Black, Not White

The Hanukkah stabber being led away by police.

The three most recent crimes against Jewish people were committed by black Americans, not white Nationalists. Donald Trump has nothing to do with it.

The Worst Hotel in New York City

The bathroom ceiling was less than ideal....

This is a pubic service announcement. If you are headed to Manhattan, stay anywhere but The Radisson Hotel on 51st between 5th and 6th Avenues. Sleep on the street, in a subway car, under a bridge or with your cousin in Hoboken. Trust me, they are all better options. I know because my husband and I stayed there for three nights and we're just now getting over it. Following is a list of some of the problems:

Elevator wait time is between A Cold Day in August and The 12th of Never.
One thin blanket from an orphanage in a Dickens novel was all you got.
No cups or glasses in the bathroom, just use what God gave you.
Filthy, worn carpeting grossed us out.
A late check-out of even 10 minutes will cost you $200!
Breakfast buffet: cold scrambled eggs, colder bacon, potato ice chips and frozen oatmeal ($20).
Amateur spackling job (see photo above) was alarming.
The tiny room suitable for Keebler Elves didn't even have a Bible!
Bag of mystery garbage (we were afraid to look inside) under the bed was there the whole time; so much for the daily maid service!

On the plus side, it's next door to a 24-hour Duane Reed drugstore, which came in handy when shopping for Pepto-Bismol due to the hotel's nauseating condition.

Room charge: $290 per night

Film Review: ELF

Last night being Christmas Eve, my husband and I thought it appropriate to watch a holiday-themed movie. And just last week a new friend recommenced Elf, a movie we had studiously avoided back when it was released in 2003 for so many reasons, not the least of which was its star, Will Ferrell. But this particular friend said it was "hysterical" and seemed shocked that we, such self-acclaimed students of humor, had missed it. So we fired up the TV and settled in for some Santa-sized belly laughs.

Wrong. No laughs -- just smirks, the occasional smile and a few embarrassed giggles were all we got. Despite the assembled talents of actors Bob Newhart, Ed Asner, James Caan, Zooey Deschanel and Mary Steenburgen, director John Favreau's effort comes off as pathetically lame fare perfectly suited to a bunch of kindergartners or perhaps a group of drunken, stoned frat boys.

First of all, the plot is ridiculous: Through a completely unbelievable mixup at the orphanage, Buddy (Ferrell) ends up being raised by Papa Elf (Newhart) at the North Pole. Okay, if you swallow that, he lives there until he is 30 when he finally is told he isn't really an elf but a moron -- I mean man. So he walks from the North Pole all the way to Manhattan to meet his birth father (Caan). He makes this journey without food or water, wearing only tights and a tunic and pointy little cloth shoes-- no gloves or boots or scarf or down parka. He is supposed to be a human, after all, so how is that possible? What, no frostbite? Or more to the point, no death by starvation?

I can't go on, it was so bad. But even worse, it was lauded by most professional critics as "uproarious" and has become an endearing, enduring Christmas classic hauled out each year for new generations to enjoy. Even Roger Ebert, my chosen god of critics (then alive), gave it a glowing review. Here, I'll let Wikipedia say it:

"Elf was released in the United States on November 7, 2003 to critical and commercial success, grossing $220 million worldwide against a $33 million budget. Ferrell’s performance as Buddy the Elf was praised by audiences and critics alike, with many calling it one of his best performances. It is often listed among the greatest Christmas films of all time."

Somehow we sat through the whole thing, lulled into a daze by the non-stop idiocy wherein a grown man in a dumb costume walks around the streets of New York City without getting carted away to the loony bin. Then this morning, Christmas Day, the only present I got was a dead mouse from my cat. So far this Christmas sucks.

Udderly Ridiculous

Some women see breastfeeding as an award-winning activity to be done in public and for which they should receive accolades. This is like getting praise for passing a good stool, in my opinion, another bodily function which the non-crazy individual chooses to do in private, except in Nancy Pelosi's San Francisco district where they may be making a political statement.

