Always Keep the Whip Handy

Despite the fact that I appear to share a lot of personal facts in this space, I actually never divulge anything of serious import to anyone besides my current shrink, and depending on the shrink, not even then. So it is with shock and horror every day of my life that I read the confessions of celebrities spread open wide on all media platforms. I can't help wondering what causes anyone to forgo all sense of pride and reveal incredibly personal details of their lives to the salivating masses.

For example, the singer named Rihanna, who I could not pick out of a lineup unless it was five white women and her since I know she is African American, told the following, and other things just like it, to news outlets including trashy websites and mainstream magazines: “I like to be spanked. Being tied up is fun. I like to keep it spontaneous. Sometimes whips and chains can be overly planned — you gotta stop, get the whip from the drawer downstairs. I’d rather have him use his hands.”

What a dunce! If I could meet Rihanna I would suggest she keep the whip in a drawer right there in the bedroom, or even under the bed like friends of mine did years ago back in Washington, D.C. (I discovered it when I stayed in their apartment for two weeks while they were away on their honeymoon.) Now that was smart!

What's Done Isn't Always Done

Yesterday morning, a bright yellow ambulance showed up in front of our house. That's always a troubling sight even when it's not your ride. Later in the day I learned it had been summoned by our neighbor who suffered polio as a child and is now experiencing the troubling symptoms of Post-polio Syndrome, specifically new weakening in the muscles that were originally affected by the virus 20, 30 or 40 years ago and had recovered, as well as in muscles that were originally unaffected. A terrible turn of events, and so unexpected, it's proof that nothing can be counted on except the fact that nothing can be counted on.

Then this morning I heard two radio deejays excitedly discussing the fact that "vinyl is making a comeback." They went on to suggest that "if you've still got one in the attic, it's time to dust off your old turntable." That got me wondering what the next big thing will be now that Facebook has suffered a glancing blow that could prove fatal. Like the Titanic, many people are already fleeing the sinking ship. Before too long we might all be saying, "Hey, remember Facebook?"

Since the human brain is only that big and not much bigger, it's likely that a past obsession will make an encore appearance. But which one? Hula hoops? Board games? Drive-in movies? With any luck, face-to-face conversation between actual people who are in the same place at the same time will become popular again. You never know -- worse things have happened. (See opening paragraph.)

Outsmarting Facebook

There's been a lot in the news recently about how Facebook is selling out its users. I can't honestly say how, but it's got something to do with data and the repurposing of private information for financial gain, meaning Mark Zuckerberg gets money from knowing what kind of shampoo I use, or something like that. So to avoid all that I have deleted my old accounts and started a new, secret Facebook page. Ha!

Naturally I have no friends on it since I can't tell anyone who I am. There will be no private information, or actually any information at all about me, on it. I hope you find my page since it will be boring just seeing my own posts.

The Russians Are Coming!

I pray that posting this on Facebook, which we now know exploits every bit of our personal information for devious purposes, won't spur the police to burst into my bedroom at three in the morning, or at any time actually, but last weekend my husband and I spent several hours in close association with actual Russians. They were here in South Freeport for ten days, ostensibly to study our education system but that could have been just their cover.

Pretty soon we'll all be wearing these.

There were three of them, all female, one in her fifties presenting herself as a teacher and the other two posing as high school students. They spoke English, although one of the girls barely spoke and kept her eyes on her cell phone all evening, texting constantly to God knows who. Putin? Trump? Jared Kushner? Hillary Clinton? Your guess is as good as mine.

Reluctant to incriminate who hosted the foreigners, I won't divulge where this meeting transpired. Still, I think it's safe to declare the dinner delicious, although the texting girl ate nothing but a few morsels of roasted potatoes. (Did she fear being poisoned or was she just anorexic? Hard to tell.)

I asked the "teacher" what she thinks of Putin, and she replied, "He is very good in his job." She offered no more. I then asked if she likes Trump, and she just shrugged and ate a bite of pork loin. The most interesting facts that surfaced were that in Russia the typical oncologist earned $100 a month a few years ago but now earns $300 a month, and an average pair of ordinary blue jeans costs $200, making me conclude that few, if any, children of Russian oncologists wear jeans. 

There was a flurry of activity towards the end of the evening when one of the guests spilled a glass of red wine and everyone rushed to remove all the dishes and glasses from the white tablecloth, an heirloom from France, so the hostess could get it into the washing machine. Anything could have happened during that frenetic time.

The two younger Russians vowed to return and spend all next year in our little village. Who knows why. I'm wondering if upon their return we will all be forced to wear those fur hats.

The Presidential Penis

Sad but true, Anderson Cooper, the fabulously wealthy and even more fabulously gay CNN news anchor who has an eye condition that requires him to wear eyeglasses at random times depending on his outfits, has given up the pretension exhibited early in his career that he is a serious journalist. During Hurricane Katrina he was on the scene to document the death and destruction in New Orleans; now he's digging in the dirt for details about exactly where the presidential penis has been in the distant past.

Anderson's voyeuristic tendencies have resulted in two separate and very lengthy TV interviews with two different women, one a former porn star with gigantic breasts and the other a former Playboy Playmate, each of whom claims to have met the presidential penis back in 2006 when Trump was not only not the president, but instead a reality TV star in the same category as the Duck Dynasty guys, the Kardashians, Snooky and her Jersey Shore roommates and all those classless and catty rich Housewives.

Walter Cronkite removed his Anderson Cooper glasses to tell us JFK was dead.

Back in 1963, the one and only God of News, Walter Cronkite, famously teared up on camera as he announced the death of JFK to the waiting public. If Cronkite were alive today he'd likely collapse in tears over this one and have to be carried off the set on a stretcher.

Enough of Everything!

