Battle of the Ages

I recently came across  an article online called "20 Things Millennials Hate About Baby Boomers," or something like that. Being a so-called Boomer myself, naturally I was interested. But soon enough I was appalled, not just by the poor writing but by the audacity of the writer. Among the things that were called out as truly offensive to the younger generation were Crocs -- the shoe, not the reptile. They were deemed "ugly"  and simply "have to go."

Really? Are they as ugly as those nose rings that look like snot is dripping out of both nostrils, so popular with today's supermarket checkout girls? How about the half-shaven head, or the giant holes in the earlobe stuffed with rubber rings, for exactly what reason? Call me old-fashioned, or even just old, but I love my Crocs and I'm keeping them. (I even have two pairs.)

You Can't Fake Genius

There was only one Freddie Mercury; accept no substitutes.

Everyone is agog over the new movie, Bohemian Rhapsody, that pretends to tell the story of the rock group Queen, and especially its flamboyantly gay front man Freddie Mercury who had the voice of an angel implanted in him by God. As a hardcore fan who has heard every song on every album and knows the intakes and exhales of every breath Freddie takes on all the hit songs, it's a wonder to many of my friends why I have not yet seen the film. Here's why I haven't, and won't.

By all critical accounts of the people who know such things, it's a bullshit, sugar-coated, made for the masses, phony-baloney look at Mercury and the rise of the group, produced by the surviving band members running out of cash and eager to milk his memory for more money. Freddie has become, in death, a new industry! So many TV commercials use his songs these days, it's sickening. I cannot support this.

Instead I often watch the group perform live on YouTube, and listen to their music in my headphones when I go walking. I have read the outstanding biography of Freddie called, of course, "Mercury," and you should too. (Buy the book; link below) Therein lies the real scoop, not the sanitized version. After all, the man died of AIDS at the age of 46, and he certainly earned it. Find out how.

https://www.amazon.com/Mercury-Intimate-Biography-Freddie/dp/1451663951/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1543503155&sr=8-1&keywords=freddy+mercury+biography

Capitalism: Bah, Humbug!

On last night's televised reality show, "The Great Christmas Light Fight," contestants across the country (who apparently lost their minds years ago decorating their homes for Christmas) were judged, with one entry ultimately crowned the winner. Since I happened upon it while channel surfing during commercials on the news channels I didn't see much, but I saw enough. Too much, in fact, since I came away feeling depressed that four families had squandered many, many thousands of dollars on useless crap to surround their unspectacular, middle-American suburban homes with all the yuletide geegaws one can find in any Walmart, Michael's, Christmas Shoppe, Target and Home Depot. We are not talking designer stuff here.

Somebody's front lawn.

If they had donated all the money spent, or at least the $50,000 Grand Prize, to homeless shelters or Toys for Tots or area soup kitchens or their local hospital or any damn charity out there, then the original intent of "the Christmas spirit" might have been honored. But instead, the whole show was an ode to capitalism, and a sickening one at that.

There were acres and acres of of lights; one proud homeowner boasted his front-yard tree had 70,000 of them! Every house exhibited the same sad theme: A KITSCHY CHRISTMAS. There were rows and rows of inflated Santas lining specially built cement walkways, and robotic elves that moved up and down and from side to side, grinning that scary-puppet grin. A full complement of reindeer on the roof pulling Santa's sled showed up, as if it were so original. There were full-sized train cars decorated with giant candy canes, garlands of greens and oversized tree ornaments. As for trees, a few reached for the sky. Some were tall enough to require renting a cherry picker to decorate it. (I bet that wasn't cheap.)

On the religious end, lest we forget why we're all here, there were the usual mangers with the Baby Jesus and the Three Wise Men on camels. But mostly it was glitzy, glaring, tacky lighting of cartoonish depictions of everything Christmas. Oddly enough, or maybe not, all the contestant families responsible were without exception obese, which tells you something about their ongoing commitment to overindulgence.

Oh for a nation of ascetics who are all fit and in good health and spend their Christmas money giving to charity. That's my holiday dream, and a reality show I could seriously endorse.

Why They Hate Ivanka

Ivanka: What's not to hate?

Recently, First Daughter Ivanka Trump tweeted a photo of her adorable little boy and "the Internet" went berserk! How could she, they spewed, with immigrant children being tear-gassed at the border, by her father no less, post a photo of her very privileged child on a fishing trip? What nerve! Has that bitch not a shred of compassion?

"The Internet" hates Ivanka, and not because of her father. They hate her for herself, and here's why:
1. She is beautiful
2. She is rich
3. She is thin
4. She is intelligent
5. She has perfect hair
6. She is married to a rich man

Ugly, fat, poor, dumb Americans with bad hair, married to similarly ugly, dumb fat spouses no doubt, simply cannot abide her.  I'm not saying that I can, but I certainly do not begrudge her being a proud mom of a cute little boy. As for the tear gas, oh grow up! I was tear-gassed once, at some protest or other, and it's nowhere near as bad as having to drink the prep for a colonoscopy.