Anyway, there is a new one of those Facebook borders you can apply to your profile picture that says "Normalize Breastfeeding" in fancy script lettering. I saw it today on my husband's cousin's daughter's page, showing her big fat boobie with a child attached. The child looks old enough to eat a filet mignon with a knife and fork.

For reasons of rebellion, members of today's child-rearing generation have decided to extend breastfeeding for as long as possible. In fact, the longer they do it the more sanctimonious they behave, as if they are the embodiment of Mother Teresa. They're wrong. Instead they are raising a bunch of spoiled brats who grow up to be demanding and unable to do much for themselves. I've seen this outcome in another friend's daughter who was breastfed until age five and now, at six, is a world-class terror.

If you ask me, if the child can say, "I want some Mommy milk," like my friend's daughter did, it's enough already.

The Aftermath

So now Trump is impeached, further assuring him a place in the history books, maybe even a whole chapter. What I'm thinking is big deal. It doesn't change how I feel about anything, except that most of our elected lawmakers are goofballs, with a very few exceptions.

Life goes on. I will still not vote in 2020 for anyone the Democrats are currently trying to shove down my throat, even if Vladimir Putin comes to my house and puts a gun to my head which is supposedly what we all should be fearing will happen if Trump remains in office. Actually, if Vlad did come to my house I would ask him in, offer him some vodka and possibly get him to take his shirt off. (See photo)

Crime and Punishment

I don't know who's reading this crap. And by crap I mean this blog. What I do know is that a preponderance of the audience finds it by way of porn sites featuring young girls sucking on men's you-know-whats. This pisses me off and makes me want to write outrageous and disgusting things, and today I am going to do just that. I might not even edit it twice for typos. Take that, porn fans!

In today's politically correct climate you could easily be murdered, which apparently is no longer a big deal to our lawmakers. The death penalty is falling out of favor across the country, according to an article in today's Wall Street Journal.  Instead, life without parole is the punishment deemed appropriate for the sickos who commit heinous acts of violence on random innocent people.

Not only that, but a man who was convicted six times of killing four people in Mississippi and has been in prison for 22 years has just been released on bail due to alleged "racial bias" in his conviction. Prosecutors are now deciding whether to try him again, and hope he won't kill anyone else while he's awaiting trial.

In my opinion the death penalty should definitely be used on one particular group of criminals: tailgaters. Not the football game kind, the other kind. The people who ride your tail and flash their lights and honk you even if you are going ten miles over the speed limit in the left lane, or just five miles over the speed limit in the right lane. These monsters pose a danger to anyone on the road. They should be pulled over by the police and just shot in the head right then and there, like they did to the Jews in Nazi Germany. That would put a stop to it.

Babe Ruth's Bat

At an auction in California this past weekend, some rich asshole paid a million bucks for the bat used by Babe Ruth in 1929 to hit his 500th home run. So now he's got this bat and he's gonna do what with it? Put it in a glass case and look at it? Bludgeon his wife to death while she sleeps? What, exactly, is so great about this particular piece of wood?

Instead he might have bought mosquito nets at $7.50 each and saved 134,000 people from contracting malaria in Africa. Or paid for half a day's expenses at St. Jude's Hospital for Children, helping to cure countless kids with cancer. Or built a homeless shelter somewhere in San Francisco, or at least get 1,430 port-a-potties ($700 each) distributed in the city's homeless areas.

The list is endless. Someone should talk to this guy.

Film Review: THE IRISHMAN

Romano, De Niro and Pacino

Now playing in a living room near you, The Irishman runs for three-and-a-half hours and believe it or not, it flies by. This is mostly due to Robert De Niro, the title character whose incredible performance takes you into another world you're in no hurry to leave. You just want the movie to go on and on. The great thing about it being on Netflix is it can, anytime you're ready. A second viewing is almost required since there's so much to take in visually, it being set mainly in the 1950s and 60s.

And in case you dislike De Niro (as I do) for his loud and obnoxious political views he feels compelled to shout from the rooftops, there's also great acting by Joe Pesci, Al Pacino, Bobby Cannavale, Ray Romano and a host of other familiar faces from every movie about the Mafia you've seen in the past.