Yeah, yeah, I know -- kids don't want to grow up in a world with gun violence. Well guess what? I don't want to grow old with the possibility of losing my mind! When is the government going to find a cure for Alzheimer's? How many of us must lose our precious memories before something is done?

And what about cancer? Half my friends have it and the other half already died from it. And then there's coronary artery disease, the type that causes heart attacks, one of which I had. (Why me?) It's the leading killer in the U.S, but things are different elsewhere, like in Japan where there's far less heart disease. Why is that? Figure it out, Congress!!!!! (Why do we even pay them?)

I say "Enough!" I'm protesting, and you should too. Make a sign and meet me on the Mall.

Tantrum On the Mall

These poor kids who say they're mad as hell and they're not gonna take it anymore, and thus are assembling on the National Mall in order to wave signs demanding an end to guns and "gun violence," are cruising for a bruising if they believe shouting and stomping their feet is all it will take to make adulthood safe and secure for them. (If only!)

Maybe while they're at it they should demand Congress to also outlaw all hate, rage, jealousy, depression, vindictiveness, stupidity, anxiety, poverty, hunger, knives, swords, bombs, nails, fertilizer, cars, vans, airplanes, subway platforms and, of course, mental illness. Now that's a cause I could really get behind.

Something's Coming

Could be?
Who knows?
There's something due any day
I will know, right away
Soon as it shows
It may come cannonballing down through the sky
Gleam in its eye
Bright as a rose
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach
Down the block, on the beach
Under a tree ...

This morning I logged on to my computer and immediately saw "How to Fall Asleep in 2 Minutes or Less" and "How to Make a Whole Mess of Fancy Mussels." Interested in neither, I switched to the morning paper and read about Uber's driverless cars killing people --well, one person, but it's just the beginning -- and how Toys "R" Us is officially over. Naturally there was the usual gossip about Trump's firing of another White House staffer and fear mongering over plummeting stocks due to trouble at Facebook. Rebels in Syria, Putin is still king, "Roseanne" makes a comeback, Broadway  spotlights affluent WASPS and Brazilian lesbians want babies made from white American sperm.  Nowhere was there a lick of advice on how to get through a day with a positive attitude while knowing it could all end, without warning, at any moment.

That's really all I hope to find, but never do. You can take all the yoga classes and do all the meditating and even achieve a higher state of consciousness, but still, a plane could fall from the sky onto your house exactly where you're sitting, innocently writing your blog, and that's it. Hey, don't laugh -- it happens! You're dead but voicelessly screaming: Don't forget the laundry, it's already in the spin cycle. Will it just sit there, all wet and getting wrinkled? Will anyone ever look in there? And the cat -- he's outside, and it's cold, who will let him back in? Will anyone feed him? FYI, Lurch likes his food warmed in the microwave for 10 seconds, in case it ends up being you. This is what I need help with. I am open to any and all suggestions.

Now you're thinking, "Jeez, she is depressing! I'm not gonna read this shit anymore." But really, think about it, because the same thing applies to you. Okay, not a plane from the sky, but something: a burst aneurysm, a heart attack, a fall down the stairs. And then, nothing. Over. Anyway, as everyone says, from the grocery checkout lady to the waiter at lunch to your dental hygienist, "Have a good one!"

I'll try, but just tell me how.







 

Don't Knock Dropouts

An article in today's Wall Street Journal about the young man who left a string of package bombs in Austin, Texas and was finally apprehended described him as "a 23-year-old who had dropped out of college." A few paragraphs later he was again cited as "the 23-year-old college dropout," as if the term conveys so much information it was worth repeating.

We can safely assume that the authors of the article, Russell Gold and Dan Frosch (these days it takes two college graduates to write a short news story) both completed their four years after high school, maybe more, yet they can't come up with any other way to describe this wayward youth than as a "college dropout," thus implying he was a lowlife dummy. I'd like to alert them to the following list of millionaires and billionaires who are also college dropouts, with the hope they will stop thinking it's a useful descriptive term. (Maybe they should go to graduate school to expand their vocabularies.)

Abraham Lincoln (Not a millionaire, just former US president)
Mark Zuckerberg (Founder and CEO, Facebook)
Bill Gates (Founder and CEO, Microsoft, wealthiest person on the planet)
Steve Jobs (Founder and CEO, Apple)
Frank Lloyd Wright (Architect)
Lady Gaga (Singer)
John Mackey (Founder and CEO, Whole Foods)
Travis Kalanick (CEO, Uber)
Michael Dell (Founder and CEO, Dell Computers)
Tom Hanks (Actor)
Patrick Dempsey (Actor)
James Cameron (Movie Director)
Buckminster Fuller (Inventor, Futurist, Philosopher)
Evan Williams (CEO, Twitter) 
Jim Carrey (Actor)
Walt Disney (Founder, Disney Company)
Tiger Woods (Golf Pro)
John Lennon (Singer)
Wolfgang Puck (Celebrity chef)
Harrison Ford (Actor)
Larry Ellison (CEO, Oracle)
Ellen de Generes (Entertainer)
Ted Turner (Founder, CNN)
Coco Chanel (Fashion mogul, Founder of Chanel)
David Karp (CEO, Tumbler)
Daniel Ek (CEO, Spotify)
Brad Pitt (Actor)
Matt Mellenweg (CEO WordPress)
Oprah Winfrey (Entertainer, Publisher)
F. Scott Fitzgerald (Author)
Ralph Lauren (Fashion mogul, Founder of POLO)
John Mayer (Singer)
Al Pacino (Actor, also dropped out of high school)

Hillary and Rachel Caught in Russian Love Triangle

Okay, don't get mad but this post has nothing to do with its title; I just wanted to get you here and it was the only way I could be sure you would click. What I really want to talk about is the absurdity of blaming Facebook for bad people, including those mean old Russians who used it for nefarious purposes by suggesting that Hillary Clinton was evil, thus ushering Trump into the White House. They allegedly did this by posing as regular Joes you may have befriended despite their being total strangers, which boils down to Facebook users who befriend total strangers are morons, but that's another post altogether.

