The New Nazis

Political correctness has run amok. These days, if you like Donald Trump, or even if you just don't hate him, and also feel a dollop of respect for Paul Ryan, Trey Gowdy, Nikki Haley and any of the dozens of well-meaning, intelligent, dedicated Republican officeholders who serve our country daily, you suck and so does your whole family, at least according to the mainstream media. And if you're a fan of Rush Limbaugh and think Ann Coulter is smart and funny, you are a worthless piece of trash. Welcome to America, Land of the Free (if you vote Democratic).

For anyone who loved (and still loves) George W. Bush and thinks Nancy Pelosi is a two-faced lying scoundrel, it's a dangerous world out there. Things have gotten so bad that any day now all Republicans will be forced to wear armbands emblazoned with a giant "R" when they go out in public. That is, for as long as they are allowed out in public -- no telling when that will be prohibited.

But before that happens, they'll all have to stop talking or suffer the consequences. Just look what happened to Roseanne! They might as well shoot her and put her out of her misery since the Watchers have cut off all sources of her income and made her a social pariah for tweeting an insensitive wisecrack about a Democrat, while liberal comics (Bill Maher, Keith Olbermann, Wanda Sykes) who have publicly called President Trump an ape have gotten only laughs and high-fives. Oh well, I guess she can always hang out with Garrison Keillor, another brilliant performer whose career was eradicated because, at the age of 75 he put his hand on the bare back of a young woman during a photo-op. Now every episode of his superlative "Tales From Lake Woebegone" has been erased from all digital platforms, a true loss to future generations interested in what small-town life was like before they were born. (In one word: Better.)

Imagine if down the line some enterprising reporter who goes by the moniker "Unnamed Source" discovers that Michelangelo, the great Italian artist who lived during the High Renaissance (1475-1564), was a racist who hated Jews and was given to fondling young boys inappropriately. Would the Pope order the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel to be whitewashed? Perhaps, if he's a bleeding heart liberal who believes great works created by flawed artists must be obliterated, lest they contaminate all of us with their...... with their what?

Chicken Soup for the Cast and Crew of "Roseanne"

Now all these folks are out of a job.

There are many things for which I am thankful, but the number one thing is my lack of importance to anyone but myself. If I say anything rude, lewd, crude or God forbid a million times, politically incorrect, the only person whose wrath I have to endure is my own. This is not true for celebrities like Roseanne Barr, who yesterday saw her entire career implode over a sarcastic tweet that wasn't very funny, had a certain truth to it, and somehow was labelled "a racist rant" by the Powers That Be.

Let's pick it apart. Roseanne wrote that Valerie Jarrett, an Iranian born US citizen of African-American descent, was the offspring of the "muslim brotherhood and planet of the apes." Okay, she was trying to be funny but it came off as nasty and mean. Worse, it was partly wrong: it's true that all of us are ape-like (humans and chimps share 98.8% of their DNA), but Jarrett has never claimed to be a follower of the Muslim faith. I guess Roseanne was irked by Jarrett's role as both a personal friend of the Obamas and senior advisor in the Obama administration. It's true that Jarrett was a controversial figure back then, with many GOP muckety-mucks objecting to her involvement in foreign security affairs.

This should help.

But hey -- poor Roseanne! If she was a Democrat none of this would have happened. But her blatant support of Donald Trump has made her a marked woman, and so any utterance, spoken or written, is picked over carefully by the Ones Who Are Looking.

Agreed, what she said about Valerie Jarrett was immature and unkind, but hardly worth the cancellation of Roseanne, putting hundreds of innocent bystanders who worked on the show out of a job. Now I'll have to make all of them some chicken soup. It might not help, but as the old joke goes (see below), it couldn't hurt.

     When a prominent and respected Jewish businessman dies, the community gathers for his funeral. The rabbi intones solemnly, "Our dearly departed Saul will be greatly missed. He was a good husband and a loving father." At this point a little old lady at the back shouts, "Give him some chicken soup!"
     The rabbi discreetly ignores her and continues, "Saul was a beloved member of the community, a pillar of the synagogue and a fine businessman." The old lady shouts louder, "Give him some chicken soup!"
     Unable to ignore her any longer, the rabbi responds, "Dear lady, our brother is departed; chicken soup can't help him now." She calls out, "Well, it couldn't hurt."

Loners Anonymous Spring Meeting

Welcome to another meeting of Loners Anonymous. It's been a few years at least since our last meeting -- wow, time sure flies when you're all by yourself doing nothing, doesn't it? Anyway, for today's meeting I've made a giant pot of vegetable soup, and I must say it is fabulous. There's enough for all of you, even though I'll be the only one having any since the whole point of our group is to not get together. On today's agenda is a discussion of how spending time alone is so underrated in our society, even more today than ever before.