Another wondrous aspect of Martin Scorcese's latest look at the horrors of organized crime is the music. Starting with the opening scene, the camera snaking through the corridors of a nursing home accompanied by the 1956 version of The Five Satin's "In the Still of the Night" and continuing throughout the film with a fabulous original score by the prolific Robbie Robertson, formerly of The Band, there's great music in almost every frame.

Now for the bad stuff, which abounds. A new, computerized technology not quite ready for prime time tinkers with the aging of the stars, so one minute they're young and the next they're old, and the next they are really, really old. Sadly, everyone looks sort of like puppet heads, but after about the first hour you just accept it and stop groaning. Also, since we're talking Mafia it's plenty violent, with countless gruesome shootings, spattered blood on sidewalks and piano wires strung around necks, that sort of thing.

Still, it's great.

My Husband's Despicable Cousin

Hillary "Has-been" Clinton famously called the people who attended Trump rallies "deplorable." Personally I'd rather be considered deplorable (deserving of condemnation) than despicable (deserving hatred and contempt) any day, but that's just me.

I say this because of a comment on Facebook posted by my husband's despicable cousin, a woman I have never met in the flesh (which she has far too much of, a trait she passed on to her similarly gigantic and equally foul-mouthed daughter) concerning our country's sitting president. In a spitting match posing as political discussion with my husband and others, she wrote that she hoped Trump would be impeached and suffer a "massive, debilitating stroke."

Like many other Trump-hating Democrats, the woman is clearly despicable. (See definition above.) I mean really, can't the man remain physically healthy despite having policies some find abhorrent? Must he suffer? How does that help anyone feel better about things?  

Why My Son Is An Only Child

About six weeks ago our landline phone rang well after midnight, waking me from a deep sleep. Assuming it wasn't good news I answered and heard the wide-awake voice of a man claiming to be a doctor in a hospital in New York. He explained that my sister was in the Emergency Room and needed surgery immediately, and since I was her only living relative and thus her health proxy by default, he needed my consent to go forward. Still groggy I asked what "go forward" entailed, and was treated to a thoroughly revolting and detailed description of her obstructed bowel that had basically "exploded," spilling its contents on all her surrounding internal organs. A "repair" was necessary to save her life.

I should mention at this point that I have not seen my sister in 28 years. Five years my senior, she had stolen my childhood and cost me many thousands of dollars in therapy as an adult trying to overcome the horror she had rained down on our family when I was growing up. (Turned out the damage was done since you only get one childhood, but if I repeat my mantra enough times I can sometimes drown out the hideous memories.)

Anyway, I told the doctor, "Sure, go ahead," and hung up, hoping to get back to sleep. No such luck as my mind was filled with images of unleashed feces invading body parts. Several hours later, maybe it was five in the morning, the doctor called back and again sailed into an impromptu anatomy lesson, ending with the news that he had removed my sister's entire colon and she would now be using an external "bag" to perform its functions. Still she was not "out of the woods" and they needed to do other things, and would I give my permission for putting in a drain and debriding the wound and a bunch of other sickening things. "Hey, you're the doctor, I just paint pictures -- why ask me? Do what you have to do!" Still, they needed my okay and two witnesses in the hospital had to be on the line to hear me give it.

Over the ensuing weeks I received many of these phone calls, asking for permission to do this or that. She was out of the hospital and back at the nursing home facility where she has lived for the past five years, then she was back in the hospital. Each time I was informed of her transport. In again, out again, they reported that she was not quite conscious, basically incoherent, there was possible dementia, maybe another surgery, "Whatever, go ahead, do it," I always said.

Being hyper-empathic by nature, I became consumed with thoughts of my sister's degrading body, most especially her exploded colon, and how depressed she must be yet unable to communicate her misery. I shared in this misery and have cried daily since then, my tears quelled by repeated squirts of CBD tincture, glasses of red wine, doses of Lorazepam and an occasional hit of pot.