Yes, bad people do bad stuff on Facebook. But how is that Mark Zuckerberg's fault? That's like blaming the guns for the deaths in that Florida high school shooting when a guy named Nikolas Cruz did it. Or blaming FEMA Director Michael Brown for all the deaths in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, when everyone finally understands that only the city's Mayor, Ray Nagin (now behind bars for some other crime) could have evacuated the city, not to mention that only God can make a hurricane.

If everyone would stop scrounging around for a scapegoat and accept that bad things happen because damaged children reach adulthood and seek to assuage their pent-up rage and pain by hurting others, perhps things would improve throughout society. I'm not sure, but we must all be doing something really basic really wrong, or things wouldn't be this bad. Every major foul-up can't be Trump's or Zuckerberg's or Putin's or the Republican's fault, can it? And really, if you have to blame someone in human form, consider Rachel Maddow. She is sort of human, although she may actually be the Devil in disguise. (Check out her high school yearbook photo shown above.)

Celebrate Spring!

Just 'cause it's funny. (Laughter is good for you!)

As of 11 o'clock this morning, my current shrink thinks I have made "amazing progress" in the years she has known me. This was interesting to hear since I feel stagnant all the time. Was she being truthful or did she say that so I will think she's been incredibly helpful and thus will continue seeing her? (Ever the skeptic, such thoughts are common for me and are the main reason I see a shrink in the first place.)

Besides, what constitutes "progress" for a human? All of us whose basic needs are met are bent on "finding our purpose" and "fulfilling our unique potential," as if when we do the benefits to mankind will be enormous when really maybe all that will happen is that we lose weight and our jeans fit better or we engage in a new hobby and have more fun each day, and really who cares about that besides us?

Most people take things far too seriously, especially considering that Donald Trump is our president.  If you are not among the starving poor or the homeless refugees clutching to life in some war-torn landscape, desperately seeking food, water or shelter, chances are you're trying to decide where your kid should go to college, what color to paint the dining room, whether to get a dog from a breeder or the pound or should you do yoga or pilates. Whatever it is, the solution of your current dilemma will have few, if any, ripples, so lighten up. And no matter where you live, get outside -- spring is here!

Dreaming of Reincarnation

Why?

Despite what you may think I try to be open-minded, but I still get slightly nauseous when I see those nose-rings that look like dripping snot. The other night at dinner, our waitress sported one of those. She was a pretty young woman, except for the silver snot balls dangling from each nostril. I considered asking her why she saw fit to do such a thing, but instead all I said was, "I'll have the Caesar salad with no croutons and extra anchovies."

Looking around the restaurant, I saw that almost everyone working there had some sort of shiny object jutting out of an odd place. The bartender had two big silver balls over one eyebrow, which almost deflected my attention from the tattoo encircling her neck spelling out something in a foreign language. (Turns out it was Celtic but I have no idea what it said.)

Among other attributes of his that I have mentioned before (no doubt too often), I am fiercely proud of my son for resisting the more outrageous forms of rebellion undertaken by so many of his peers. He still sports the lovely unmarked skin he arrived in, and has not poked any holes into it for the hanging of hardware. I believe this nonconformism to be one of his strongest qualities as it indicates a steely core able to withstand the uncomfortable role of the outsider. It's an inherited trait passed down from my mother, and one that I struggle with daily despite having been saddled with it since day one.

Some people say they want to come back as a cat or a movie star or Mahatma Gandhi. I'm hoping that in my next life I'm a Hillary-loving, book-club-joining scrap-booker with a maroon Suburban van and six kids who all need new shoes every few months that I shop for between driving them to soccer and the dentist and the doctor and play dates, leaving no time in my busy schedule to think about the meaning of life. Or anything at all, really. 

Some Questions to Ponder

The Cleavage of Stormy Daniels

I try to imagine what it's like to wake up every day and get ready for work when my job entails digging up more dirt on President Trump and his alleged sexual fling a dozen years ago with ex-porn star Stormy Daniels as if it matters. I fail miserably as I can never get past the part where I walk into my boss's office and say "I quit." How do these "journalists" continue to do it? And what do they talk about with one another when they aren't at work?

I've never been one to prostitute myself for money. Maybe if I had I'd be living my dream today, although my dream does not depend on me having money and no, I'm not going to divulge it here. I'm just saying that having a lot of money must be fun or else why would so many people do such embarrassing, or illegal, things trying to get some?

And here's another one for you. My husband's cousin's daughter, who he follows on Facebook and who is a rabid leftist just like her mother, posted something about how she set up a page to raise money for "the kids in Florida" who are out doing so much to "change" things by cutting classes and waving signs about how guns are bad. What do they need money for? Are markers and poster board that expensive?

Did anyone even stop for a minute yesterday to note the passing of the scientist Stephen Hawking, who has been called "the smartest man alive" and who discovered black holes in space? And does anyone know what black holes are and why we need them, or not?

Finally, today is St. Patrick's Day. Just who was St. Patrick and why does he deserve a "day" all his own? Is today the day he was born or when he died, or possibly the day he invented green beer?  How should we honor him, and do only the Irish people care?

Guns Are Not the Problem

Everyone's all atwitter, literally, about the shooting in Parkland, Florida several weeks ago that left 17 people dead. Nationwide, students in high schools, and even those in younger grades including elementary schools, are walking out or staying home, postponing their education to gather together and wave signs with the message, "NO MORE GUNS!" They are demanding that the government, of all things, take care of this problem, as if the lack of legal access to guns will stop anyone with murder as a goal. Besides, while anger and hatred are rampant in America, nowhere is it more evident than in the halls of Congress where the slightest difference of opinion results in a nasty food fight and possible shutdown.