Non-loners believe that being alone is indicative of a problem, or else why aren't you out with a friend, or better yet a group of friends, doing something fleeting (shopping, lunching, watching a movie, kayaking) to pleasure yourselves? Of course we all know how this thinking is pure folly, since the only way anything of merit gets done is by one person at a time, working alone. Even a solitary bike ride nets greater physical and mental results than one where you're riding two or three abreast, chatting. And any of us could list the great works of art and groundbreaking novels created by one person, working alone. Even the wonderful movies that may end up with a boatload of names in the credits started with a script written by one person, or maybe two these days as the value of solitary work falls further out of favor.

I'll admit it's hard to stay positive as a Loner, since unlike gays, transgenders, the handicapped, the obese, and all other minorities, we are still viewed as having "something wrong" with us. Silly, isn't it? People who opt to get their healthy breasts cut off and their perfectly fine genitals horribly mutilated are applauded for "being who they are," while those of us who prefer to stay home with a good book instead of overeating and getting drunk at a party are considered slightly off, nutty, weird, and not all there.

Well, that concludes today's meeting. Above are some photos I took (all alone, natch) of the changing scenery around my house as spring begins to yield to summer here in Maine.

Cat Watching

When I was young I was filled with drive and ambition. I wanted to accomplish things. I had get up and go. Now that I am old, I want to do nothing but look at my cat. I can spend quite some time just watching him sleep. I find his face a miracle. And his feet, well, don't get me started on his feet. I share this with you because I was all set to write a blog post, but then I stopped, thinking how in the long run it's meaningless. Everything has been written already, by people who know a lot more than I do.

Of course I could recycle information and enlighten my readers to something they may have missed. For example, did you know that earthworms contain some of the same ingredients as human blood yet require no refrigeration, so they are being considered as replacements for blood in areas that lack refrigeration, like on the battlefield and in remote locations? If you want to know more just Google earthworms + blood transfusion; you don't really need me. Like I said, it's all been written already.

Then I saw my cat, sleeping on a chair. And I realized that watching him would be just as good a way to spend my time. Better, even. So that's what I'm doing. I hope I feel differently tomorrow, but I may not. Who knows, I may have entered a whole new phase of Cat Watching that could go on for awhile. If you check back here and find no new blog posts, you can assume that's what has happened.

Chicken Soup for Harvey

Come on folks, ease up! It's always so disheartening to see everyone piling on the latest Schmuck of the Month, making his or her -- usually his -- miserable wreck of a life even worse. The media does this better than anyone, and today's award goes to the once-esteemed but now down-in-the-gutter-with-the-rest-of-them Wall Street Journal, the editors of which decided that the best they could do for their readers, many of whom pay handsomely for home delivery, was to plaster a bleak photo of Harvey Weinstein across the top of the front page -- head down, arm gripped by a cop, looking ashamed, humiliated and downright suicidal after being booked on criminal charges for rape in a Manhattan courtroom. (Funny there was no such treatment of Bill Clinton after he was accused of rape.)

Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of rape, or of Harvey Weinstein. I just think the national penchant for kicking a man while he's down -- his wife left him, his business went bankrupt, he hasn't a friend left in all of Hollywood -- is clearly unnecessary. Once again I am reminded of Shirley Jackson's brilliant short story The Lottery, which helps so much in explaining human nature. If you haven't read it, do so immediately. Apparently Harvey got the winning ticket this year, and now everyone's busy choosing a stone to throw at him. I think it's sad, and if I knew him, as horrid as he may be, I would make him some chicken noodle soup.

The Gemini Cat

None of what I wrote recently about how birthdays are meaningless notches on the tree of life and that saying "happy birthday" is dumb applies to cats. I never knew this before today, but I found out early this morning that today is my cat's birthday and Big Lurch is 11 years old, and I'm pretty excited about it!

Lurch is an adopted cat and I never met his birth mother. But recently one of his siblings, or rather the owner of one of his siblings, has been in touch, and she forwarded the big news that today is the day. A party is already in the works for this evening involving some sort of cat cake, and of course there will be gifts and singing, and whatever else I can think of that will mark the day as special for a cat whose last ten birthdays have gone un-celebrated.

Lurch was having none of the taped box on the floor.

I am most excited to learn that Lurch is a Gemini, as am I, which explains so much. Just a few weeks ago my son told me he read somewhere that if you make the shape of a box on the floor with masking tape, the typical cat will naturally step inside it and lie down. I tried it immediately with Lurch, and the results are shown above. That's my boy!

Thank God for Jane Fonda ....

This morning I received a frantic notice on Facebook that my old high school buddy Sandra, who is exactly my age, is having a birthday today and that I should send her well-wishes. While I certainly don't wish her ill, I'm choosing to ignore it. In fact, no matter who you are, if I personally didn't give birth to you I don't care about your birthday. That's something your own mother cares about, and if she's already dead I'm sorry for your loss and I guess you're out of luck; you'll have to console yourself with all those empty cries of "Happy Birthday!"