The phone calls from various doctors, nurses and hospital administrators came weekly and without warning, each one plummeting me into a new pit of despair. A message on our home answering machine could only mean trouble. Yesterday, after a fun lunch out with two good friends, I returned home and there it was: the flashing red light. Listening to the message, I was surprised to hear my sister's voice. Crazy as ever, she was under the impression that my outgoing message was actually me and tried talking to it, then became frustrated when it didn't talk back. She hung up and called again, saying "I hear you, I know you're there." Oh well, at least she was coherent.

I called back the number on the caller ID screen and a nurse answered. It was her cell phone that my sister had used earlier. "I'll get her for you," she offered. Finally I could talk to her! Right away I asked how she was. She said fine. I said it must have been rough undergoing so many surgeries. She said, "What surgeries? I didn't have surgery." I asked why she was in the hospital for so long, what did they do to her there, and she said she had no idea. She even laughed about it, and I heard her ask a nurse,"What happened to me in the hospital?" A murmured response in the background seemed to dodge the question. Most amazing, my sister was completely clueless about the loss of her colon since when I asked how that felt, she said, "I don't know what you're talking about." Apparently I was the only one who missed it.

My husband figures she must be on some heavy drugs, like morphine. I wonder if maybe I could get some. After all, I am her health proxy.

Friday the 13th

What is it about Friday the 13th we are supposed to be wary of? One explanation found on Wikipedia suggests that the superstition goes all the way back to the Middle Ages and has something to do with Jesus' last supper where there were 13 people present, the night before his death on Good Friday. If that's the case, I'm over it.

In fact I have never given the date a moment's thought since there are so many other days to be wary of, like April 15 or my next birthday. Those are some bad days. Still, better safe than sorry, and I'm willing to bet that almost everyone avoids walking under a ladder and having a back cat cross their path, despite not knowing why they do it. Ditto with this particular day. Just in case, I'll toss some salt over my left shoulder and be extra careful out there.

The Higher You Bid, the More It's Worth

Alligator handbag with gold finish by Cartier: $27,000

People value strange things. Especially rich people. For example, a woman's handbag these days is a status symbol to the wealthy and can cost thousands. This perversion has trickled down to the masses, where people of average incomes still will pay a lot of money for what is basically a bag in which to schlep one's belongings, not all that different from the shopping cart used by the homeless or a rag attached to a stick used by hobos. I admit to furthering this practice as I have on occasion paid more for a handbag than for a week's worth of food.

One difference between the rich and the not rich in the valuation department is art. The rich pay millions for it, while the middle class sees most art as lacking in value of any kind, unless it's to fill in an empty space over a sofa. As an artist I find this sad and downright depressing, causing me to overeat and then feel bloated and nauseous, my two least favorite ways to feel. If only people would buy my art I could have such a better digestive system!

Despite my oil paintings costing me anywhere from $50 to $75 to create, depending on the size of the canvas and how much paint I use, and adding in my time at the minimum wage of $15/hour and the typical painting taking about 60 hours to complete, a starting price might be $900. But for my friends, who I want to enjoy my work, I charge only $200 regardless of the size of the canvas.

So I recently posted this price on my Facebook page and a friend asked, "How much for 2?" As if the fact that he would buy two would diminish their value even further. And he's what you might call "rich," based on all outward appearances. 😢

I would love to know what his wife pays for her handbags.

Film Review: THE LAKE HOUSE

Okay, so sometimes I watch schlocky movies on Netflix when my husband is out of town. This one at least starred Keanu Reeves, an actor I could watch read the Yellow Pages and thoroughly enjoy myself. So I've established that I enjoyed myself, but still I found myself yelling at the screen a few times over how stupid the story is.

A time-travel romantic drama/fantasy also starring Sandra Bullock, right away you know we are not talking rocket science. But oddly enough, The Lake House (released in 2004) did turn out to be rather rocket-scientific, if for no other reason than the plot involves time and space and how we relate to them, no easy subject to comprehend. This conundrum is covered much more coherently in a novel called "Time and Again," by Jack Finney, which I highly recommend. (If you have not read it, just stop reading this and go to Amazon right now and order it... I'll give you a few minutes and find a picture to post while you're gone.)

The Lake House with the lake in the background and the magical mailbox in the foreground.