Stay in school, kids. All your sign-waving and moments of silence cannot fix the ills of a society buckling under the weight of our collective mental and physical illness caused by the consumption of poisonous foods and abuse of harmful drugs, obsession with violent entertainment, bastardization of sex, ejection of God from everyday society, growing racial rivalry, disregard for the elderly, abandonment of nature and misguided worship of money and celebrity. Instead of worrying about the gun laws, fixing these broken parts of our society should command your full attention.

Forget the guns; sad but true, killers will find a way. Just yesterday, someone with a twisted soul tossed a 35-pound boulder from an overpass onto a random car driving along a highway, killing a 23-year-old man in the passenger seat with his pregnant wife at the wheel and his mother and 4-year-old daughter in the back seat. My message for the students who now claim to fear for their lives by attending school is instead of cutting class, study harder and be a force for good when you grow up.

Poor Hillary

The best thing I got out of the last presidential election is the ability to say to myself, when I'm feeling down and everything seems bleak, "At least I'm not Hillary Clinton." That's a big help sometimes, like this morning when I woke up at five to go to the bathroom and couldn't stand up because I was having an attack of my BPPV, which makes the room spin around crazily like that scene in Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo where Kim Novak feels like she's falling, with the spinning black and white circles. Anyway, it was right then that I thought, "This sucks, but at least I'm not Hillary Clinton."

Decisions, decisions.....

Not only is she married to a serial philanderer with a gigantic ego (even bigger than hers), but she's apparently in the grips of a runaway food addiction which explains why her pantsuits are morphing into caftans. But the real problem with Hillary, and why she needs our sympathy and support, is that she just can't accept her own reality, which is this: She lost the election, for which she had been preparing her entire adult life, to Donald Trump. Actually when you look at that statement in a certain light, it's kind of an amazing accomplishment that few other people, if any, could have managed. So, with the right drugs in her system, she could even feel proud.

Anyway, Hil went to India last weekend to hawk the book she wrote about why she lost, and talked about why she lost. We are now more than a year out from that sorry situation, yet for her it's still front and center. She's obsessed, not to mention delusional. Her current rationalization of why she lost, or "What Happened" as she sadly titled her book, is because all those "deplorables" are just so, well, so deplorable!

Naturally she gave some examples, like how white people in certain parts of the country hate blacks and want them to fail, and how white women in certain parts of the country still feel pressured to vote the way their husbands and sons tell them to, and how white people in certain parts of the country don't like it when certain ethnic groups, like Indian-Americans to pick a group at random while she's speaking to a bunch of Indian-Indians, outshine them in the workplace. Added to all that was that "ill-advised" CIA Director Jim Comey who spooked people about her just two weeks before the election, making everyone who was  planning to vote for her decide not to.

Clearly the woman is out of her gourd and should be locked up, not in a prison like the Trumpies chant, but in a mental institution.

A Geography Lesson

There's a whole other state between the city of Portland and the state of Vermont!

There's an old saying: "Those who can, do. Those who can't do, teach. Those who can't teach, teach gym." I would like to add something to that: "Those who can't teach gym become meteorologists." After the third measurable storm in the last couple of weeks, the weather people are desperately seeking to fill air time with the appearance of their deep and esoteric knowledge on the subject. I remain unconvinced, having long suspected they each graduated in the bottom of whatever class they took to get where they've gotten.

This morning I was sure of it. One of the "meteorologists" stood in front of his map of the storm area and pontificated about how much of "the white stuff" got dumped on Portland, Vermont. "Yup, those hardy folks up there in Portland, Vermont got a ton of the white stuff!" Only there is no Portland, Vermont. I hope someone told him by now.

Lesbians Urinating on Satyrs

What would Leonardo think?

Every two years since 1998, the Portland Museum of Art has mounted an exhibition called the Biennial, which means "taking place every other year," in case you didn't know. The show is always a good time because it includes the absolute ugliest art they can find. It's all supposed to be seen as cutting-edge and cool, like what you might find in New York or LA. This year is no exception, and in fact hits a new low.

Things are bad right off the bat. Entering the exhibition, the unsuspecting museum-goer is immediately assaulted by two huge, and I mean huge, paintings of women, one black and one white, that stretch from floor to ceiling. Both are sloppily executed depictions of lesbians. We know this because the mannish-looking woman in one of the paintings wears a t-shirt emblazoned with the words EAT PUSSY FOR MENTAL HEALTH, which is also the title of the work.

The local paper employs an art critic, Daniel Kany, who aspires to be taken seriously despite the fact that he's writing for the local paper. (Yes, I'm bitter: he once wrote that my work "can't decide if it's art or decoration." He is dead wrong! In fact, I have spoken at length with my work and it definitely has decided that it is art, but feels that all art is decoration.)

While Dan thinks the entire show is "quite handsome," he doesn't like the two giant lesbian paintings, and here's what he said about them: "Dufresne is quite well-known for her ability to sling the paint around the canvas, but as paintings, these are duds. Considering the exciting stuff she does (like lesbians and satyrs urinating on each other) and how well she can paint, these feels like studio leftovers."

How to Prevent Angry Adults

Even pitchforks can kill!

It's not the guns. Of course, guns are what shoot, so if there weren't any there would be no shooting. But that doesn't mean there wouldn't be deaths, since someone bent on destruction can always resort to cars, planes, poisoning, bombs, knives, bows and arrows, pitchforks, and good, old-fashioned fisticuffs.

The issue is not the weapon but the underlying anger and seething hatred for all mankind that propels mass murder. Those emotions are instilled in children at a very young age by parents who are clueless, busy, distracted or full of rage and anger themselves.

There is much work to do to change humans from killing machines into lovable lambs. Following are some habits to develop that can aid in the transition.