Account Insecurity

Earlier today, wanting to write a post in this very space, I accidentally clicked the wrong thing on my computer and was locked out of my blog. It turned out to be worse than being locked out of my house, which has happened to me more than once. All I had to do in each of those instances was open a window, a simple task here in Maine since none of our windows have locks and any idiot can just slide them open and climb in. It was harder back in D.C. where I had to use a rock to break a pane of glass in a French door and then stick my hand inside to turn the doorknob. I got inside easily enough but immediately had to go to the ER because I had inadvertently slit my wrist doing so, requiring six stitches and a frantic drive to the hospital with my teenage son, unlicensed but with a learner's permit, at the wheel. Just for fun, God threw in a severe thunderstorm on the way. Still, despite all of that it was easier, though bloodier, than getting locked out of my blog this morning.

First I received a message saying I was no longer permitted access to this blog, but could win it back with my Google password. Which I entered but it was of course incorrect. Then came the barrage of  security questions. What was my favorite pet? Jesus, that changes on a daily basis! I tried "Tank," our adorable dead pug from years ago. Nope. Then I tried "Daisy," my feline soul mate, also deceased. No again. Okay, what city were you born in? I found out just today that Brooklyn is not a city, it's only a borough inside a city, that being New York City. Of course I knew that, who doesn't, but a card laid is a card played; there are no do-overs with a computer.

By then the Google people were suspicious and requested the phone number on the account. Only it was an old one from years ago that I couldn't remember. After entering the wrong phone number, all hell broke loose. In no time my email was flooded with messages from Google saying my account was "in peril." They sent me several sets of numbers to use to unlock it, but each time I also had to enter a password with it and it was never the right one, despite my having to create a new password each time. Finally came the message that I had tried too many times and I would have to wait until later, when "someone will contact you."

After much time passed and my frustration grew proportionally, with frantic emails to this account and that account, and numerous text messages to my cell phone sounding the alarm, I finally managed to get back in. Don't ask me how. All I know is that throwing a rock at my computer would have been so much easier.

Expert Advice

Sometimes I read my old blog posts just for fun and am amazed that I have come up with so many things to write about since I am not a bona fide expert in any field. However there is one area in which I possess undeniable expertise, and that's crossword puzzles. I do them for fun and also to keep my brain from dying, which some doctor told me years ago could happen if I stopped pushing all the cells around in there.

Being an expert in crosswords has its pluses and minuses. The good thing is I can always finish them, which brings its own sort of satisfaction. But the bad thing is that they pretty much all use the same clues, so it's gotten less challenging the older I get. For example, a wildly popular clue answer is AWL, which is a tool for punching holes in leather. I swear it's in just about every puzzle. Another one is EWE, often clued as "mom on the farm." And the following celebrities show up constantly, simply because the letters in their names play well with others. (Parenthetical italics show how they are typically clued.):

ELENA Kagan (Supreme justice)
AVA Gardner (actress once married to Sinatra)
ANI DiFranco (singer DiFranco)
Arthur ASHE (hero on the court)
Ed ASNER (newsroom boss)
NIA Vardalos (Greek film bride)
EVE (first female)
MIA Farrow (Woody's ex)

That's all the expertise I got. Certainly not enough to write a best-seller or get me on a talk show, but possibly enough to help you complete a crossword puzzle someday.

The Sound and the Fury

Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.--(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)

Early this morning I risked life and limb by going to the end of our ice-encrusted driveway in the freezing rain to rescue our once-hallowed New York Times. As it turned out it was hardly worth it, riddled as it is these days with biased articles written by holier-than-thou Democrats about how shitty the Republicans are and (of course) how Trump must go. I knuckled down and gave it my best effort,  making my way through four or five stories despite noticing my sensitive blood pressure begin to simmer.

Finally, after absorbing the opening graph of an appallingly personal confession of a man "in transition" sharing his/her excitement over the fact that in just seven hours he/she will finally be getting a vagina that will hurt for the rest of his/her life, and how happy that makes him/her (which is odd because I happen to have a vagina I was born with and I hate it when it hurts), feeling slightly disgusted I turned to the crossword puzzle and settled in for a good time, putting aside the remainder of the paper for future kindling in the barbie.

Then my husband showed up, muttering his dismay over a Facebook diatribe he had received from a rabid liberal who foamed at the mouth (in print) for approximately 800 words over how much that "pussy-grabbing Trump" sucks, how FOX News isn't news at all, how dumb every last fucking Republican voter is, the evil of separating parents and children at the border and putting them in cages(!), and more like that. (Talk about your sound and fury signifying nothing.) Mitch was doubly distressed by the fact that his identical twin brother, with whom he had shared tight living quarters for nine long months inside their mother's womb, had publicly agreed with every hideously twisted word. ("Baa, baa, baa," Neil had essentially written.)

