Long Overdue Loners Anonymous Meeting

"The Persistence of Memory" by Salvador Dali

To paraphrase, and at the same time completely alter the meaning of a popular saying, "We can't go on not meeting like this!" It's been seven months since our last get-together and we've likely got so much bottled up inside us to not share with anyone.  This is an especially appropriate time for me to be a Loner since my husband, who I live with, has been out of town for the past three days and will remain so for one more day. Consequently I have hardly spoken to a soul, except my trainer at the gym for an hour one day and another one tomorrow.

Since my closest local friends are still in quarantine owing to a bone marrow transplant last November, it's basically been me and my cat Lurch from dawn to dusk, and I do mean dawn. (Lurch starts meowing for breakfast before five in the morning.) Sad to say, he isn't much company these days, being 19 and suffering from feline dementia. While I find it unfair that my cat should be so afflicted after having had a mother who suffered from early-onset Alzheimer's, clearly we don't get to choose our troubles.

The truth is, being alone has its benefits. It allows us to focus on the fact that life is ticking by, minute by minute, hour by hour. (See illustration.) When we distract ourselves with meaningless activities, the days  pass quickly in a blur, and suddenly it's tomorrow, or next month, or Christmas! As we who have chosen the loner lifestyle understand, being alone allows us to savor every minute. I hope you are all doing that and not squandering it online, absorbing the crap posted by all the morons out there or trying to decipher what's real and what's AI in the news. 

Until next time, keep the faith -- and do something productive all by yourself. And if you can't think of anything, read "White Noise" by Don DeLillo, one of my all-time favorite novels which puts everything in perspective.

FILM REVIEW: Remarkably Bright Creatures

Tova and her octopus pal Marcellus share a moment.

Except for the stupid title, this film is almost perfect. Starring Sally Field, now almost 80, in what is surely the most exceptional performance of her long career, this sometimes sappy tear-jerker rises above its genre to expose raw truths about what it is to be human. It's also a fantasy about the deep love and communication capable between a human being and an octopus, the eponymous bright creature given the name Marcellus.

Based on a book of the same name, Remarkably Bright Creatures centers on Tova (Sally Field), a widow still grieving the mysterious death of her teenage son 30 years later. Her lonely life as a night-shift cleaning lady in an aquarium is brightened by the sudden appearance of a young drifter (Lewis Pullman) whose truck breaks down in her small seaside village, forcing him to stick around and eventually find work in the same aquarium. Their relationship deepens over time, and eventually blossoms into something touching and unexpected.

Besides the unique story and flawless performances, the underwater photography of stunning sea creatures makes the film special. One word of advice for the faint-hearted: Have tissues handy.

Rawdogging With Harrison Ford

Ford as Indiana Jones in "Raiders"

Recently actor Harrison Ford, who at age 83 has a self-earned net worth of $300 million, appeared on a podcast with younger actors who mocked him for not knowing the meaning of the slang term rawdogging. He jokingly pointed out that he was being made fun of for "being old." 

Ford's Wikipedia entry begins this way: 

"Regarded as a cinematic cultural icon, Ford's accolades include nominations for an Academy Award, A British Academy Film Award, an Emmy Award, five Golden Globe Awards and two Screen Actors Guild Awards. He is the recipient of the AFI Life Achievement Award, the Cecil B. DeMill Award, an Honorary Cesar, an Honors Palme d'Or and a SAG-AFTRA Life Achievement Award."  

But enough about him. I too did not know the meaning of the slang term. I figured it probably didn't mean eating uncooked hot dogs since that would have made the most sense, so I googled it and learned it means either having sex without a condom or doing an activity without any distractions, like flying without headphones or reading a book, just sitting there undistracted for the entire flight. 

Turns out I've been rawdogging -- both definitions -- for my whole life. Who knew I'm so hip?  

Almost Human

People are using AI for so much content these days, it's hard to tell what's real and what's computer-generated. Because of that, writers are deliberately messing up their original content just so readers will know they are not hiring robots, throwing in random slang, jargon and typos. There's even a new startup called Writehuman wherein the company's software "edits AI-generated text to make it sound more human."