So anyway, The Lake House is after all about a lake house, one that is shared by two different occupants at different times. As one of them moves out, she leaves a note for the next tenant to please forward her mail. Fine, except the next occupant turns out to be the previous tenant. Kate (Bullock) is living in 2006 and Alex (Reeves) is living in 2004, and they can write letters to each other because of the magical mailbox out front which transports their mail almost instantly, despite them living 62 miles apart. (He's in Kenosha, Wisconsin and she's in Chicago.)

They exchange letters daily and fall in love, even though Kate is living "in the future." Ha! What future -- very little changes in two years except maybe the Twin Towers fell down, but still people drive cars not hover boards and everyone still eats at The Olive Garden, although God knows why. Still, if you are separated by two years you cannot simply meet for dinner, I guess, even if you both show up at the same restaurant at 6:30. It's those darned two years, I suppose. It's hard to grasp.

Still, the director made sure that every so often the couple meet before they knew what would happen later, like back when they were both living in the same year, so we can see them kiss. Nobody explains how Kate got two years ahead of Alex, and nobody explains how they have the same dog. Yes, the very same dog lives with both of them. It's odd, to be sure, but also oddly compelling to watch. I would say you should pour yourself a glass of wine, or maybe smoke some pot and just try to figure out if Alex is dead or alive at the end. I think he's alive, but his brother thinks he's dead.

Christopher Plummer adds gravitas as Alex's very famous, very grouchy architect father who withheld love and attention from him as a child and thus screwed up his whole life. Parents -- the true devils in cinema!

The Great, Great, Great Donald Trump

With my lunch today I sat down and perused yesterday's Sunday Times Magazine. As usual I found it disheartening to read the bios of the contributing writers, all of whom have won writing awards of one sort or another yet still nobody ever heard of any of them. It jolted me to realize that there are hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of amazingly accomplished people who nobody ever heard of. Artists winning scholarships and getting their work into museums, writers landing book contracts worth thousands of dollars, and yet none of them are famous and few ever will be.

Then I thought of the most famous person in the world: Donald J. Trump. Yes, he is surely the most famous, known in every country and written about everywhere. Headlines and articles and editorials in every newspaper are studded with his name. And if he is supposedly such a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad man, it's hard to understand his rise to the Top of the Heap, The Apex, The Zenith of our culture.

What does that say about the human race? And especially the Human Race? How has a man who is so despised become so important, despite the fact that he hasn't murdered anyone like Jack the Ripper, robbed anyone like Bernie Madoff or invented anything that benefits mankind? How did it happen? What qualities does he possess that others lack, making him such a Big Deal? While I lack the answers, the questions make being a nobody like me feel pretty good.

Secret Racists

It's so interesting, not to mention ironic and depressing, that the candidates currently leading the pack at this late date in the Democratic race for president are all white. So much for those politically-correct, unbiased, non-racist, white-man-hating liberals who talk a good game but rarely play one.

Gone are the candidates of color, since Kamala Harris quit and Tulsi Gabbard and Cory Booker have such low polling numbers they did not qualify for the next debate. I wonder why. Could it be that the real, man-in-the-street Democrats who are counted in polls and show up on Election Day are secretly not "liberal" after all?

I certainly see that among my Democratic friends, none of whom has any black people in their lives. In fact, the people I know who socialize with members of any minority are mostly Republicans, surprise surprise. This sad turn of events not only means that Trump will be re-elected in 2020 but that racism thrives under wraps, not out in the open where it is always loudly decried.

Andrew Yang, Millionaire Cheapskate

A friend of a friend has a friend who works on the Andrew Yang for President campaign. She asked her friend (of my friend) if the campaign could use her home to shoot a political ad for Yang in her New Hampshire kitchen. The friend and her husband, although not Yang supporters, said yes anyway, thinking it would be "fun."

Enter a crew of dozens carting cameras, equipment, dollies, electrical units, lighting, microphones and more. Chaos ensued. They filled the entire house, even stowing a couple of big amps on the bed in the master bedroom.