How did this happen, I wondered, thinking back to my working days at the Democratic National Committee where half the staff including several higher-ups were literally making deals in actual back rooms while snorting coke, and to my rich liberal Chevy Chase friends who hated blacks and Jews (except not me because I was "one of the good ones"), and my super-liberal Takoma Park (a "nuclear-free zone" D.C. suburb) friends who one day realized with shock that they had never invited a black person into their home despite attending numerous protests for all the right causes.

If it weren't so depressing it might be amusing to watch all of them scramble onto their high horses, even while their hearts and minds are down in the muck with the rest of humanity.

Why I Can't Be President

Yesterday marked the 55th anniversary of the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Nobody in my circle of family and friends mentioned it; instead the political discourse, if you could call it that, centered on how much Trump sucks, something many people believe. Yet thus far nobody has assassinated him, or even tried. I find this odd.

Okay, calm down; I am not advocating this, unlike Madonna who announced at the 2017 Women's March on Washington rally that she had "thought an awful lot about blowing up the White House." In fact, quite the opposite: I personally find the man a total hoot and hope to God he gets out of office alive. (I also hope he gets out of office, but that's another post.)

I'm talking about the confounding situation whereby he is hated as much as Adolf Hitler, yet nobody takes a shot at him. Even Gerald Ford, a wimpy wuss who never hurt a fly, garnered an assassination attempt in 1975, by a mentally disturbed young woman who blamed him for our planet's bad air and filthy water. Yet Trump sails along with nary a scratch on him, tweeting his nasty declarations with little penalty beyond a smug smirk from Rachel Maddow and a frowny face from Anderson Cooper, night after night. And while we're on the subject of assassination and obnoxious journalists... oh well, don't get me started, I've been down that road before.

Thankfully the country has not been catapulted into that particular horror again, and likely will not ever. As my husband says, "It's hard to assassinate a guy these days. The Secret Service has gotten much better at protecting." Still, it's peculiar that someone so universally hated has the guts to leave his house every day and appear in front of enormous throngs of people, many with hate in their hearts, whereas I, a total nobody, find it unnerving and a tad risky just going out to pick up the mail at our rural post office, which is one reason I could never be president. (Also, I don't tweet.)

Blame It on Bill

I was born a Democrat. My parents were Democrats, and their parents before them. Once I was of age, I always voted Democrat. As a teen I worked for the Democrats at the grass roots level, knocking on doors and hanging political posters. Eventually, I was hired as a graphic designer by the Democratic National Committee, attending the 1980 Democratic Convention in New York City.

I never liked any Republicans. I never even listened to a word they said, since I was, well, you know, a Democrat, so why would I? Then Bill Clinton got elected and everything changed.

Bill Clinton, reptile, pounces on a victim while his reptile wife looks on.

He was a known scumbag even before he became president. He went on national TV and admitted to having a 12-year long affair with a stripper or pole dancer or whatever the heck she was, and somehow this was enough for people to forgive him. But I never forgave him. In fact, I hated him on sight. He was a scamming bullshitter as far as I could tell, and that was long before all the other things came to light: the affair with an intern while he was president, the sexual perversions while he was governor of Arkansas, the payment of hush money to one of his accusers, the totally believable accusations of rape by more than one woman.

And guess what: The Libs LOVE HIM! They worship the ground he walks on -- always have and still do -- paying him very big bucks to open his very big mouth and spit out his phony-baloney words of wisdom, famously earning $500,000 for a 45-minute speech to a group of suckers in 2013.

Now let's see how the Libs feel about Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh. A brilliant man with a sterling reputation and an impressive legal resume, he was accused by an unknown lunatic of "groping" her when he was a 17-year-old boy and she was a 15-year-old girl, but she can't remember where or when it happened and nobody else could either. No matter, that was enough for the Libs, who to this very day are still running around calling him a RAPIST! "The Republicans put a rapist on the Supreme Court," they say.

So no, I'm not a Democrat anymore. Not sure how anyone is.

A Day of Dirty Eating

It's almost time for that annual holiday celebrating nature's bounty by sacrificing approximately 46 million turkeys, amounting to 17% of their population, and then eating them. In fact, the cooking and eating of these dead birds is the central activity of the day. (Okay, and basting.) For the average citizen it is the only activity, unless you take your kids to the Macy's Day parade in New York City or are a wealthy WASP and play touch football with your progeny on the south lawn of your estate, weather permitting.

Lacking an estate or the funds to get to New York, or kids for that matter, still you will eat. A lot. So much that afterward you will feel headachey, tired and nauseous and go rooting around in the bathroom cupboards for some Pepto-Bismol, or at the very least a half-eaten roll of Tums from last year's feast. Welcome to Thanksgiving, where the consumption of food per person rivals the hot dog eating contest at Nathan's Famous in Brooklyn.