1. Don't drive angry: No tailgating, flipping the bird at a passing driver, cutting someone off or insistent honking in traffic.
2. Never hit, scream at or frighten a child.
3. Never mock anyone, especially a child or someone with an obvious disability.
4. Admit when you don't know something and ask for help without shame.
5. Don't blame others for your own failings.
6. Don't judge people based on how they were raised.

I am most guilty of #6. For example, years ago I had a close friend who was raised by wolves. Just kidding; actually, wolves would have done a better job. Joanie grew up in Baltimore, in a poor neighborhood. Her father was a milkman and her mother was the witch in "Hansel and Gretel." (Not really, but she looked the part.) The one and only time I accompanied Joanie on a visit home, I regretted it. Simply put, I saw too much. (This may be when I burned my retinas.)

In her parents' world, beach towels doubled as curtains and mayonnaise was considered a vegetable. Consumed at every meal, a jumbo-sized jar of Hellmann's sat out on the kitchen table along with the salt, pepper and ketchup, 24/7. Her teenage brother had not spoken to anyone in the family for seven years, even though he lived at home. Kurt was perpetually angry and hated everyone, yet no steps were taken to understand why this was so or to remedy the situation.

Although Joanie thought nothing of spending $200 for a pair of shoes, in the interest of frugality she  used the same length of dental floss for four or five days, looping it over the bathroom sink faucet. An open bottle of red wine remained in the fridge for up to six months, and was served to guests. All of these habits disturbed me, especially the mayonnaise being left out, even in summer, since I had been taught that if it was not refrigerated within ten minutes it became toxic and you could die. (I no longer believe this, sort of.)

Still, Joanie and I had a grand time together and were best friends for more than fifteen years. We laughed constantly, enjoyed antiquing and shopping for cool clothes, appreciated the same movies, loved experimenting at ethnic restaurants, took long country drives on the weekend and compared notes on the men we were dating. Yet despite all we shared, deep down I considered her inferior  because of those bad habits she learned while growing up. Secretly, I judged her.

I don't do that anymore. If I met Joanie today I wouldn't judge her, I just wouldn't have anything to do with her. After all, if you can't fully embrace your friends with all their quirks, you're not a friend. Ditch 'em. But do it nicely.

Movie Madness

I get paid to write a monthly column that appears in a local paper on the subject of movies. While I don't claim to be a bona fide film critic, I am at the very least what might be called a movie buff. And I know what I like and say so with flair, so all in all the publisher is getting his fifty bucks worth, in case you wondered. The thing is, I have to be serious and tackle the subject in a way that is thoughtful and thought-provoking for an adult readership, and sometimes that's a drag.

It's much more fun to write this blog and say whatever I want about whatever I want, and be silly about it if I'm in a silly mood. What I wish I could write about is movie candy, and popcorn, and nowadays the full-blown lunch counter found at most theaters, complete with tacos and nachos and hot dogs and French fries, enabling our already fat citizenry to not only sit on their butts for two hours or more without moving a muscle but also stuff their faces with empty calories while so doing. It's a travesty.

Boy with his popcorn!

How did the tradition of eating popcorn while watching a movie even get started? A little research revealed that the habit first began around the time of the Great Depression, and was further fueled by World War Two. I guess the combination of being dead broke and being seriously bummed out and  possibly even missing a limb or two made enjoying an inexpensive snack while escaping to a world of fantasy wildly appealing. According to Smithsonian Magazine, "By 1945, popcorn and the movies were inextricably bound: over half of the popcorn consumed in America was eaten at the movie theaters."

I no longer indulge in movie popcorn, having mastered the art of popping my own. The movie stuff tastes pretty grim after you've enjoyed some Jolly Time, white-hulled, home-popped. Sadly, unless you go armed with a really big handbag or wear a puffy overcoat with deep pockets, it's impossible to smuggle in your own, and most theaters ban any outside food. This is too bad, as at least you'd be getting something healthy instead of the typical lard-and-salt-infused yellow corn that's more often than not stale anyway, and these days is no longer inexpensive. It often costs as much as your ticket, if not more for the popular jumbo size. (See photo.)

My Very Short Bucket List

This morning I made a giant mistake before I even got out of bed and read an article online about a young woman who, during a meth-induced hallucination, "dug out her own eyes with her hands" because God told her to make a sacrifice, or something like that. Now she is permanently blind and is "much happier," saying she'd "rather be blind than on drugs." She's learning to play the guitar.  Someone should clue her in that most people are not on drugs and are also not blind, and that many, many people learn how to play the guitar without doing weird shit to themselves first.

Besides wondering how someone can possibly dig our their own eyes with their bare hands when I cannot even remove a splinter from my finger with a pair of tweezers, I was left thinking that humans are surely the most pathetic and least admirable species on this planet. I dare anyone to disagree. The recent murder of 17 innocent people in a Florida high-school by a 19-year-old with anger issues is yet another example, of which there are hundreds, if not thousands more.

As a human being myself, I'm greatly concerned. My own bad behavior at times has disgusted me, and who knows -- someday it might get even worse. I don't understand why people are so bad, not just to others but themselves. Is this all because Eve ate the apple and God was pissed and banished her from the Garden of Eden? Does anyone even believe there was ever an Eve, an apple, or a snake that could talk? Is there a God?

More importantly, might there be another planet out there where there's no trouble? Is it somewhere over the rainbow? (Which reminds me -- why did Judy Garland choose to become a drug addict and alcoholic when she was so beautiful, with a voice like an angel?) If so, how do we get there? I'd like to know, because it's the only destination on my bucket list and I'm not getting any younger.

Movie Magic, and More

There is a powerful scene in a movie that has sustained me through some of my darkest times. It was in "The Pianist," the brilliant depiction of what life was like for the Jews in Poland leading up to Hitler's takeover and ultimate reign of horror. Actor Adrian Brody, he of the long, skinny* face and the big nose (but he's very handsome anyway) was named Best Actor that year for his performance of the title character, Wladyslaw Szpilman.