What exactly does that mean, anyway? That we should experience happiness on the one day of the year that puts us in touch with the fact that we are that much nearer our death? My own birthday creeps closer and I'm sick about it. I'll be leaving an age I have finally accepted and entering one that seems horrifyingly decrepit. 72? It can't be me, and yet it is. So no, it's not a day on which I will be "happy" no matter how many times I am instructed to be so.

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The best anyone can do for me is to just not mention it. Simply look away and pretend you don't know. As for the cake and the candles and the gifts, I'll pass on those and try to make it through the day without noticing any of my cells withering or organs failing, all the while repeating my new mantra:
"Jane Fonda is 80, that's eight years older than me, Jane Fonda is 80, that's eight years older than me, Jane Fonda is 80, that's eight years older than me,  Jane Fonda is 80........"

How Doctors Make $$$$ for Doing Nothing

I probably shouldn't have, but a few weeks ago during my regular skin checkup I threw my dermatologist a crumb. He asked if anything was worrying me and looked so disappointed when I said no that I told him about the little bump on my heel I've had for about a year. I did this partly because I really like the guy and partly because his framed diploma from New Jersey Medical School always makes me feel sad for him. Anyway, he didn't know what the bump was and so referred me to a foot specialist. "Really? A foot specialist for this?" I asked. "It doesn't even hurt." Still, he said, it  could be something, and we should find out what.

Admitting it was something but suspecting it was nothing, I went ahead and hurled myself down the medical rabbit hole, and this morning had my appointment with the foot specialist. Actually he turned out to be a foot and ankle specialist, so I was fairly confident he would suggest a course of action that would cost a bundle, take forever and hurt like hell.

Besides having to drive downtown in rush hour (which in Maine is twenty cars all going in the same direction and no big deal but still you get spoiled living here), I had to fill out five pages of "paper work" before I could be seen by Dr. Foot (not his real name but I never got it). In addition to my blood type, insurance information and names of next of kin in the event of an emergency (a foot emergency?), I was asked how my parents died and when, did I smoke or drink and if so what and how much, which prescription drugs I was on, what prior surgeries I had and all current and past illnesses suffered by the members of my immediate family. Finding it nonsense I filled in my name, address and phone number and handed it back to the receptionist who was clearly pissed off but took my picture "for their records" anyway.

Dr. Foot turned out to be a genial young man who examined my bump, called it something I already forget, deemed it "nothing to worry about" and offered me two options: Do Nothing unless it hurts or gets bigger, or Stick A Needle In It and drain out whatever fluid was in there. No dummy, I chose Do Nothing. He said fine, shook my hand and sent me on my way. The whole thing took ten minutes.

I cannot wait to see that bill.

Trips to Impress Your Friends

I began my career right out of college as a magazine designer, not counting three crazy days at my very first job working for the artist Peter Max that turned out to be too crazy so I quit. (Ask me about the job interview.) I loved magazines, and my burning desire was to become Art Director at one of the top ones. I made it to that position at quite a few of them, enough times to arrive where I am today: I hate magazines.

What are they after all but vehicles for advertising surrounded by text aimed at the lowest common denominator who still has enough money to buy some of the stuff in the ads?  We get several at our house as a result of the local high school's fund drives. It was either that or fudge, and magazines are way easier to throw away untouched.

One that arrives each month is National Geographic TRAVELER. I almost always look at the cover and flip through a few pages before recycling it, but this one's bold headline -- Trips to Change Your Life -- got me inside to see what they had to say. Here it is: "Travel has the power to change our thinking, inspire our imaginations, and produce unforgettable moments. Put simply, travel can change your life."

Pizza to die for, and now my jeans won't zip up. That's different.

Change your life? Really? Sure, if you travel to certain countries -- think Daniel Pearl (Pakistan), Otto Warmbier (North Korea) and all those folks in Jonestown (Guyana). But usually what you come home with is a sunburn, some trinkets and five extra pounds. Even my trip to Haiti didn't change my life, although it opened my eyes even wider to just how spoiled most Americans are, including myself. (Still, I'm driving a 2018 Audi A4 so draw your own conclusions.)

Admittedly my recent trip to Venice was glorious. My favorite trip to a foreign city, while I was there my life was very changed: There were no cars so I walked everywhere. I went to the opera because it seemed so fitting with the environment. I ate fabulous pizza (see photo) and visited churches every day, two things I avoid at all costs back home. I drank wine in the daytime and didn't feel guilty. I took crowded buses and liked it, mostly because we weren't stuck in traffic but instead out on the open seas. The biggest change was that I never heard the word "Trump," never saw a newspaper and never turned on a TV. I was happy every day.

But then it ended and I returned to real life and none of those things stayed with me, except the five pounds. My nine days in Venice didn't change my life one bit, except in my being able to say I've been to Venice and post my travel photos on Facebook. I guess that's something, and a big part of why people travel.