Yesterday, in preparation for my own attempt to feel like part of something bigger, I entered our small, all-organic neighborhood market that is usually as quiet as a church service and found it alarmingly abuzz with activity. Not over-the-top crazy like Whole Foods, but almost. The stuffing fixings were sold out, ditto the canned pumpkin for pies, and the clerks behind the meat counter were frazzled as they juggled last-minute orders for the happiest and purest of the dead birds, each of whom probably ate better than any of us. As expected there was a traffic jam around the yams, with frantic villagers stocking up for that paradoxical favorite -- a healthy vegetable with sugar added and candy melted on top. Naturally the marshmallows were on display nearby. I toyed with grabbing a bag but I just couldn't do it, despite having been asked to make that gross mess by my beloved only child. (Oh well, now he'll have another reason to hate me; that should compensate.)

Begun in this country around 1607 as a day to give thanks for one's blessings while preparing feasts to celebrate the harvest, Thanksgiving certainly meant well at the start. But leave it to the purveyors of processed foods and the admen, ad-women and ad-non-gender-conformists on Madison Avenue to turn it into a food fiasco, the very opposite of clean eating. It's tough for me, a heart attack survivor (which I know pales in comparison to being a sexual harassment survivor like Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, the poor woman), to stay true to myself, not to mention the two stents in my right coronary artery, while somehow making my dinner guests feel officially grateful and adequately nauseous. Wish me luck.

It's Never Too Late to Get Old

I'm not a fan of plagiarism, but there are exceptions and this is one of them. Today I came across an article online about a book entitled "The Blue Zones Solution," in which author Dan Buettner reveals the eating and living habits of the world’s longest-lived people. For over a decade, the author and a team of researchers studied five locations around the globe -- the so-called Blue Zones -- that have the highest concentrations of 100-year-olds, as well as exceptionally low rates of cancer, diabetes, obesity and heart problems.

Hoping to help anyone struggling with food issues make positive choices, I am passing along the wisdom of Buettner's findings. Following is his simple plan of what to eat to live a long and healthy life, although if you ask me by the time you're that old, what with robots running the world and some rock star or other goofy celebrity as our president, you may want out. Still, if you'd like to be around to celebrate your 100th birthday, enacting a healthy eating plan today can only help.

 The Best Foods-- Include at least three portions of these daily:

• Beans (black beans, pinto beans, garbanzo beans, black-eyed peas, lentils)
• Greens (spinach, kale, chard, beet tops, fennel tops, collards)
• Sweet Potatoes
• Nuts (almonds, peanuts, walnuts, sunflower seeds, Brazil nuts, cashews)
• Olive Oil (green, extra-virgin is best)
• Oats (slow-cook or Irish steel-cut are best)
• Barley
• Fruits (all kinds)
• Green or Herbal teas
• Turmeric (spice or tea)

The Best Beverages:

• Water
• Coffee
• Green Tea
• Red Wine (no more than 2 glasses daily)

Foods to Minimize:

• Meat (eat meat only 2 times per week or less; meat servings should be 2 oz. cooked or less; fine to eat up to 3 oz. of fish daily)
• Dairy (cheese, cream, and butter; Goat’s and Sheep’s milk products are acceptable)
• Eggs (no more than three per week)
• Sugar ( opt for honey and fruit instead)
• Bread (If you must, choose 100% whole wheat, true sourdough, sprouted grains, whole grain rye or pumpernickel)

Foods to Avoid:

• Sugary beverages (sodas, boxed juices)
• Salty snacks (chips, crackers)
• Processed meats (sausages, salami, bacon, lunch meats)
• Packaged sweets (cookies, candy bars)

Diet Guidelines for Optimum Health:

• 95% of your food should be plant-based
• Eat your largest meal at breakfast, a mid-sized lunch, and small dinner
• Stop eating when you’re 80% full
• If you must snack, choose a piece of fruit or handful of nuts
• Cook most of your meals at home 
• Eat with friends and/or family whenever possible

How to Feel Better, or Worse, Fast

Suddenly, the fact that we die is all up in my face, and I must say it's been kind of annoying. It started with the death of my oldest friend/former husband about a month ago, maybe two. (Today's his birthday, or would have been, so he's on my mind.) We were the same age, so his passing makes it very clear that, well -- you know. Then there's my present husband's pain-in-the-ass cell phone app called WeCroak, which he got to remind him, and of course me since he tells me about it each time it reminds him, that well -- you know.

Adding to my recent wistfulness, last night I watched a movie called A Serious Man. Released in 2009, it's a product of Joel and Ethan Coen, those talented brothers who make a living from being depressed. Like many of their films it is considered to be a comedy despite it being all about how much this life sucks, how meaningless it all is, ending as it does in death for all of us so what's the difference what happens. Despite the undercurrent of despair it's an absorbing film, though certainly not a "must-see." In fact, if you're looking to be depressed I'd say go with The Pianist, which I have watched countless times. It doesn't try to be funny and never fails to bring me down.

On the other hand, if you're hoping to to feel happier, according to the experts in such matters there's a quick fix: Make your mouth into a smile, and even if you are feeling sad, the muscles in your face will activate certain brain cells and you will actually feel happier, as you would if you were sincerely smiling. Try it; it works. (You have to hold that smile for a couple of minutes.) 😊

Film Review: CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME?