Similarly, fake videos and altered photographs pepper the internet. Nothing is real anymore, it seems -- which means it's all sanitized and perfect. For example, I asked ChatGPT to make an image of a vase of flowers in front of an open window with a boat on the water outside. It is shown here below.

Nice. But I forgot to tell it to make it interesting, or stylized, or unique in any way. Now here's one of my own paintings that fits the same description. 

Most interior decorators would choose the AI-generated image. But I like mine better. 

I Didn't Ask, Please Don't Tell

Today I read most of an article online that originally appeared in People magazine about an actress I never heard of who just "came out" as bisexual. She finally "got up the courage" and wanted everyone to know. Now what are we all supposed to do with that information?

Why do we have to know the sexual preferences of movie stars, celebrities, royalty or anyone, in fact, other than someone we are about to have sex with? How does it impact anyone's life but their own?

If I run into you somewhere, please don't tell me who you like to sleep with, unless it's a cat or a dog.

Conspiracy Theories

A few days ago while having coffee with a friend, she mentioned something about "Pizzagate." I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly, so she went on to explain how in 2016, Hillary Clinton was part of a child sex ring based in a pizza restaurant in Washington, DC. She had few facts -- actually none -- correct. 

I rushed to tell her that when I lived in DC, which I did for 30 years, the restaurant in question, Comet Ping Pong Pizza, was a mile from our home and we ate there very often and never saw any funny business. Also, my son's best friend from high school was the manager of the place and he was a nice Jewish boy who would not engage in anything nefarious.

She remained unconvinced, still pretty sure that Hillary and some guy she couldn't name (John Podesta, Hillary's campaign chairman) were knee-deep in child trafficking in the basement of Comet. She then added her belief that it had something to do with "adrenochrome," a chemical which people harvest from the adrenal glands of children and ingest to stay young.

I still consider this woman a friend, mostly because she is decent and kind and, best of all, a Republican, which in my part of Maine is as rare as a four-leaf clover. Also, it's basically impossible to find anyone who doesn't believe in some sort of conspiracy theory. Take me, for example: I still don't believe we ever landed on the Moon. And I'm pretty sure the CIA played a part in JFK's assassination. 

Still, harvesting a chemical compound from children to reverse ageing is a bit much. Then again, Hillary herself was the one who said that when it comes to raising children, "It takes a village." Who knows -- maybe that's what the village was for.

Jimmy Kimmel Is the Joke

Who is Jimmy Kimmel and why do we care? That's the question plaguing me these days. For reasons beyond my understanding, the so-called entertainer has made the pages of my daily newspaper. Stooping to a new low, the formerly staid Wall Street Journal presents an article about Kimmel in today's "Business & Finance Section." This blows my mind.

Admittedly, as someone basking in the glow of my golden years, I turn in early. Usually I'm asleep by 10 pm, or maybe 11 if it's a weekend and I've gone out somewhere. But that's rare. So I'm clueless when it comes to late-night talk show hosts. Besides, after Johnny Carson left, that genre died a horrible death, with a string of lesser talents trying to fill his shoes. Still, I find it depressing and disturbing that someone who tries to be funny for a living is now a mouthpiece for the loony left. 

There are plenty of people alive on this planet, myself among them, who have never seen Jimmy Kimmel do whatever it is he supposedly does. But there is nobody above the age of about eight who couldn't pick Donald Trump out of a lineup. Kimmel's ongoing skewering of Trump, who is the President of the United States for the second time, is perhaps the best joke he has ever told. His recent putdown of First Lady Melania is his second best.

Cruising

Thinking we might want to experience a cruise sometime before we die, my husband and I started our search online. We narrowed it down to small ships sailing on European rivers rather than ocean liners, since if there's a problem on the ship we could swim to shore rather than drown, die of hypothermia or get eaten by sharks, the main reasons I have never gone on a cruise before. 

Naturally all the websites claim the same things: Their cruise line is the best, their food is prepared by award-winning chefs, their staff is extremely attentive to your every need and their on-shore excursions are exciting and memorable. Digging deeper, we realized that we would have to read some reviews from real people. Those were no help at all. 

For example, the same cruise was described quite differently by different people. Some said the food was awful, while others on the very same ship on the very same dates said it was gourmet at its best. Some cited technical difficulties with the ship, like the AC not working, toilets not flushing, and being stopped dead in the water for a day because of engine trouble, while others claimed the same trip was flawless.