Here's the scene: Szpilman, along with his parents and three siblings, all near starvation, have been rounded up and are being sent to a concentration camp. Marching along together, they stop for a moment to savor a morsel of food the father has squirreled away in his coat pocket: a small, square caramel candy wrapped in paper. The father ceremoniously cuts the candy into six equal portions and hands them out. Each of them takes their share and savors it slowly, as if it were a steak dinner.

The family stops to share a caramel candy on their march to the death chamber.

I flash on that scene whenever I feel I am lacking something. These days, with my kitchen torn apart and non-functioning, I remember it daily. This morning I made a couple of scrambled eggs in the microwave we have perched atop the piano bench. I followed a recipe I found on the Internet that promised a "fluffy" result. Fluffy is not the word I would have chosen to describe how mine turned out; "rubbery" would be more accurate. Anyway, as I ate them I thought of that caramel and decided that my eggs were absolutely perfect. Moral of the story: Sometimes Hollywood comes through for you. 

*As a helpful coda for those of you struggling with weight problems, Brody lost 31 pounds in six weeks for this role. His daily diet consisted of two boiled eggs and green tea for breakfast, a little chicken for lunch, and a small piece of fish or chicken with steamed vegetables for dinner.

Finding Power In the Storm

Growing up in a kosher home I learned all about what foods I could eat and what foods I couldn't eat. I knew the details of all the Jewish holidays, most of which I have forgotten. For example, someone named Queen Esther was big, but I have no idea why or how she figured into something called Purim, or possibly Sukkoth. Some days we fasted and other days we feasted. Amidst all this ritualistic ballyhoo there was little time for God. At least in my family. In all fairness, my parents did send me to Hebrew school to learn the basics, but after attending just one class I decided I'd rather sleep in on Sundays and since neither of them came up with a decent argument, that was that.

So I grew up Godless. Somewhere along the way, however, God came to me. Not in a dream or a vision or a trance or on the phone, like my born-again sister who was talking to a friend when Jesus came on the line. In fact, I'm not into Jesus -- I still don't get who he was, and that whole "died on the cross and came back three days later" thing seems pretty fishy, although it's a hell of a story. But for me, religion is not so cinematic. It's just that after years of living dangerously and not dying but coming close a few times, I realized I had little to do with my survival. Clearly, someone was watching over me and it sure wasn't my mother, who let me get abducted when I was four years old.

My shrink told me just yesterday that my anxiety stems from my inner child who suffered a trauma at an early age and is still afraid. The adult me is supposed to console her and make her feel safe. But who can make my adult self feel safe in the crazy world we have? You guessed it: The Big Guy. So more and more, the older I get, I find myself turning to that power Greater Than Myself and credit Him for all the things that go right.

For example, we are in the middle of a big snowstorm here in Maine, goddammit, and last night as I went to sleep I prayed, actually I begged, the Lord above that I would not lose power, and this morning I woke up and there was power! And then there was coffee! And even a toasted waffle! I turned on the TV (there was TV!) and learned that thousands of other Mainers were without power. They were not having coffee and waffles, or anything. And I thanked God for answering my prayers. (I often thank him for things that go well, and tell him to lay off when I have a string of bad luck.)

Maybe it's nuts, but that's where I am right now. Not that I'm rushing off to church on Sundays, but I do believe that God is out there, or up there, or somewhere. He's a bit like Santa Claus, in that He sees you when you're sleeping, He knows when you're awake, and He knows if you've been bad or good. (So be good, for goodness sake!)

Be On the Lookout

In an early instance of type-casting, I played Henny Penny in a kindergarten production of Chicken Little. Henny was the one who created all the hysteria about the world coming to an end after a walnut fell on her head, causing her to believe that the sky was falling. In this production it was a supporting role since the stars were Chicken Little and Foxy Loxey, but still my character was the most dramatic and had the best lines. Actually, I think it was just one line repeated several times: "The sky is falling!" Naturally rehearsals were a snap for me, with plenty of down time backstage to play with my Tiny Tears doll. (She actually cried, as long as you poured water into a hole in the back of her head.)

Since then I've remained on the lookout for trouble. My husband calls me needlessly pessimistic, but I've never run out of gas (he has), missed a flight because I left for the airport too late without factoring in traffic or maybe a car accident (he has), had a car engine seize and die while driving it because I ignored the oil warning light (he has) or gotten sick on vacation because I didn't notice the early symptoms and take the necessary steps beforehand to ward it off (he has). Not to brag or trash my husband, but I'm just saying....

Vigilant though I may be, stuff happens. I had a hip that gave out and needed replacing (even though the other one is fine), cataracts that would eventually blot out the world if I ignored them (despite the fact that they weren't bothering me yet), and finally a heart attack I never saw coming. The sky may not be falling, but still shit comes down. If you ask me, pessimism is a positive attribute.

Preparing for The Worst

If you know you're the ocean you aren't afraid of the waves.
Otherwise, you're seasick all the time.

BEING A NERVOUS WRECK who is always worried about the next bad thing that will happen, the last thing I need is hyperbole. But it's all around me: The biggest this, the worst that, the most fill-in-the-blank. This morning the newspaper reported that the recent Academy Awards show was "the least watched Oscar presentation of all time." So what? Is this bad news or good news? More to the point, is this news at all?

I'm on this subject because there's a huge storm coming my way and it's freaking me out! To be more accurate, the people who report the weather are freaking me out about it. I know they get paid to do that so you'd think I'd be able to to see through the hype and remain somewhat calm. But it's hard when they not only say it will snow -- a lot-- but that there will be power outages and breaking tree limbs and dangerously high winds and ice and possible loss of life. Jesus, is all that hyperbole really necessary?