I have not heard if it was any fun. What I did hear was that not one penny of compensation was offered the couple; all they got was a cell phone photo of themselves standing with Yang. This is the very same Yang who promises to give every American $1,000 a month if he is elected president. The same Yang who, during the first Democratic Debate, offered thousands in prize money to everyone who registered at his website.

I asked a friend of mine who works in advertising if this all seemed odd to him. He fairly shouted that "Yes, it's crazy," explaining that anytime he had taken a film crew into a private home to shoot a commercial, the owners were compensated and all sorts of disclaimers for insurance coverage, damages, fire hazard, etc. were signed.

Rich people can be so cheap.

Sick of Gays

Over the course of my lifetime I have had countless gay friends. Literally countless. And family members, although not countless (5). So I can honestly say that the desire for one person to have sexual relations with someone of their own gender bothers me not a bit. Much less than a mosquito bite, or bad restaurant food, or getting a flu shot, or a host of other things I could name. It doesn't even register on my annoyance scale, and why would it? How does what someone does with their genitalia have anything to do with me?

So we can conclude that someone being gay is just fine with me. Or it has been until recently, when all the gays and their string of alphabets have become so militant, destroying businesses and suing those who disagree with their chosen sexual behavior, protesting restaurant owners who support anti-gay politicians, and all the rest.

What's got me to this point is reading the blurb shown at right in today's Wall Street Journal. Really?

From Wikipedia: "Because the Salvation Army is a church, Title VII of the U.S. Civil Rights Act of 1964 allows it to inquire into people's religious beliefs in its hiring practises. The Salvation Army states that it does not "discriminate against hiring gays and lesbians for the majority of its roughly 55,000 jobs,"^[150] but it has supported legislation which would allow it to deny employment and federally-funded services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) individuals."

Still the Salvation Army is present in 131 countries, running charity shops, operating shelters for the homeless and bringing disaster relief and humanitarian aid to developing countries. Their 2013 Mission Statement clearly states: "The Salvation Army stands against homophobia, which victimizes people and can reinforce feelings of alienation, loneliness and despair. We want to be an inclusive church community where members of the LGBT community find welcome and the encouragement to develop their relationship with God ... Our international mission statement is very clear on this point when it says we will "meet human needs in [Jesus'] name without discrimination". Anyone who comes through our doors will be welcomed with love and service, based on their need and our capacity to provide.

So to all you LGBTQs out there, I have one thing to say in language you can understand: STFU. Now excuse me while I go write a check to the Salvation Army, as the time to make charitable donations for this year is running out.

Don't Say Anything

If I had any strength of character I would discontinue looking at Facebook since it's often  idiotic. One bad feature is allowing people to comment. If there were no comments, you could just read what people post and if you had something to say about it, you'd pick up the phone and call the person instead of adding your two cents worth, which is usually more like half a cent's worth. Of course I could probably turn off the commenting feature, but then how would I stay abreast of how dumb people are becoming? (Let's face it, that's half the fun of the whole thing.)

This morning my news feed contained a lovely photo of Monhegan Island in the snow. I appreciated it since I love Monhegan and often wonder how it looks in winter, it being a summer destination for me and my husband. The photo engendered the following comment stream:
"Beautiful photo"
"Beautiful shot"
"Beautiful"
'So pretty....'

Three beautifuls in a row! I wonder -- did the fourth person who said it was "so pretty" really want to say it was beautiful but instead used a different word to be, well, different? And did the second and third responders each think they added something of value? And in fact did the first responder have to say anything? What about that old adage, a picture is worth a thousand words? Does that imply a thousand different words or the exact same thousand words?

The funniest part of the whole thing was that the picture was just okay. Had I commented I would have said, "Nice photo." But why would I?

Be On the Lookout

After living here for ten years, the only thing I can say with certainty is that Mainers are odd ducks. One example was a story on the local TV news this morning, which I rarely watch unless a storm is coming our way. Since that is the case today, I tuned in for the latest weather update just in time for the following story: "Mainers should be on the alert for feral pigs. While none have been spotted anywhere in the state, they have wreaked havoc in other parts of the country. So be on the lookout, just in case."

