Thursday, October 20, 2016

Who's In Your Basket?

Unlike Hillary Clinton, whose basket of deplorables is huge and filled with half the citizens of America (see photo), mine is very small. Teeny, in fact; there are just two people in it, and I'm pretty sure you can guess their names.

One of them is female, a pathological liar who wouldn't know the truth if it smacked her in her grinning ear-to-ear Botoxed face. She says one thing to the rich and something else to the poor, pandering all the while to those oh-so-important LGBTs like they're gonna save us from ISIS and all-out war with Russia. Just one of her thousands of mannish pantsuits could probably feed a family in Haiti for a month. (And FYI, she owes the people of Haiti "big time," according to a friend in the know who witnessed her "charitable foundation's" botched "help" firsthand years ago.)

The other is also a pathological liar --pretty much all politicians are -- who says some good things among all the atrocious things, but the atrocious things far outweigh the good ones. He has the temperament of an adolescent boy which makes him popular in our very immature society wherein people eat pizza and have breadsticks as a side dish and cinnamon buns for dessert. He's funny, but for the wrong reasons. (Except for Rosie O'Donnell.) Worst of all, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to be president anyway and never has, so what a waste of our time.

So who's in your basket?

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Some Emails Are Worth Sharing

I am pretty excited! I just received the email shown above and I couldn't be prouder. I am going to complete their short order form and go for it! I have always wanted to be an icon, and now I'll have the chance! I have also always wanted to brand myself, but it sounded so painful I would never do it. But I guess now there's another kind of branding that doesn't involve a hot iron, and I'm ready to find out all about it.

I just wonder how these people found my name. It must be from this blog, since all the other things I do -- like research a cure for cancer and feed the poor in under-developed countries and create new apps for the iPhone -- are done under my pseudonym, with a whole other email address on my private server in the basement. (That's one of the things I have in common with Hillary Clinton.)

Anyway, most of my emails are fairly mundane, but this is one I wanted to share with all of my loyal readers. I can't wait to inspire women with my story.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Sympathy for the Devil

This makes as much sense as hating Donald Trump.

Somewhere deep inside the soul, if they have one, or perhaps underneath the beating heart, if they have one, of every smug, self-satisfied Democrat, a snide little voice is surely screaming, "Come on, let's go jump on the I Hate Donald Trump bandwagon! After all, everyone's doing it! Maybe that will make me feel better about myself."

You get my point. These days the thing to do is hate Donald Trump.  And not just hate him, but hate him with every fiber of your being. He is the Devil. Pure evil. As Babu Bhatt would say, wagging his finger, "He is bad man. A very, very bad man." (Seinfeld fans get this.)

But surely there must be a few lone Democrats out there who do not hate Donald Trump. That doesn't mean they endorse him, only that they still have warm blood running through their veins and can see the human being inside the suit, under the "orange hair" that they all like to mock, who shares some of the same qualities we all possess, and who might even be deserving of a teaspoon of our compassion.

Instead, they all pile on. It's like that fad back in the 1950's of stuffing as many people inside a phone booth as could fit. (The record was 25; no telling how many were Democrats.) It was dumb, stupid, moronic, pointless and dangerous, yet quite popular among those brainless baboons known as human beings. So too is trashing Donald Trump. Hate him in private if you want, but can't you just shut up about it and vote for someone else? Jesus Christ, people, how about a little sympathy for the devil?

Monday, October 17, 2016

Beware The New York Times! (No Joke)

Last night my husband and I were transfixed by a gripping 2004 documentary on Netflix called The Witness, which deals with the 1964 true crime story of Kitty Genovese, a 28-year-old bar manager in the affluent Queens, New York neighborhood of Kew Gardens. She often worked until two or three in the morning. One night she returned home, parked her car in her usual spot in front of her apartment building, and was raped and stabbed to death by a man whose stated motive was that he was "looking for a girl to kill" that night. The reason it stayed in the headlines, turning Kitty's 15 minutes of fame into 50 years, was a front-page story in the New York Times claiming that 38 of her neighbors had witnessed the ongoing crime for a full half-hour, gaping out of their nearby apartment windows as if they were watching a play down below, and not one of them did a thing to stop it.

Kitty Genovese: A household name overnight.
I was 18 years old at the time, living just twenty minutes from the crime scene and about to go off to college. The story blew my already fragile nervous system to smithereens and added to my inherent distrust of just about anyone and everyone. Fortunately, owing to the callousness of youth I forgot about it soon enough, still I always believed the premise that nobody gives a damn about you unless they are family, and sometimes not even then.

So I was further blown away by this movie, which explains in detail through the obsessive detective work of Kitty's surviving younger brother, William Genovese, that not all was as reported by the newspapers and in the many, many TV specials and a couple of books devoted to the murder. It turns out that nobody watched it happen, but some people were awakened by screams. Several of them did call the police. One man yelled out his window and the assailant ran off, only to return soon after to finish the deed. Another woman, a close friend of Kitty's, ran downstairs to her aid, but it was too late. Kitty died in her friend's arms.