Lee and Jack engaging in their favorite pastime.

If Melissa McCarthy doesn't win the Oscar for Best Actress for her portrayal of a frumpy, foul-mouthed, alcoholic, unemployed lesbian writer with a soft spot for cats in this absorbing period piece showcasing New York in the 1990s, I'll eat my hat. (Not really, but I'll certainly throw in the towel.) I was never much of a McCarthy fan, she of the crude fart jokes and silly slapstick shticks, until now. Put simply, I was stunned by the depth of her performance.

Can You Ever Forgive Me? is a very small film that zeros in on a very small life, one that was actually lived. Lee Israel was a freelance writer who enjoyed a modicum of success in New York back in the day, publishing two books with esoteric appeal and numerous magazine pieces profiling popular celebrities. But tastes change, and we meet Lee at a low point: out of work, deeply in debt and drinking her worries away, her cat her only friend. Spoiler alert: It's all pretty depressing. (On the up side, it's not your life.)

Through an accidental find inside a library book, Lee stumbles on a nefarious way to earn a living that involves forgery, stealing and lying, all things new to her. Still, her precious cat needs medicine and the rent is three months overdue due so she plows on, and we in the audience root for her to get away with it. After all, what's so terrible about robbing the rich to feed the poor? Robin Hood did it and became a much loved character.

But it's not all about her. Lee meets Jack (Richard E. Grant), a kindred spirit in the form of a flamboyantly gay, alcoholic drug dealer who is apparently homeless. I know that sounds bad on paper, but he's quite charming in the flesh and breathes some life into Lee's dreary existence. The two form a caustic friendship that's short on warmth but long on connection, and eventually Jack joins her literary scam, selling Lee's painstakingly created faked letters of the rich and famous to collectors of such memorabilia.

Another star of this film is New York City in the nineties, before Amazon wiped out all the small bookstores and The Disney Store robbed Times Square of its true personality.  It's quite appealing, especially on dark, rainy days and despite the scourge of AIDS that shows up in the very last scene.

Ode to Netflix

The Small: Still big enough for two.

My recent trip to the movies was fraught with petty annoyances, enough to make my repeating the outing less than a sure bet. I'm certain countless other patrons do not share my feelings, which is why Hollywood stars earn millions to appear in even mediocre films. To see them, fans purchase 2.6 billion tickets annually. Anyway, back to those annoyances. First off, a small popcorn cost $7.50. (The ticket price for the film was $8.25.) The clerk happily pointed out that the medium, enough to feed a family of four farm animals, cost only 75 cents more. We went with the small (see photo).

Next, the fact that movie theaters now run product commercials just like on TV pisses me off to high heaven. Really? After forking over a total of $24.00 we still have to sit through Coke ads? Even weirder, Coke has to advertise? And the ads are so touchy-feely and embarrassing, showing how Coke unites the peoples of the world and everyone loves guzzling the so-very-bad-for-you beverage while they feed hungry children or dig water trenches in some godforsaken, disadvantaged country. How about we skip the Coke and just tell me where I can send my check.

And finally, if a movie is scheduled to start at 6:10 and we have just about broken our necks to get there in time, skipping dinner which is why we needed that bag of popcorn in the first place, it damn well better. The other night, miffed about the overpriced popcorn and tired of checking the nearest exits and making sure my cell phone was turned off, by 6:14 I was plotzing, so I went out front and queried the theater manager who said they always start the film five minutes later than the posted time, to allow for latecomers. Oh great, so now latecomers are a protected group? Next thing you know they'll have their own bathrooms.

It's so much more pleasant to stay at home and watch movies on Netflix, make your own popcorn and not worry about the exits. Plus you won't get roped into buying Mike & Ikes for an arm and a leg. The last box I had was called Tropical Delights, with odd flavors like tangerine, watermelon and pineapple. Yuk! Give me those good old-fashioned red, green and yellows that taste like sugar and corn syrup any day.

Reflections on Paradise

Three weeks from now I am scheduled to undergo an unpleasant medical procedure that has had me worried for days. This is of course a ridiculous waste of precious time, since for all I know I won't even be alive three weeks from now to undergo it. Clearly life is too short to hop on that train of thought. Nothing clarifies this truth more than the recent devastation of Paradise, California, a town totally obliterated by a forest fire a few days ago, killing some 48 people with the death toll mounting. The irony of the town's name is surely not lost on any of us; at least one newspaper editor took the cheap shot in a headline, writing "California's Paradise Lost." (I would fire that guy.)

Most people got out in time. As for the victims who were trapped in their homes, I wonder just how that went down. Imagine it: You're standing in your kitchen peeling hard boiled eggs for an egg salad sandwich and you look outside and see smoke far off in the distance, way on the other side of the woods. No problem, it's far away, you think to yourself. So you mash the eggs, chop up some celery, throw in a few capers and add the mayo, then casually look out the window again and the flames are in your backyard. Is that what happened?