As usual my husband has gone off somewhere in search of money and will not return until it's all over. Hoping to lessen my anxiety, I turned to one of my most effective drugs, a podcast by the Buddhist teacher Tara Brach on the subject of how to find equanimity. First I had to look up the word since I had never heard it. Turns out it means, "Mental calmness, composure and evenness of temper, especially in a difficult situation." Ha! (I had to laugh when I found the definition; of course I didn't know the word since it's never applied to me.)

The best take-away from Tara's talk was a poem she recited in an abridged form. I Googled it and share the original in its entirety here, hoping it helps a few of you weather whatever storms you are currently facing.

Now we’re ready to look at something pretty special.
It is a duck, riding the ocean a hundred feet beyond the surf.
No, it isn’t a gull; a gull always has a raucous touch about him.
This is some sort of duck, and he cuddles in the swells.
He isn’t cold, and he is thinking things over.
 
There is a big heaving in the Atlantic, and he is a part of it.
He looks a bit like a mandarin,
or the Lord Buddha meditating under the Bo tree.
But he has hardly enough above the eyes to be a philosopher.
He has poise, however, which is what philosophers must have.

He can rest while the Atlantic heaves, because he rests in the Atlantic.
Probably he doesn’t know how large the ocean is.
And neither do you.
But he realizes it.
And what does he do, I ask you?
He sits down in it!
He reposes in the immediate as if it were infinity – which it is.
He has made himself a part of the boundless
by easing himself into just where it touches him.

I like the duck.
He doesn’t know much, but he’s got religion.

--"The Little Duck" by Donald Babcock, originally printed in The New Yorker, 1947

Oscar Rant

At last night's televised Academy Awards show, the usual self-congratulatory back-patting by vapid celebrities in fancy attire took center stage. This year the denizens of Hollywood are even more infatuated with themselves since they brought down that evil Harvey Weinstein (formerly everyone's best friend and mentor), and despite the fact that since the beginning of talkies, every young actress who sought a career in the movies had to sleep with someone in power, engendering the term "casting couch."

The New Old Jane Fonda

But no more! Now Hollywood's revolving and evolving parade of tucked, lifted, sculpted and Botoxed starlets are free from the bondage of their oozing sexuality. Um, except that freedom has nothing to do with them baring less cleavage and thigh, wearing less makeup or keeping their original body parts. This morning tongues were wagging about how stunning and young Jane Fonda looks at age 80! How does she do it? I want the number of her plastics factory.

And another thing. I am sick and tired of everyone foaming at the mouth over "inclusion." You know, "The first black man to ever do this, the first Latino woman to ever do that." That kind of thinking is even more racist than when blacks and Latinos weren't recognized at all. And as for the diversity that made all the women stand up and roar, the lone female among nine people nominated for Best Director (Greta Gerwig for Lady Bird) did not win, nor did anyone attached to her movie take home any award of any kind. So much for roaring.

Keala Settle: "This is how I'm meant to be."

An enormously fat lady sang an Oscar-nominated song entitled This Is Me and was simply grotesque. I could barely watch for fear her mammoth breasts would detach themselves from the sheer weight of all that flesh, then tumble out of her dress, roll off the stage and smother everyone seated in the first few rows. Naturally she got a standing ovation from the politically-correct audience, whose combined weight was probably less than hers, for defiantly remaining so fat and being damn proud of it!

Meanwhile, food is a drug and her morbid obesity is proof of a severe addiction. Would anyone stand up and cheer for a heroin addict who crawled onstage, wasted, drooling and slurring words, with needle marks dotting her arms? Applauding those who stay fat is no different. As a former foodaholic who years ago often inhaled an entire box of Berger cookies on a 20-minute drive home from work, I know from experience. (These days I dream of eating just one of those cookies, but I don't.) FYI, Berger cookies are to die for. They are a Baltimore icon and can be ordered online. Get some if you dare.

Berger cookies: 140 calories each. Eight per box. Do the math.

How Dumb Do They Think We Are?

Clearly, the people who stock public bathrooms are under the impression that the users of those bathrooms are idiots. They must base it on something. I found startling proof of this core belief twice in the past few days, as the photos below illustrate. (I wonder if the ones who throw paper towels in the toilet are the same ones who don't know how to wash their hands.)

Funny, You Don't Look Fluish

The only thing worse than getting the flu on your vacation is having your husband get the flu on your vacation. At least when you're the patient there's plenty to do, what with all the coughing, sneezing, moaning and complaining. And let's not forget the whining. But when you're the spouse and you've got to listen to all that and also tend to the sick one's every need, ferrying a never-ending supply of possible remedies to the sick bed, including but not limited to water, lozenges, chicken soup, tea with lemon, tea without lemon, tea with honey and lemon, and food that might be appealing but never is, plus the prescription medicine every four hours that must be taken with food to avoid nausea but since they they won't eat they get nauseous, it sucks.

 The Innocent Bystander/Nurse role is a drag under any circumstances, but when you're in a Florida hotel room and the ocean is right outside your window and you can see all the happy people cavorting in the sun and surf and riding bikes and jogging and rollerblading in bathing suits while you're stuck inside checking someone's temperature every twenty minutes (or if they are particularly neurotic, every ten minutes), it's much worse, especially when you'll be returning home to Maine and piles of snow whenever the person can haul himself out of bed and onto a plane.

Looking back I'm certain that if the wedding vows were, "In sickness and in health, even while on vacation," I might not have been so quick to agree.

5 Great Films You Never Saw

Few people ever see the short films nominated for Oscars since they are rarely shown in theaters, so I’m happy to enlighten my readers to the unsung glories of that particular art form. Unlike the full-length movies we all see constantly, which run anywhere from 90 minutes to over two hours depending on the director’s ego, the short film is just that: short. The imposed time limit challenges the director to tell his or her story succinctly and with no padding, which makes these films far superior to those Hollywood “blockbusters” that drone on endlessly, causing us to eat too much popcorn and possibly an entire bag of Twizzlers. (So I've heard.)