10 Ways To Prevent School Shootings

Long ago when my son was a high school student in Washington D.C., America's most racist city, he attended two different schools for two different reasons. When we first arrived he was entering 7th grade, and everyone told us he "had to go to private school because the public  schools are so bad." We found out later that what our bleeding-heart liberal friends really meant was that the public schools were so black

So we looked around and found a suitable private school he attended for the next three years. The Edmund Burke School had a lily-white student body and faculty and cost $17,000 a year for tuition, but we wanted the best education for our only child and thought that was how to get it. Too bad our son hated the place. So when it came to choosing a high school, we agreed to his request to attend "a real school that looked like the real world," with blacks, Hispanics and other ethnic groups represented. The public school, Woodrow Wilson Senior High, had a student body that was majority black and Hispanic, with Asian and white students making up a small minority.

Another difference between the two schools was that you could walk right in to Edmund Burke and go anywhere you wanted without being stopped by anyone. You could go upstairs or downstairs or wherever the heck you wanted, unseen by anyone since the front entrance wasn't even all that close to the school's office. It was a very different scene just two miles away at Wilson High. There was only one entrance, and the students had to line up and pass through a metal detector each morning. Once inside they were met by two armed policeman who searched all student backpacks.

Since this was years after the massacre at Columbine where 13 students died and many others injured permanently, I felt better about Wilson than Burke, despite the presence of the police and a security system being blatant signs of the underlying racism that pervaded the entire city. The rationale that all those minority students must be bringing guns and knives to school each day was hateful, especially since there was never any trouble in the three years my son attended Wilson, unless you count the swimming pool wall collapsing, but that's another story.

Since then I have watched countless school shootings unfold on TV, and am always stunned that none of the schools have followed Wilson High's example. Instead, all the politicians and protesters jabber  about gun control. Ha! The solution to school violence has nothing to do with changing our gun laws, but everything to do with changing our society. Following are a few suggestions, with my tongue only partly in my cheek:

1. First and foremost, every school in America must have only one entrance for students and teachers alike, at which there is posted an armed guard, a metal detector and whatever other security system is deemed necessary. (Obviously there can be many exit doors that stay locked from the inside.) Once that is in place, the following laws should be enacted as soon as possible:

2. Outlaw depression, especially in people under the age of 30.

3. Make every student equally popular and attractive.

4. Don't keep score at any school athletic events.

5. Have all students wear the same uniform, from kindergarten through high school.

6. Eliminate grades in all schools. Ditto awards of any kind for anything.

7. Force parents to take an interest in their children's lives. This means no child care and/or nannies. (If you have a kid you have to take care of it, otherwise don't have a kid.)

8. Make it mandatory to be at home when your child returns from school, starting in kindergarten and through high school graduation.

9. Outlaw the use of cell phones inside schools. If you use it, you lose it.

10. At home, keep legal guns locked away where nobody can get to them, certainly not a child.

Enough #MeToo Already

About a month ago, a small community paper in our neck of the woods reported that a certain woman had endured two unwanted kisses from her boss eight years ago, and she just couldn't keep it to herself any longer. Since that revelation the kisser, publisher of two highly respected magazines (Maine Magazine and Maine Home + Design) has been forced to sell his business because 65 advertisers and numerous business partners have fled since learning of his years-old indiscretion. I mean, kissing a woman "after an evening of drinks" simply will not stand! (Yes I know -- OJ was excused after murdering two people, but this guy kissed someone almost a decade ago and now he must pay.)

Today that story of so-called sexual harassment was repeated in the Maine Sunday Telegram, a bigger paper with many more readers. This brought to mind all the secrets I've been keeping for people for years, not to mention all the unwanted kisses I have endured that failed to traumatize me. As you might expect, the secrets all concern bawdy, tawdry and illicit behavior on the part of former friends who once confided in me, or else I was a firsthand witness to their sins. None of the secrets have to do with how much someone gave to charity anonymously or how they selflessly cared for an aging parent. Of course not, since those would not be secrets. A lot of them have to do with things that, were they to occur today, would ruin the careers of men in power.

To be frank I'm getting tired of these secrets and don't want them tagging along to the Afterlife. I've got to write them down and keep the paper on which I've written them on me at all times so they will be released from my spirit when I'm transported to Heaven, where I surely must be going after keeping all those damn secrets for so long.

Of course I have a few secrets of my own which are known by one or two people out there who I hope have died already. I'll have to take those to the grave with me, which might actually keep me out of Heaven after all, which is why it sucks to be me -- and Kevin Thomas. (See opening paragraph.)

How Many "Likes" Make A Dollar?

I wanted to make sure you liked this post. (Admit it, this is pretty funny!)

