Host” bees with natural or manmade hives. Support your local beekeepers to help keep their bee colonies viable and strong. Bees not only make honey but produce beeswax. Buy these products at your farmer’s markets. My visit to Madelyn and Julianna’s beehives was filled with on-the-spot lessons about both the physical structure of the bee boxes and the hierarchy of the hives. I learned that there are three types of bees: the queen, the worker bees (all non-reproducing females) and drones (males who mate with the queen). The queen bee has attendants who feed her and keep her clean. The other workers act as nursemaids to the larva, forage for flower nectar, and clean the hive. The bees live on their own honey. When the beekeepers harvest the honey, usually in September and October, they leave enough for the bees to feed themselves with until the next season, when the flowers are again in bloom and more honey is produced. What I enjoyed most about my visit was their captivating enthusiasm for beekeeping. They are quite caring and protective of the whole operation. Madelyn says that they produce about 60 pounds of honey a year, which they give away or sell to neighbors and friends. I love that she calls the bees “friendly--they’re Italian bees, ma certo” (but of course)! Honey has so many uses in everyday cooking. We find it in all kinds of desserts, used for both the flavor and as a sugar substitute. Those who don’t eat refined sugar use honey as their go-to sweetener, even adding it to yogurt, ice cream, oatmeal and baked goods. I also enjoy using it in marinades, salad dressings, and glazes for meats and vegetables. Today’s recipe is a glaze for carrots, one of the most classic pairings. Who doesn’t love honeyed carrots? Since honey is so sweet, there are three ingredients that allow the honey flavor to come through but cut the sweetness: salt, acid, and spice. In this case, I use kosher salt, lemon juice, and crushed red pepper flakes. Cumin-Scented Honey Carrots With Coriander Seeds Yield: 8 servings Glaze: 1/3 c. honey 1/4 c. extra virgin olive oil 2 Tbs. lemon juice 1 Tbs. toasted coriander seeds, crushed with a mallet 1 tsp. ground cumin 1 tsp. kosher salt 1/2 tsp. ground coriander 1/4 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes Carrots: 2 lb. petite rainbow carrots or rainbow carrots, peeled, cut in half 1 tsp. kosher salt 1/4 tsp. fresh ground black pepper Combine the glaze ingredients in the bottom of a 2-quart rectangular casserole. Mix thoroughly. Allow to sit at room temperature for about 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 400°. Line a large jelly roll pan with foil. Brush with oil or spray with pan release. Toss the carrots, one pound at a time in the glaze. Lay the carrots on the prepared pan. Continue with remaining carrots. Scrape up the glaze from the casserole and scatter it over the tops of the vegetables. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast for 20 minutes, stirring them with a pair of tongs. Continue cooking for another 15-20 minutes until the carrots are tender. Arrange the carrots on a serving platter, scraping the glaze from the roasting pan onto the top of the vegetables. Serve hot or at room temperature. Bonnie Fishman attended the Cordon Bleu Cookery School in London. Later, she owned and operated Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. and Bonnie’s Kitchen and Catering in Bloomfield Hills, Mich. She has taught cooking for over 35 years and created hundreds of recipes. She is now living in Northern California.