Where I live in Maine is not currently on fire, so I'll consider this a good day. Still, with temperatures expected in the teens tonight, snow on Friday and more coming next week, there's plenty to worry about besides being burned alive. Thanksgiving looms, and one of my guests has requested yams topped with melted candy (okay, marshmallows), a dish I have never made on principle but will do so this year since the requester is my own son who, denied this traditional treat for his entire childhood, now at age 31 says he wouldn't mind "just a bite."

There are miles to go before that horrid colonoscopy. Today I'm in paradise.

Whatever Happened to #MeToo?

So many things in our society make absolutely no sense, it's little wonder that every day 125 people choose to leave it, most often with a gunshot to the head. Common reasons include drug addiction and "lifestyle stressors," according to the experts who study such things. As for me, I'm sticking around, if only to see just how much weirder things can get.

For example, today's news is abuzz with the supposition that Hillary Clinton is planning to run for president in 2020. Now that's going to be some real entertainment. Another thing that I find amusing, albeit perplexing to the max, is the #MeToo movement, although I'm wondering if it's over already. I just made a quick trip to the supermarket for -- what else? -- cat food, and was stunned by several of the magazine covers currently on display, causing me to think that I must have missed something and that it's still okay to consider women as "sex objects." Take a look:

If you're as confused as I am, just consider how Harvey Weinstein feels, hobbling around New York and Connecticut (he's not permitted to go anywhere else) in an ankle monitor awaiting trial when nothing's any different than it ever was.

Film Review: BEETLEJUICE

Michael Keaton and a guy who talked too much.

Back in 1988 when Tim Burton's comedy classic Beetlejuice hit the theaters I was a new mother with little interest in going to the movies. Life intervened and I never saw it, even though the cast includes many of my favorite actors, among them Geena Davis, Michael Keaton and Catherine O'Hara. Now that it's been turned into a musical slated to open on Broadway next March, I figured it was time to check it out. I was glad I did. Despite the severe shock of seeing a young, thin and handsome Alec Baldwin not pretending to be Donald Trump, the movie was a blast from beginning to end.

The story revolves around a young married couple (Baldwin, Davis) happily renovating their rural farmhouse who die and return as ghosts. Besides accepting the bad news that they are dead, they have to tolerate the home's new owners, an obnoxious couple of wealthy New Yorkers (Catherine O'Hara, Jeffrey Jones) and their surly teenage daughter (Winona Ryder). Much of the plot revolves around the dead duo's attempts to scare the new owners away, with hilarious results.

Director Burton really lets loose with the craziness, creating a world of monstrous creatures from the Land of the Dead who turn into hideous giant snakes with teeth, or have shrunken heads, or eyeballs inside their mouths, or faces that pull right off, and more like that. Also showing little restraint is the off-the-wall title character (Michael Keaton), a clown-like deadbeat in the truest sense of the word who wants only to be freed from his grave in order to gross people out. This requires his name to be repeated three times in succession, which several people do and instantly regret.

If slapstick is not your thing see it anyway, for two reasons: First is a truly riotous dinner party scene wherein all the guests, including Dick Cavett, are suddenly compelled to sing and dance to the calypso hit "Day-o!" (in Harry Belafonte's voice no less; follow the link below to see it), and for Keaton's maniacally hysterical performance. It's easy to see why his long and celebrated career followed this early film, for which he won a National Society of Film Critics Award for Best Actor.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQXVHITd1N4

At Wit's End

As far as I can tell, there are but a few dozen Democrats who are still sane. I personally know some of them and they are fine folks, able to reason and speak normally. The other ones are nuts, from Nancy "Stretch" Pelosi on down to those private citizens who gathered in the darkness two nights ago, waving protest signs and screaming obscenities while storming the front door of the residence of Tucker Carlson, a likeable chap who happens to work at FOX news.

To all of them I say, "Come on people, get a grip!" Is this how it's going to be for the next six years? (Of course he will be re-elected.) Really, do yourself (and everyone else) a favor and put down the remote. Pick up a book, or maybe take piano lessons. Play cards. Or board games; RISK is fun and takes a long time. Paint the living room. Do anything -- just stop obsessing over the president. I'm begging here.

Yin and Yang

Like all of us, I have a Good Me and a Bad Me. Good Me does the laundry, changes the sheets on the bed, pays the bills on time and eats oatmeal for breakfast. Bad Me lets dirty clothes pile up on the closet floor, says "Screw the bills, I'll pay the late fee," eats a slice of pizza an hour before dinner just because I'm at Whole Foods and they have great pizza, and shouts vile curse words into the phone after the robot says, "This call may be recorded for quality assurance." And while we're on the subject, how is it that every single business you call says you should, "Listen carefully as our menu has recently changed"? It's like Recorded Message Menu-Changer is a full time job these days.

Anyway, you get the point: we're either good or bad. Devil or Angel. (BTW, great song recorded by the Clovers in 1955; Google it.) I have always prayed that Bad Me would die so I could be healthier, tolerate stupidity in others and fit into those black corduroy jeans that Good Me bought. I've tried starving her to death but since that never lasts more than a day or two she survives, sneaking back in while I'm sleeping.