I have an Instagram account, mostly because I love taking pictures and then editing them online. I also enjoy seeing the photos posted by my friends. But since I only follow 38 people, I have only 39 followers -- all those people I follow, plus one stranger. This translates into me getting anywhere from zero to maybe three or four "likes" on average, per photo. I'm embarrassed to admit this bums me out, even though I know my pictures are often stunning, fabulous, and by all means likeable. What's worse is when I see mediocre photos posted by others getting hundreds of "likes."

My husband, wise in these matters, pointed out that this is because those people have many followers, and in turn follow many people to get those "likes." One friend in particular follows more than 6,000 people on Instagram and has over 1,500 followers! Naturally, anything she posts gets scads of "likes," even for an unexciting or just plain ordinary image.

Overhearing me bemoaning my fate, Mitch asked what's so great about a lot of "likes" anyway. I thought about it and realized that almost anything I could think of is better than "likes," which are completely meaningless! They are not legal tender. You can't buy anything with them. You can't barter or trade with them. You surely can't eat them, and they won't cure anything that ails you, in fact a box of Smith Brothers Cough drops is way better than a dozen "likes." (Even one cough drop is better.) Street beggars don't even want them.

Really, the only "like" that truly matters is your own, which is why I always "like" my own stuff on Instagram. After all, somebody's got to.

What Would Gandhi Eat?

Last September 28 between the hours of 10pm and 7am, I had a heart attack. (Eight healthy months may have passed, but I haven't forgotten.) At the hospital, two different cardiologists advised me to tweak my diet: One suggested I become a strict vegetarian, the other said vegan. Once I got home, my primary care physician endorsed a modified version of either diet, while agreeing that dairy was no friend of mine.

I embarked on a modified vegetarian diet, with no dairy at all, and started to feel great. I lost about five pounds and became the poster child for regularity, a welcome change from my years-long battle with constipation. All was well. In fact all is still well, yet a dear friend of mine (who I love to pieces, really I do) has gotten it into her head that I should change my eating to match hers. She has recently become a ketogenic diet fan and is out to change the world, all with the best of intentions.

But ours is not a one-size-fits-all world, and chances are slim that I will exchange my morning oatmeal with blueberries and dried prunes, lunchtime baked potato, a wide array of fruits and veggies and those luscious pasta pillows called ravioli with slabs of cheese, strips of bacon, sides of beef and all-you-can-eat eggs. It's just not me. Still, I love this friend -- let's call her Keto -- and want to have an open mind, so I've been considering it carefully.

A day ago I discussed all this food business with another friend I also respect and admire, and she's got the added benefit of being a nurse practitioner. Nursie said the ketogenic diet is partial poppycock, and certainly not a healthy choice for "older" people, of which I am already one and will be even moreso as my next birthday looms.

I told Keto what Nursie said, and she replied that Nursie was clearly behind the times, out of touch with the latest research, and not doing her patients any good. The whole thing has caused me to lose my appetite, and now I don't want to eat anything except maybe my own head. (See illustration.)

Who Can I Sue?

I've never participated in one, but lawsuits must be a blast since they are more popular than ever. For example, Michigan State University will pay $500 million to more than 300 young women sexually abused by Larry Nassar, that nasty Olympics sports-medicine doctor whose unorthodox examinations took place while their own mothers sat in the room, often just a few feet away. (No mention of whether anyone is suing any of the mothers.) And an Oregon couple is suing a 911 call center for $10 million, claiming their son died in a climbing accident on Mt. Hood because the rescue team didn't show up soon enough to save him.

It seems that whenever something bad happens you just find someone to blame and presto, you're all better -- and also rich! So now I'm thinking I will sue the Wall Street Journal, and here's why. Every morning I do their crossword puzzle, usually with my first cup of coffee; it's how I start my day. More than just a diversion, it's a central part of my health plan. Years ago, after my mother died from early-onset Alzheimer's, her doctors advised me to keep my mind active since the disease may be inherited. They suggested daily word games as a proven course of action. I immediately instituted a rigorous program following their advice.

So far, so good. Then this morning my Wall Street Journal arrived and to my horror it contained the very same puzzle that had appeared in the paper two days ago, an obvious egregious error on their part. So here I sit with no puzzle to do, and I can already feel some of my brain cells dying. Naturally I will call my lawyer, as soon as I get one, and start legal proceedings. I just hope the money comes in before I've lost all my marbles.

Big Brother Is Watching, And So Is Everyone Else

I just read a story online that I pray to God is fake news, but I think it isn't. It concerns a young woman who was on a United flight to Illinois a few days ago, seated next to a man "around 60 years old who said he was a comedian." After takeoff, she saw that he had written a text saying he was unhappy having to sit next to a "smelly fatty" on the plane. OMG -- she read his text? Really? If so, she's a lot worse than a smelly fatty, she's a prying, invasive bitch. In fact a simple smelly fatty would be an upgrade.