One film journalist’s stream-of-consciousness cinematic journey through the pandemic, Part 60 By Laurence Lerman / New York City James Riddle Hoffa, better known as Jimmy Hoffa, the labor leader who served as the president of the Teamsters Union for 15 years (from 1954 to 1971), is back in the news again. This despite his having been legally declared dead back in July, 1982, seven years after he mysteriously disappeared in July, 1975. A week ago, on November 18, it was reported that the F.B.I. has launched a new investigation on the site of a local landfill in Jersey City, N.J., where a construction worker, in a deathbed revelation, claimed he and his father buried Hoffa’s body underground in a steel drum back in 1975. While it’s generally been accepted that Hoffa was murdered—he had been involved with organized crime for years and had previously been convicted of jury tampering, bribery, conspiracy and fraud—the body of the controversial labor leader has never been found, as his legend continues to keep people fascinated. The whole “Where is Jimmy Hoffa?” question has been bantered about for quite a while. (One theory has him buried beneath the old Giants Stadium at the Meadowlands.) But this week’s news is the most prominent headline Hoffa has received in a while and, as such, prompted me to revisit the late labor boss and his various portrayals onscreen over the past 50 years. Hollywood didn’t come sniffing around the Jimmy Hoffa story directly in the beginning, though there were a couple of fictional Hoffa surrogates following his disappearance. Sylvester Stallone portrayed labor leader Johnny Kovak in Norman Jewison’s 1978 drama F.I.S.T. (that’s the “Federation of Inter-State Truckers,” a none-too-subtle reference to the Teamsters), for starters, and later Treat Williams was featured as a Teamsters honcho named Jimmy Conway O’Donnell in Sergio Leone’s crime saga Once Upon a Time in America (1984). But the subject of Hoffa and his controversial career was not examined by name until the mid-Eighties—and even then, it was only in a handful of television projects, with theatrical films not yet on the docket. A pair of these are TV movies in which Hoffa’s character played only a supporting role in another notable person’s narrative. In The Jesse Owens Story from 1984, Hoffa meets with the famed track and field athlete in the early Seventies and attempts to convince him to use his influence in enlisting more black truckers and cab drivers in the Chicago area. The results aren’t very pleasant, despite Hoffa being portrayed by Tom Bosley, then at the tail end of his decade-long run as everyone’s favorite dad, Howard “Mr. C” Cunningham, on the TV’s beloved Happy Days (1974-1984). Hoffa was also a bridesmaid and not yet the bride in Robert Kennedy: His Life and Times (1985), a three-part, five-hour miniseries highlighting RFK’s involvement in the fight for civil rights, the Cuban Missile Crisis, America’s entry into Viet Nam and, of course, Kennedy’s decade-long conflict with Hoffa over his alleged criminality and corruption. Familiar character actor Trey Wilson--affectionately remembered for his lighter roles in such films as Raising Arizona (1987), Bull Durham (1988) and Great Balls of Fire (1989)--took on the role of Hoffa in this go-round, pumping up the volume as he and Kennedy went at each other during a series of televised Justice Department hearings. So ugly was the back-and-forth between the two that John F. Kennedy aide Pierre Salinger referred to the pair’s relationship as “a blood feud,” a characterization that was also used as the title of the most prominent Hoffa TV project of that time. The two-part, four-hour miniseries Blood Feud (1983) centers wholly on the conflict between Hoffa and Kennedy, which lasted until the latter’s assassination in 1968. Hoffa is portrayed with seething, in-your-face rage by Robert Blake, an about-face from the hooker-embracing, cockatoo-loving persona he developed as a plainclothes detective in television’s Baretta (1975-78). TV veteran Thomas Wagner brought similar intensity to his supporting appearance as the late Teamster titan in the forgotten 1993 small-screen flick Marilyn & Bobby: Her Final Affair about an alleged dalliance between RFK and you-know-who. It was in the Nineties that Hollywood took its first theatrical swing at Hoffa with a large-scale bio-pic in 1992’s bluntly titled Hoffa, directed by Danny DeVito, written by David Mamet and starring Jack Nicholson. Handsomely mounted, veraciously written and solidly acted by Nicholson beneath a prosthetic nose and hairpiece, Hoffa tracks its title character’s rise from trucker to labor organizer to nationally recognized Teamster leader. A long drama filled with a lot of scenes of men shouting at each other at union gatherings, management meetings and government hearings, Hoffa isn’t really much fun—it’s not supposed to be—but it’s not very