That sobering announcement was accompanied by film footage of two pigs cavorting inside a metal cage. They were both quite pink and adorable if you ask me, and since they were being held captive were obviously not feral but I guess that's all there was down at the TV station, pig-wise. Anyway, just in case, I am keeping an eye out. Actually I already was keeping an eye out as yesterday my husband and I, out for a drive, passed a yellow road sign that said: BE WATCHFUL FOR WILDLIFE.

So much to do here.

Film Review: KNIVES OUT

The only thing wrong with the new film Knives Out is that it ends, leaving you to wonder what becomes of all those quirky characters you've spent more than two hours with and some you've come to love. And they are truly wonderful characters, not only because of the witty script by writer/ director Rian Johnson, but also as played by an ensemble of excellent actors, some of whom you already know (Jamie Lee Curtis, Don Johnson, Toni Colette) and many you don't.

Christopher Plummer stars as the fabulously wealthy and somewhat grouchy 85-year-old patriarch to a trio of spoiled brats and their offspring, all of whom love him mostly for his money. He's an award-winning writer of mystery novels, and lives in a dark, foreboding mansion surrounded by esoteric statuary, outdated weaponry and scary artifacts from bygone cultures, making the prop master of Knives Out a major player. In fact the scenery is so interesting you might miss some of the dialog, one reason why this film deserves at least two viewings.

Naturally there's a murder, and the world's greatest living sleuth is called in on the case. He is played by Daniel Craig, a British actor who miraculously delivers his incredible performance in a completely convincing southern accent. The twists and turns of the plot will keep you guessing, and laughing, throughout. Chances are you won't even eat your popcorn, you'll be so engrossed in the story. As one tough customer (my husband) who was "sort of sleepy" when it started said afterward, "That was super fun."

Last Minute Thoughts on Turkey Day

So are we supposed to celebrate Thanksgiving or not? Seems like it's a hung jury. Some people cling to the belief that the pilgrims and the Indians (sue me -- I will never call them Indigenous Peoples no matter what the Thought Police decree) got along famously and feasted together in friendship and peace that first year. Others say the gun-wielding white man slaughtered the Indians by the thousands, and so what's to celebrate about that? And still others say the Indians were certainly no angels, given to scalping their enemies alive and performing other horrid acts that were way worse than a shot to the heart, so we'll just keep calling the Redskins the Redskins and too bad for them.

 Any way you slice it, those early days here in the New World were a veritable blood bath, with little good to commemorate them. Eating a lot of one species of bird only adds to the unpleasantness. Personally, I am in favor of banning the eating of turkey on this holiday we call Thanksgiving. What did they ever do to anyone? At the very least we should be eating either pilgrims or Indians, depending on whether you prefer light meat or dark meat, and cooked first of course.

A Cynic's Thanksgiving

Refusing to cook an entire dead animal in celebration of whatever Thanksgiving is supposed to celebrate, instead I have chosen to cook just a small part of a dead animal since my dinner guests are avowed carnivores. While pot roast instead of turkey on "turkey day" seems almost sacrilegious in our culture, I actually know people who have lobster every year and that's worse, lobsters being creatures that are not only non-kosher but also live in crevices on the sea floor, which if you ask me sounds suspiciously like bottom-feeders. Yuk.

Anyway, this annual holiday looms large even though most people dread spending more than an hour at a time with their families. Still we all persist, and each year the advertisements touting organic, free-range, 100% natural, non-GMO, gluten-free, holistic, happy-as-a-clam-until-the-bitter-end turkeys scream at us at every turn. Piles of the headless dead birds literally litter the meat departments of every supermarket, making me wonder anew why this particular animal was chosen for wholesale slaughter each year.

As for the rest of the meal: those yams with candy melted on top remain a popular favorite, although not in our house. No, we don't do that. And since a pot roast cannot be stuffed, thousands of calories will be saved by avoiding the fat-soaked bread that is perfect for sopping up all that fat-soaked gravy. Happily we can over-indulge in dessert, homemade apple pie smothered in whipped cream, or possibly ice cream -- or both. And then it will be Friday and we can all be truly thankful that it's over, get back to the gym and forget those relatives until next November. 

Someone Different for President

Justice Sotomayor in a schleppy coat.