Anyway, it gets better, or actually worse. So the text makes her feel bad about herself, which makes her start crying "hot, salty tears." Then, suddenly another passenger gets up from his seat, taps the Insulting Texter on the shoulder, and says he wants to change seats with him because he also saw the text and doesn't want the poor woman to have to sit next to him for the whole flight. The men change seats, and Smelly Fatty's new seatmate tells her he is sorry she saw the text and wants her to not take it to heart. "He encouraged me not to let that guy get to me and that everything was going to be fine," she said in her post on social media, so we know she wasn't too ashamed since she shared the incident with the entire world.

Whoa! The second man was reading Insulting Texter's texts over his shoulder? What is going on? Is there no privacy anywhere? Are people reading other people's texts willy-nilly? So it's not only the government who is spying on us, it's also our fellow citizens? My advice to everyone is don't say anything to anyone unless you are home alone inside a locked closet. And to Smelly Fatty: Take a bath.

How Melania Makes You Smarter

Yesterday Melania Trump underwent kidney surgery and I don't really care one bit. I like her, don't misunderstand me. I find her admirable in many ways, except of course her taste in men. But I don't give a hoot about her kidneys, or in fact any of her internal organs, mostly because several of mine are a mess and I've got to devote my time and attention to them. And I would never, ever want them to be the subject of national news, which is why I have never run for office. (That and a million other reasons.)

                                                               Illustration: Benjamin Arthur for NPR

I doubt that anyone in the country cares about Melania's insides, yet yesterday the hungry news hounds devoted almost the whole day's reporting to them, despite the violent protests in Gaza where dozens of Palestinians died and hundreds more were injured. But here in America, where Advertising is a religion and Sponsors are its Gods, apparently a First Lady's kidney gets higher ratings than a foreign country in turmoil.

Now, onto the poor kidney: It's so unromantic. There are no songs written about it, unlike the heart which is the subject of hundreds, if not thousands, of ballads, and even has its own holiday. You never hear anyone talk about their kidney -- actually we each have two of them and still they get no attention -- unless there's something wrong, sort of like the pancreas. Quick--what does the pancreas do? Or the hypothalamus? I'll bet you had no idea that it is involved in controlling body temperature, thirst, and hunger, and plays a part in sleep and emotional activity. Now you're probably wondering what the thalamus does, which is located right above it. (I know I am.) All I know is that both of them are in the brain, which scientists claim is regulated by the bacteria in our guts. (See illustration.)

See, now you're smarter. Thank Melania.

A Strange But True Rock Story

First thing this morning I saw this headline from The Washington Post: "The Royal Wedding Is Almost Upon Us. Here's What to Expect." Instantly I was flooded with thoughts, the first being how happy I am not to live in D.C. anymore and the second being, Hey, I never got my invitation! So since I'm not going, it matters not a bit to me that Prince Whichever and his intended, that star from TV's Scandal, have found true love and will tie the knot somewhere across the pond. That's a load off, and frees me to talk about things that really matter.

A few weeks ago I was digging in my garden and unearthed a rock that looks exactly like a potato. A Russet baking potato, to be precise. It's uncanny. I swear if I plopped it down on a plate and served it to a dinner guest they would try to apply butter and possibly sour cream, it's that convincing. I was quite taken with it and went off in search of some praise from family members, who just looked, shrugged and moved on. I even posted a photo of it on my Instagram page and got zero likes. Figuring it to be just another example of how out of step I am with the world, I took my potato rock and sulked off.

But then this morning an article on the first page of the Wall Street Journal reports about the rage in China over rocks that look like meat! And this is no passing fad; apparently China's appreciation of meat rocks is centuries old. They are collector's items, with hundreds of people out hunting for them, There are meat rock exhibitions, and auctions, and the whole nine yards -- all having to do with rocks that look like meat. Stones bearing the most resemblance to meat can go for thousands of dollars.

"Everyone can appreciate meat rocks," said one collector, Yuan Ziming. He added that he likes to photograph his best specimens on plates surrounded with actual vegetables to make them look more real. But get this: Yuan also has a favorite rock that RESEMBLES A POTATO!!!! I bet he would love my baked potato rock, and might even pay handsomely for it! Once again I have proof that not only was I born in the wrong century, but I'm living in the wrong country.

You're Dying Too

Sen. John McCain, 81, is dying of brain cancer. It's likely he won't be around much longer, barring a miracle, thus his opinion on current political issues doesn't really matter. That's a fact. I'm not joking, or kidding, or making light of it in any way. As the popular idiom goes, "It is what it is." Yet everyone is freaking because a Trump aide -- someone who matters not one whit to our national security -- said so during a private meeting.

Now people want the woman fired, as if she can no longer be trusted to do her job because she spoke the truth. Most recently, Senator Lindsey Graham called the offhanded comment "disgusting." Even worse, the Democrats want President Trump to apologize for her saying it, as if he is her mommy.