compelling, either. Critics and audiences clearly felt the same way, and Hoffa was received tepidly across the board when it was released during the ’92 holiday season. Nicholson went on the record to blame the film’s poor performance on the studio’s decision to move his other film from that year, the legal drama A Few Good Men, to the same release date. That’s one possible explanation, but I’m also thinking that labor disputes and violent Teamster strikes don’t necessarily make for fun holiday fare. Ho-ho-ho. Nearly three decades later, Hollywood took another substantial swing at the Hoffa saga with 2019’s epic The Irishman. Directed by Martin Scorsese and written by Steve Zaillian from the memoir by Frank Sheeran, it stars heavyweights Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci and Al Pacino as Hoffa. Now that's a lot of Academy Awards! The Irishman follows trucker Sheeran (De Niro) and his lengthy involvement with Pennsylvania’s Bufalino crime family and, subsequently, Hoffa. And Sheeran also claims responsibility for the disappearance (read: murder) of Jimmy Hoffa, along with other headline-grabbing crimes, including the rubout of mobster Joey Gallo at Umberto’s Clam House in 1972. Following years of development and a number of studios getting involved and then dropping out, streaming superpower Netflix purchased the rights to The Irishman for $105 million and financed the film. The budget reportedly grew to a whopping $200 million. A significant part of the expense was due to a recently developed three-camera technology used to facilitate extensive “de-aging” digital effects for De Niro, Pacino and Pesci for the film’s “younger” sequences. It is the most expensive film in Scorsese’s storied career, and with a running time of 209 minutes, it’s also the longest. Pacino’s approach to Hoffa is far more restrained than that of his predecessors, Nicholson included, though his anger is always brewing right beneath the surface of a seemingly intelligent and controlled veneer. It’s the same kind of quiet, intense menace Pacino brought to Michael Corleone in the Godfather films 50 years ago. He is the strongest player in the talented ensemble of this ambitious, long film. (There, I said it again.) Unlike the first two Godfather entries, The Irishman didn’t bring home any Academy Awards, despite being nominated for 10 of them,including one for Pacino for Best Supporting Actor. The film may have performed well on Netflix—we’ll never know for sure since Netflix does not publicly disclose its streaming figures—but it’s a good guess that it rustled up more publicity for its production and principals than it interested viewers for its overly long examination of the latter part of Hoffa’s life. There probably won’t be another Jimmy Hoffa project on the horizon for a while, and almost certainly not one starring an A-lister like Nicholson or Pacino. But Hoffa’s story tale is clearly far from over with the latest developments surrounding the whereabouts of his body—an impressive feat for a man who was declared dead nearly 40 years ago. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist, former editor of Video Business--Variety's DVD trade publication--and husband to The Insider's own Gwen Cooper. Over the course of his career he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major director working today, including Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, Clint Eastwood, Kathryn Bigelow, Ridley Scott, Walter Hill, Spike Lee, and Werner Herzog, among numerous others. Once James Cameron specifically requested an interview with Laurence by name, which his wife still likes to brag about. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site DiscDish.com.

By Andy Borowitz November 22, 2021 WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—As an event dreaded by millions draws near, Dr. Anthony Fauci is urging all Americans to use COVID-19 as an excuse to skip Thanksgiving with horrible relatives. Speaking from his office at the National Institutes of Health, Fauci said that the COVID-19 excuse could help prevent a seasonal surge in exasperation and seething rage associated with the Thanksgiving holiday. “COVID-19 could get you off the hook this year,” Fauci said. “Consider this a doctor’s note from me.” By using the pandemic as justification for skipping Thanksgiving, Americans can spare the feelings of relatives they despise, the esteemed virologist said. “Tell your aunt from West Virginia that you’ll miss her, but you’ll look forward to reading her QAnon theories on Facebook,” he advised. For his part, Fauci said that he intends to employ COVID-19 as an excuse to exempt himself from other unpleasant activities. “I plan to use it to avoid seeing Rand Paul,” he said. Andy Borowitz is a Times best-selling author and a comedian who has written for The New Yorker since 1998. He writes The Borowitz Report, a satirical column on the news.