This morning, after seeing a bad number on the scale and surveying the mess in my closet, I decided that since killing her off hasn't worked I will simply send Bad Me on a long vacation. She's going somewhere nice -- not sure yet where -- until New Year's Day, 2019. This will prevent me from getting drunk on New Year's Eve at that party my husband and I are attending, and in fact it will assure that we actually attend, since Bad Me would definitely blow it off at the last minute, claiming a headache.

I'll pack for her today. She's taking all the chocolate, the frozen waffles and the Italian white bean salad she scarfs down with such abandon. And for sure that bottle of Kahlua. I think we'll both be happier.

Don't Just Sit There!

Try one of these.

The average American spends a ridiculous amount of time sitting, which has now been dubbed "the new smoking" because it's so bad for you. Most of this sitting occurs during the work day at various desk jobs, which is sort of excusable since after all, things do need to get done. Then more sitting happens at home, where watching other people who are also sitting is extremely popular, especially in the Trump era where the nightly news shows are the leading source of conversation for the next round of sitting at work the following day.

According to a physician writing on the Mayo Clinic website, the health hazards of sitting cannot be overstated: "They include obesity and a cluster of conditions — increased blood pressure, high blood sugar, excess body fat around the waist and abnormal cholesterol levels — that make up metabolic syndrome. Too much sitting overall and prolonged periods of sitting also seem to increase the risk of death from cardiovascular disease and cancer."

I'd say more but since I've got to sit to do it I better not. I just returned from a dental appointment (drive time 30 minutes, of course sitting), during which I sat for about 45 minutes, then drove home. I gotta go find something to do that involves standing. Likewise, you should stop looking at your computer (or your phone or laptop or whatever) and stand up, before it's too late! As my grandmother used to say (sort of), "There's plenty of time to sit at the cemetery."

The End of Life As We Know It

Years ago I dated a lawyer. It was hard not to since I lived in Washington, D.C., where it was either a lawyer or an artist and the lawyers had better perks, like cars and food. Anyway, Bill was cynical about his profession, feeling, rightly so, that there were far too many of his kind. "It's like everyone's a lawyer," he would complain, usually after meeting another three or four at a cocktail party. I asked him what he thought our society would be like if there were fewer lawyers, and without skipping a beat he answered, "People would fight less. Everyone would try harder to get along."

I thought of his comment this morning when I read that The Girl Scouts of America have filed a lawsuit against The Boy Scouts of America for dropping the word "boy" from their name. They will soon be The Scouts BSA, a decision made because they now allow girls to join, which is completely nuts and don't get me started on that one, maybe some other time. For now, I'm sticking with this name thing. So the Girl Scouts are afraid that girls won't know which group to join and ultimately their membership will fall off.

Two questions came to mind immediately: "Who cares?" and "So what?" Besides the fact that Girl Scout cookies are terrible these days (and expensive), haven't they heard that the concept of gender is so last year? Instead, both groups should move beyond the whole "boys" and "girls" thing and form one group called They or Them Scouts of America.

Dammit, I should have been a lawyer.

Political Feeding Frenzy

Small town voting can be hazardous to your health, as I learned a short time ago. To get to the voting booths set up in the gymnasium of our local high school, one first had to navigate through two long rooms filled with groups hawking their special interests, each set up at a folding table loaded with sugar-laden, luscious-looking, tempting empty calories.

In the first room, in support of various school programs, one could purchase donuts sourced from Krispy Kreme and Dunkin's. Also for sale were homemade cookies including the usual favorites, chocolate-chip, oatmeal raisin and shortbread. There were mountains of cupcakes, both apple-walnut and blueberry, and some others topped in various colors of icing. It was enough to send a diabetic into insulin shock with one deep breath. The second room featured more of the same with the addition of Whoopie Pies and croissants. This was where one could sign petitions in favor of dying with dignity, expanding the public library or fixing the leaky roof at the middle school.

I managed to get through without caving in but hoped for a side exit as an escape on the way out since I felt myself weakening. Alas there was none, but happily I ran into someone I know who I engaged in meaningless blabber until we got safely outside. Now I'm proud that I can say "I voted," and without any extra carbs.

Vote Christine Ford for Whatever....

Tomorrow is Election Day. I hope everyone gets a chance to vote. And remember, if you don't like who is on the ballot in your particular state or jurisdiction, you can always write in your pick. My suggestion for any and every seat is Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. After all, she's so brave! And selfless! She put her life on the line for our nation! She touched our hearts and galvanized women everywhere to protest and wear big black glasses! Her family had to move! And lest we forget, she flew to D.C. for that hearing, even though she doesn't really like to fly! Plus, she likes Coke and how much more patriotic can you get? And she's a DOCTOR!!!!!!

What more do you need? The woman can do just about anything, except maybe remember important stuff that happened years ago, but honestly, who can these days? In fact, maybe she should be on the Supreme Court.