Everyone will die. In fact all of us at this very minute are doing so, no joke. Get over it.

Everybody Just Shut Up

On a quick trip to the supermarket this morning I parked alongside a beat-up sedan that had about 50 bumper stickers covering its various dings and dents. The biggest and boldest one caught my eye: LePage Is A Moron. For those of you who don't live around here, Paul LePage is Maine's governor. Like him or not, I doubted that he could actually be a moron, defined by the Merriam Webster Dictionary as "a person affected by mild mental retardation."

It's hard to believe that a mentally retarded person, mild or otherwise, could have successfully obtained  an undergraduate Bachelor of Science Degree, then a Master's in Business Administration specializing in finance and accounting, then run his own consulting firm until becoming the general manager of a Maine-based discount store chain, then serve two terms as city councilor in Waterville, Maine before becoming that city's Mayor and serving eight years, until deciding to run for the governorship and getting elected, twice.

I was thinking about all that in the store as I shopped for the few items I needed. As I headed back to my car, the owner of the moron bumper sticker was also returning to his car. He was about 45 years old, sloppily dressed in baggy jeans, a Red Sox sweatshirt and rubber flip-flops, maybe 75 pounds overweight, and chomping on a huge glazed doughnut which he washed down with a swig from a bottle of green-colored Gatorade. As we both reached our cars at the same time, I asked him, "Not a fan of LePage, I see?"

"Nah, he's a moron," he replied. I almost said, "takes one to know one," but didn't. Instead I drove off, more worried than usual about the future of our country.

Deaf, Dumb and Democrat

First Lady Melania Trump, a beautiful former model, has been on zero magazine covers.

 Strange but true, the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to President Obama for his "extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples." Don't ask me which efforts and what peoples; I must have been out that day.

Now Donald Trump is about to meet with North Korea's Kim Jong Un, who already has met with Trump's choice for Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo. And for that he gets no prizes but just more shit from the insanely partisan liberal press, who instead of hailing the meeting as historic focus on the fact that Pompeo "flubbed" Kim's name and thereby "insulted all Asians." (The preceding claptrap can be found on Huffington Post, the bastard child of CNN that never met a Republican it didn't trash.)

Every day it becomes more obvious that the people of the Democratic party are brain dead, unable to see anything but the images of Bill and Hillary Clinton permanently seared on the insides of their eyeballs, except for the images of Barack and Michelle Obama. It's unlikely, but still I hope that Donald Trump turns out out be the best president we ever had. That might finally shut them up. (Maybe.)

Trump vs. McCain: A Fight to the Finish

The last politician I admired was George W. Bush. Yeah, yeah, I know -- weapons of mass destruction. But I'm talking about the man, not the politician, and W. was and still is a standup guy: a devoted husband, father and son and faithful servant of the Lord, if anyone cares about that sort of thing. Before Bush it was Jimmy Carter, and before Carter it was JFK, until I learned he was an ordinary scumbag like most politicians, having affairs with women in the White House while his wife was busy pretending they lived in Camelot.

These days they all make me sick, and I can't say that Donald Trump is the worst of the lot. After all, who can top Anthony Weiner texting pictures of his, well, his weiner, to young women? John McCain has entered the fray with his announcement, as he nears death from brain cancer, that he doesn't want Trump at his funeral. He's taking their fight to the afterlife, and that kind of arrogance just might keep him out of Heaven. (If anyone believes in that sort of thing.)

A recent New York Times article about the chasm separating the two men included the following paragraph: "Trump cited bone spurs in his heels to avoid Vietnam. McCain, a Navy pilot, had an arm broken and ribs cracked during the torture that he endured while imprisoned by the North Vietnamese." So because he survived imprisonment and got a broken arm and cracked ribs, he's a hero? Is that really all it takes? (I've got to agree with Trump on this one: I like the ones who don't get captured.)

Thank You for Your Service

I recently endured a nine-hour flight home from Italy. It would have been torture had I not been able to watch old episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, the brilliant TV show by Larry David, creator of Seinfeld. Thanks to him, I laughed my way across the Atlantic with a few hours off for napping. Without that option I surely would have jumped out a window, or at least tried, which would have gotten me into a boatload of trouble with the authorities once we landed. But I was saved from the loony bin, or at least a very long interrogation by angry people in uniforms, by the creative mind of a comic genius.

Just this morning another very creative (and often depressed) genius, and personal friend, posted an article on Facebook about yet another study with the same results as all the other studies on the subject, claiming creative types have a much higher incidence of schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and depression than regular folks who go off to their jobs each day and push papers, make copies of things, answer phone calls, give speeches, write reports, hawk wares, deliver mail, drive trucks, catalog library books and more like that.

Being a creative person myself, naturally reading that hit a nerve. In between my own recurring periods of depression I write funny stories and make beautiful things. When I'm in a funk, like today, I often read my old blog posts -- they go back to 2007 -- and they always make me laugh. My paintings cover the walls of our house, and in fact I would have bought many of them if I hadn't made them myself. These are the perks.