We learn from interviews William conducts with several of the editors who worked at the Times back then, as well as a leading TV news anchor of the day, that the story was more compelling -- meaning sold more papers -- when it was "tweaked" a bit. (You know, like all that stuff about Donald Trump sexually assaulting women.) It's a great movie, by the way, with an always-interesting look at life in a simpler time and a harrowing audio reenactment of the crime you will not soon forget. In the not-dying-in-vain department, Kitty's death was the catalyst for the 911 Emergency System we have today.

If Cows Were People

On some days I wish I were a cow. Not a big fat lady but a real cow. There is a tribe of Belted Galloways living in our neighborhood just about one mile from my house, and I drive by them daily. Seeing them always brightens my mood, especially on gloomy afternoons when their broad white middles exude a festive DayGlo quality.

There are about twenty-five of them, give or take a few, and they are always hanging out together, eating or sleeping in the sun. When it rains they congregate under the nearby trees. Recently they welcomed about seven or eight babies, who are of course too cute for words. Tourists, and even the local residents, are forever pulling over to the side of the road to take their picture.

Sadly we must assume they are not all that bright, which is why most of them end up as hamburgers. I try not to think of this, but according to Wikipedia, "Belted Galloways are primarily raised for their quality marbled beef, although they are sometimes milked and purchased to adorn pastures due to their striking appearance."

I'm hoping my neighbors fall into the latter category.

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Primal Times Ahead

If you somehow got lost alone in the forest armed with nothing at all but your wits, could you survive? As night fell and the temperature dipped below freezing, could you start a fire? Would you know what foods were available all around you that you could safely eat? 

My answers to the preceding questions are no, no and no. This is troubling since I live in Maine and there are tons of forests here, one even right behind my own home. And while I can't imagine the scenario where I end up alone in the woods, it could happen. Which is why I admire today's younger generation, who for their own reasons, not least of which is mistrust in the future of a screwed-up society not of their making, have focused on living naturally on the planet, as God intended. (Yes I said God, but you can substitute another appropriate word if you can think of one.)

My own son is one of those forward-thinking urban foragers who could get by if need be without supermarkets or restaurants or electricity or even a book of matches, and for that alone I am very proud of him. Zack now gives classes on these skills, sharing his broad knowledge with city folk who are clueless about surviving without their cell phones fully-charged. I sure hope he's nearby when the End comes, say after Trump is elected next month. (Or Hillary.)

Friday, October 14, 2016

We, the Huddled Masses

In 1883, the American poet Emma Lazarus wrote "The New Colossus" for an art auction aimed at funding construction of the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. Twenty years later her sonnet was engraved on a bronze plaque and mounted inside the pedestal's lower level. Since then her words have been used many times, mostly by politicians (JFK and Obama to name a couple) looking for soaring rhetoric to describe the glories of life in these United States, particularly the second stanza which reads:

     “Give me your tired, your poor,
      Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
      The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
      Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
      I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” 

Maybe we should move the Statue of Liberty from New York Harbor since, let's be honest, it ain't working here, considering all the homeless in every American city. I for one have been a tempest-tossed huddled mass yearning to be free for most of my adult life, and looking around I see I have plenty of company. 

News flash: None of us are free! We are constantly fed lies by the media, and I don't just mean Brian Williams I mean all of them. And by our politicians like Hillary Clinton who claimed she dodged sniper fire in Bosnia but oops it was just a young girl who kissed her.  And by large corporations like Samsung with their exploding cell phones and VW with their phony emissions controls. We mustn't leave out Donald Trump who claims the latest allegations of his sexual misconduct by a reporter from People magazine couldn't have happened because they were in a "very public area with people all around," when it actually took place in a private bedroom and nobody was a witness.  

Then there's the idea cooked up by a series of politicians way back in the early 1900s, including Herbert Hoover and continuing up through Obama, with a lot of help along the way from the National Association of Realtors, that signing on to a lifetime of mortgage payments and getting stuck in one place for your whole life constitutes "The American Dream," along with a full-time job for your entire productive years with weekends off for good behavior. The final piece of the happiness pie according to those people behind the curtain controlling the messages we, the huddled masses, receive is that marriage and family are necessary for true happiness. (Just ask the Menendez brothers about that one since you can't ask their parents.)

No wonder antidepressant prescriptions are up, along with addictions to drugs and alcohol: We are all the huddled masses. The antidote: Put down the cell phone, turn off the TV and grab a book (or two or three) on Buddhism and meditation. Join a yoga class, go for a run, walk outside and breathe the fresh air. Try thinking for yourself for a few days and soon enough you'll stop huddling and stand up straight.