TV Series Review: HOMECOMING

Julia Roberts and Bobby Cannavale

It's hard to remember back when the only thing you got from Amazon was books. Now it's anything and everything, from Pepperidge Farm cookies to, well, to anything. (I know about the cookies because I send them to my sister.) One of those anythings is a 10-part TV series called Homecoming, which my husband and I watched this past weekend.

We started it Friday night, thinking we would check out the new series after reading a positive review in the paper. Each episode is 30 minutes, so we figured we would watch maybe two or three. We watched five, saving the rest for the next night. I couldn't wait.

As bad luck would have it, the next day an impressive windstorm knocked out our power. Besides the fact that by nightfall the house was cold, the food was spoiling, we couldn't use the hot tub and it was very dark inside, I was most upset about not watching the rest of that TV show. My husband came to the rescue with some magic involving his car in the driveway and a cell phone, allowing us to devour the remaining episodes in our living room on his laptop.

Suffice it to say that this offering by Amazon Prime Video (you have to be a member) was definitely worth all the technological shenanigans. It is, in a word, great. It stars Julia Roberts, who I normally find sickeningly-sweet but here she was just right as a half-crazed therapist named Heidi, and Bobby Cannavale (who I have adored since he played Will's boyfriend on the original Will & Grace) as her fully-crazed -- or is he? -- corporate boss.

It's a scary thriller about some bad deeds done by our duplicitous government in the name of scientific advancement that might make you even more paranoid than you already are. It's interesting to watch the famous Pretty Woman time-travel four years into the future, changing back and forth from her usual pretty self into a not-so-pretty frump. Sissy Spacek is on hand too, fabulous as Heidi's mother, as well as a few other actors you might recognize. To say more would spoil the fun. Just watch it, if you can figure out how.

Bring Back the Dunce Cap

If you don't know what a candidate stands for, how can you judge whether or not they are fit for the job? Sadly this situation is all too common in America.

I recently heard from a friend who lives here in Maine that he "always liked Susan Collins a lot" until she voted in favor of Brett Kavanuagh for the Supreme Court. I asked him if he had heard her compelling 40-minute speech that carefully explained her decision. He said he had not heard it and did not care to. I asked if he had seen any of the televised Kavanaugh hearings. He had not. I asked how he knew that Kavanaugh was an unfit choice for the Supreme Court. He said he heard it on CNN.

This is a person who should not be permitted to vote in our elections. Short of that, he should at least be forced to wear a dunce cap at the polls.

It's All Trump's Fault

I have put on about seven or eight pounds in the last six months, enough so that, to my dismay, many of my jeans no longer zip up. Dammit, that asshole Donald Trump did this! I know because he is responsible for everything bad that happens -- at least that's what I read in the papers and hear on all the TV news. 

Just the other day, a dear friend who I respect deeply explained how the president is responsible for last weekend's mass shooting in a Pittsburgh synagogue. I'm so dumb, I thought it was because of the longstanding anti-Semitic feelings of a lunatic Jew-hater. But no, she explained it's because the "person at the top" sets the tone for the entire country! I asked her if that's still the case when the person at the top is a narcissistic buffoon who everyone disavows, and she nodded yes. (She had a mouthful at the time; we were at lunch.)

Then I read a letter to the editor in today's Wall Street Journal that basically echoed her sentiment, explaining that because Trump had applauded someone "body-slamming" a journalist last year, the Pittsburgh shooter figured it was acceptable, and was in fact motivated to kill all those strangers who happened to be Jews in a synagogue. (Who knows, maybe the guy loved Jews until Trump was elected.)

Anyway, the list of atrocities caused by the president is a long one, and I'm adding my weight gain to it. After all, Trump is sort of tubby and since I allegedly model my behavior after his I must think it's acceptable to overeat. Come to think of it, I was quite a bit thinner during the Obama administration.

Glad to Be Nobody

This morning I had one of those annoying online spats with a stranger. I hate those. I had written a comment on Facebook in support of Maine's Senator Susan Collins, and one of the Internet trolls instantly despised me because he despises Susan Collins. So, with nothing better to do I suppose, he went and looked up my profile and saw that where you are supposed to write what you are or what you do or how you would describe yourself, I had written the word "nobody." Which I am, just like all of us: indistinguishable blades of grass in a ginormous, neverending lawn, but he seized on this and wrote me a private message (!) saying: "You certainly are what you say you are." Ouch?

I responded with "Aren't we all?" He went on to say I should "read more Camus and drink less coffee." I said I have read all of Camus several times over.  (I let the coffee comment slide because it was just plain irrelevant.) Anyway, unable to resist I looked at his profile and found, to absolutely no surprise, that it was full of anti-Trump invective and tree-hugging directives.

The good news is that I don't know the guy and never have to interact with him again. But poor Senator Collins: Her Facebook page is filled with rage from haters, and he's all over it. As always, I am stunned that anyone enters politics.