However, it's been documented that non-creatives are much happier than all of the painters, writers, actors, dancers, musicians, photographers, comics, circus performers, cartoonists, designers, chefs, scientists and just plain visionaries who make the world's monumental suffering tolerable in what little time they have between drunken binges, drug overdoses, shrink sessions, hospitalizations and failed suicide attempts. So the next time you meet an artist, thank them for their service.

My Night At the Opera

The one sour note in my recent blissful week in Venice, that magical city like no other in so many ways, not the least of which being the absence of a Starbucks, came, no pun intended, at the Opera. I should have known it would, since I hate opera, detest opera, and all other words like that. Still, being one of a foursome who all yearned to go I of course complied, hoping maybe this time it would be different because I was in Italy. Turns out it was, but not in a good way.

As usual, the story line was pure foolishness. Despite the words shown in English subtitles along the top of the stage the plot was completely incomprehensible, revolving around a case of mistaken identity that could only happen if all the people involved were complete idiots. Written by Gioachino Rossini who is most famous for The Barber of Seville, this was one of his lesser known works, and with good reason.

Described in the program as a one-act farce, Signor Bruschino, or The Accidental Son contains "much visual comedy improvised by the players, and often a compulsive linguistic ‘tic.’" In this case, Bruschino senior --the accidental son's accidental father -- repeats the phrase "Oh, it’s so hot!" That was supposed to be funny, but it wasn't, in part because it really was hot in the theater, and every time he said it I got hotter. (Not hot enough to faint, which would have at least bought me a few minutes.)

The other unfortunate thing was that my seat was broken. There I was, in one of the grandest and most visually stunning theaters I've ever seen, and for an hour and 23 minutes I had what felt like a broom handle sticking up my butt. (Turns out it wasn't a broom handle but a broken spring inside the seat cushion.) It finally ended and the audience exploded in applause, which I found stunning since half of the attendees had slept through much of the proceedings, a fact I couldn't help noticing as I looked around the theater trying to stay awake. Six curtain calls later I finally got to leave, after which my husband was mad at me for not liking it, inferring that I am a gauche peasant unable to enjoy the finer things in life.

I also hate the ballet.

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life

Times certainly have changed since I screamed bloody murder for hours on end during natural childbirth thirty years ago, causing my bitchy labor room nurse to say, "Get a grip!" (She was immediately sent packing.) Nowadays, according to Diablo Cody, the female director of a new film about a pregnant woman, childbirth is not really as painful as you see in the movies. In fact, she personally gave birth with "no screaming and no comical Lamaze breathing." Instead, after receiving a very civilized epidural, she pushed a few times when her doctor told her to, and out came the baby.

I was jealous, wishing I could start over and be part of the painless-childbirth generation. But then I read about a brand new app called uConsent that lets you tell someone you want to have sex, invented for the modern #MeToo woman who freaks out if a man looks at her funny. To avoid all that  time-consuming flirting, you simply text your date beforehand and say whether or not you want to do it with them, and even what, specifically, you want to do, just so nobody is surprised or, God forbid a million times, offended.

This is necessary because, according to the article "An App for Consenting to Sex" (May 1, Wall Street Journal), to at least 40% of today's college students and recent graduates, "undressing, getting a condom or nodding yes" does not mean the lady wants to engage in fornication. Even if she texted yes at 8 p.m. she can still say no at 8:30, if the person smells funny or acts strange or whatever, basically making the app totally worthless. Except of course, to its inventor.

Grownup Musical Chairs

When a group of people go out to eat together, there is always that moment when who sits where must be decided, sort of like musical chairs when the music stops. Everyone takes a seat, and I'm always the one facing the wall, looking only at the people I am with. That's fine, after all they are almost always friends, or even a spouse. Still, it gets old.

I'm either too slow or too embarrassed to make a grab for the Tony Soprano seat, leaving me wide open for getting shot in the back. If I could just overcome my reluctance to eat out alone, I could finally see what the inside of a restaurant looks like.

Fat But Healthy

If Mona Lisa, who lived in Florence, had lived in Venice....

Several years ago I visited Florence, Italy and did not like the pizza there at all. I tried it once on my entire trip and that was enough. But here in Venice it's a different story altogether: There's a pizza joint on every corner (and several more mid-block), and they're all fabulous, which explains why everywhere you look, someone's eating pizza. The fact that it's not mealtime or you're not really hungry seems not to be a factor in stopping for a slice.

I've still got three days to go and I'm already wondering what I can wear on the trip home since none of the clothes I brought will fit me by then. The good news is that studies in Italy have shown that frequent pizza eaters have a relatively low incidence of cardiovascular disease and digestive tract cancers as compared with infrequent pizza eaters. Apparently there is a God after all.