Throw in those odd cruise viruses that befall multitudes of passengers, potential bad weather and debilitating seasickness, and something tells me we're not going quite yet.

Assigned Human At Birth

I am not suicidal, but I can't live this way anymore. I am trapped inside a human being's body and it's wrong.  No doctor is able to perform any surgery to fix my problem, at least not yet. I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to be: A cat? A flower? A tree of some kind? Maybe a bird? Just not a human -- they are the worst and I am not handling it well. Never have, really.

I can't relate to most of their habits. I never like anything of the things most of them seem to enjoy. In fact, I am blown away by many of the ways they spend their time. Like so many of them do nothing of value and only spend their time shopping, eating and criticizing celebrities. And the celebrities are no better, albeit thinner and prettier. But most of them become drug addicts and alcoholics.

Just a few weeks ago, the humans in charge of such things spent untold billions for four of them to squeeze into a little compartment and get catapulted into space and circle the Moon one time, and then come back the same as when they left. And everyone thought that was just great -- like a big deal! But it accomplished nothing. While lots of diseases run rampant here on Earth, killing and maiming people daily -- including babies who didn't ask to be born and suddenly here they are without a stomach or a with a heart growing outside their chest, stuck in the NICU at some hospital for months -- people are busy circling the Moon like it's a theme park attraction.

And speaking of theme parks, many people ride roller coasters to thrill themselves because their lives are so dull, I guess. Roller coasters are extremely popular, and all they do is take people up very high and then drop them down very low, at super-fast speeds. After you get off it you are still the same as before, only with less money.

So yes, I'm unhappy to be a person. But until someone invents an inter-species procedure I'm stuck as one, watching others get tattoos and eat pizza and take lots of antidepressants, probably because they also hate being people but don't know how to stop doing it.

Mothers and Sons

Two recent stories in the news have helped me forgive myself. Yesterday I read about a healthy 56-year-old British woman who travelled to Switzerland to end her life through assisted suicide. Her 22-year-old son had died four years ago, choking in his sleep on a bit of a sandwich she had made for him. She simply could not endure the emotional pain of missing him any longer. I totally understood her decision.

Then this morning I read a book excerpt written by a woman whose eldest child and only son, age 23, was taken hostage in the October 7 raid on the Israeli music festival in 2023. Held captive and grievously wounded, starved, tortured and ultimately executed by Hamas, his ravaged skeletal body was returned to his family after 330 days. Somehow she goes on living but writes that she is dead inside, her grief cancelling out every other possible human emotion. She writes that she will feel this way forever.

My own son is now 38 and I thank God every day for his continued fortune and good health. The thought of some harm befalling him haunts me. Recently I feared that a bad cut on his hand would become infected and lead to sepsis. (It didn't.) Whenever he has a cold I pray it won't lead to pneumonia. (It never has.) When he flies, I worry. ("Text me when you land!")

I thought I was crazy but now I understand that I'm just an ordinary mother of a son. Profound attachment comes with the territory.

Trying to Communicate

The purpose of language is to communicate with other beings who speak the same one we do. Without language we are forced to use other methods, such as facial expressions, hand gestures and body movement. Language is by far  the easiest. Which is why it pisses me off when I come across writing that uses rare words I don't know, when known ones are readily available and will achieve a more inclusive result.

For example, in today's Wall Street Journal a theater reviewer discusses a new Broadway play, possibly to encourage people to rush out and purchase tickets before the show closes. You'd think he'd go for the common denominator, since the totality of theater-goers range in education. 

Instead I, a former newspaper writer and editor raised on Scrabble (like all Jewish children) and in possession of an extensive vocabulary as a result of a good education, much reading and years of playing word games and crossword puzzles, had to dictionary-check three words just in the article's opening two paragraphs. This annoyed me no end and made me doubt the opinion of Mr. Charles Isherwood, the paper's theater critic. 

I guess we're supposed to be in awe of his vast knowledge of esoteric words and not care that his sentences may be unintelligible and thus his intended meaning lost. This, to me is dumb. Say what you mean, goddammit! And in plain English! (Unless you are French or Spanish or German or whatever, you get my point.) What else does a writer aspire to besides communicating with his/her readers?