This year’s entries, as usual an international crop, were all extremely memorable despite their brevity. Each one has taken root and stayed with me for weeks. Directed by relative unknowns and starring nobodies, I won’t bother mentioning names beyond the titles. If you want to learn more before the winner is announced this coming Sunday, Google your heart out!

DeKalb Elementary (20 mins, USA)

In light of all the school shootings we have experienced in recent years, and even in recent weeks, this film really touches a nerve. It’s a sad reality that as the film opened, showing a quiet start to the school day inside a typical school office, I immediately suspected the story would unfold as it did: A young man enters the scene, puts down his backpack and takes out a gun. It’s become just that common a happenstance for most of us to recognize the signs.

Although a few minor characters come onscreen occasionally, the film centers on the growing relationship between the school secretary, a young African American woman endowed with amazing grace and calmness, and the shooter, a nervous, baby-faced white man exuding edgy anxiety, as she tries to talk him out of doing any harm.

It’s surprising how much can happen in twenty minutes, as this film proves. The woman takes a phone call, trying to reassure a loved one that she is safe. Then the shooter talks to someone on his cell phone who obviously cares about him, showing us he’s not simply a deranged killer but a lost soul worthy of our sympathy. All the while the tension grows as we’re waiting for him to explode. Instead, trusting the woman, he starts talking and eventually asks her to call the police. He says he wants to live, but will they let him or will they come in with guns blazing? The taut ending has you on the proverbial edge of your seat, if only for a few minutes.

My Nephew Emmett (20 mins, USA)

This haunting depiction of the fate of Emmett Till, the 14-year-old African American boy lynched by the Mississippi KKK back in 1955, will make you feel either incredibly sad or incredibly angry; I experienced both emotions. For those who don’t know history, it will feel like heartbreaking fiction.

Shot in black and white, and with a grainy, almost home movie quality, the plot unfolds slowly, the film’s title serving as the only hint to future events. A young city boy comes to rural Mississippi to visit his relatives. Innocent to country ways, he makes a fatal error and whistles at a young white woman while he’s in town with his cousin. Soon enough, his seemingly minor transgression gets him in deep trouble when the woman’s husband comes seeking revenge.

The boy’s uncle, old and wise to how things work in these parts, understands immediately what’s about to happen but is powerless to stop it. The audience isn’t so sure, but after Emmett is forcibly removed by a couple of burly white men and driven away in the back of a pickup truck, we figure it out. Authentic news footage from that time shows Emmitt Till’s real uncle speaking into the camera and laying it all out for anyone who may be confused. It’s a deeply depressing but must-see film for complete understanding of the racial divide America faces to this day.

 The Eleven O’ Clock (13 min, Australia)

Finally, a little comic relief! This sweet film tells a comical tale of mistaken identity when a wildly delusional patient arrives for his morning appointment with his psychiatrist, only he believes he is a psychiatrist himself. The opening scene is set up in such a way that the audience doesn’t know for sure who’s the real doctor and who’s got a few screws loose. Of course, if you pay close attention there are some clues sprinkled throughout, but it’s more fun to just go along with the confusion.

The clever script consists of witty dialog between the two men, each one insisting he is the real doctor and the other one is the patient. Watching the two of them, first you think the doctor is this guy, then you’re pretty sure he’s that guy. The stand-off ends when one of them leaves in disgust and the other takes his rightful place behind the doctor’s desk. Or does he? When the next patient arrives, it’s anyone’s guess if she’s spilling her guts to a shrink or to someone even crazier than her.

The Silent Child (20 mins, UK)

While this is a beautiful film, with lovely scenery and equally lovely settings, the underlying story is a tear-jerker. The plot revolves around a 4-year-old deaf girl and her clueless, middle-class parents who do little to include her in their bustling family life. Libby appears to be cut off from everyone and everything until a caring social worker is hired to be her nanny and help her navigate the hearing world.

The nanny begins by teaching Libby sign language, yet the parents reject this solution and insist she focus on lip reading as a way for their daughter to get by at school. This is just bald selfishness on their part as they refuse to take the time to learn sign language themselves. Both Mom and Dad are busy professionals, doing little more than planting a kiss on Libby’s head as they rush off to their respective jobs each morning. We see Libby standing alone in the schoolyard, with nowhere to turn. It’s a sad situation, powerfully portrayed by a first-time child actress who is also actually deaf.

The nanny persists with teaching sign language, and quickly she and Libby develop a strong bond. Watching Libby open up to life’s possibilities as she sees other children signing and understands it can make her more “normal” almost compensates for the pain of seeing how cruel even so-called loving parents can be.

Watu Wote (All of Us) (20 mins, Germany)

The most challenging of all the selections, Watu Wote follows the journey of a young Christian woman living in Kenya as she travels over dangerous territory on a chartered bus ride that will take 31 hours. The story is based on the actual Mandera bus attack in 2015 by the militant group Al-Shabaab, with a mix of Christians and Muslims on board.

After just a few hours the hired police escort van has a mechanical failure and cannot go any further, necessitating the group continue on unprotected. Quickly the bus is stopped and boarded by violent terrorists armed with machine guns who line up the passengers in the desert and demand that the Muslims identify the Christians. Nothing doing, the passengers say with their silence. There’s plenty of white-knuckle tension and lots of furtive looks exchanged between women wearing head scarves and women without head scarves. We are to assume that one group is Muslim and the other is not.

Amid all the chaos a head scarf is surreptitiously passed to our heroine, and her life is spared. This is not to suggest a lack of violence as there is a fair amount of blood spilled in the sand. But ultimately the terrorists are foiled and the audience can leave feeling that all is right with the world. And even though we know it isn’t, we can think: wouldn’t it be nice?