Yesterday Michael Bloomberg officially entered the race for the Democratic nomination for president, and I think that's great. The fact that he is brilliant, Jewish and rich -- he's earned $54 billion during his lifetime -- implies a level of confidence and know-how the office could use.

Not everyone feels that way, though. Sen. Amy Klobuchar, who lacks either the time or the money to fix her annoying lisp, considers his wealth to be a negative. During an ABC-TV interview, she said about Bloomberg's chances as another rich person running for office, "I don't think voters are going to buy that. I think they want someone different."

Okay, someone different, let's see. Oh, I know --we could elect a homeless drug addict to run things. There certainly are a lot of those out there, and God knows they've got the time. Or maybe an unemployed high-school dropout eking out a living working nights at a call center. Or a professional gardener or beautician? They would all be "someone different."

No kidding, maybe it is time for the little people to run things. Just think how life would be if an average American sat in the driver's seat: Vouchers for beer and pizza would be given to every voter at the ballot box at every election; that would get people to show up! And no more of those ridiculously complicated tax forms. Instead, all the money in Monopoly games stowed in basements everywhere would become legal tender and you could send that in every so often. Reality stars would comprise the cabinet, and we could vote them out if we didn't like their act. Supreme Court justices could wear regular clothes instead of those meaningless robes that just make them look hoity-toity and, to be honest, silly.

Who knows, living in America might be fun again.

Lucky Ruth

Hang in there, Ruth!

I haven't written a post since last Thursday, mostly because I've had wax in one ear and my equilibrium is off. I am not sure how one gets wax in an ear, or why one ear and not the other, but I do know that the over-the-counter solution they sell at CVS does not work at all. Instead you have to fork over the big bucks and go to an ear doc, or maybe your primary care physician, who has much better stuff.

The older I get, the more body parts I seem to complain about. This is true for everyone I know in my age group, so if you are still young, be happy if you can. I know cancer hits at any age, as do other diseases, but I'm talking about the general, run-of-the-mill degradation of the human body. After all, we are not all Ruth Bader Ginsburg who gets hospitalized in Washington, D.C. for "chills and a fever" and is then "transported" to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore for a dose of antibiotics and some fluids to keep her feeling good and prevent Donald Trump from getting another Supreme Court nominee. Some of us have to fend for ourselves.

A Difference of Opinion

At lunch with a friend at a local bistro, after sharing an appetizer we saw a bug crawling out from under the lettuce. I found this disturbing and while I did not completely freak out, I was audibly disgusted, alarmed and altogether turned off. I reported it to our server lest there be lots of other bugs hanging out in the lettuce in the kitchen.

My friend thought little of it and was all the way to amused by my reaction. For some reason I still don't understand, she chided with me the nonsensical statement, "It's not a big deal, and besides, your husband is a gardener! His lettuce must be crawling with bugs." Like we regularly eat bugs at home or something. Anyway, I got over it, although I did inspect my salad entree quite closely with each bite.

When it was time to pay the bill the server asked, "Separate checks?" Since we had ordered similar items I said we'd split the check, having forgotten that I had coffee for $3.00 and my companion had not. Now it was her turn to be disgusted, alarmed and altogether turned off, balking at paying for more than what she had consumed. I said she was being cheap. She denied the charge and in fact got mad that I had "called her a name." I had to apologize.

Apparently eating bugs is "no big deal" but refusing to buy a friend half a cup of coffee is not being cheap. 

Pick One

The remaining Democratic hopefuls were at it again.

I missed the Democratic Debate last night. I didn't forget, it's just that I had no idea it was going to take place since I never looked at the TV or the paper yesterday. I was doing something else: living my own life.

The whole political circus is just another reality TV show, much like that early one called Survivor that I never watched but certainly heard about, constantly. Since then a parade of similar shows have surfaced, like American Idol and Dancing With the Stars and America's Got Talent and So You Think You Can Dance and So You Can Walk While You're Talking and Talk While You're Walking, and today's popular Pick a Presidential Candidate, a.k.a. Who's On First? 

It's always the same plot: A group of hopefuls start out, and one by one they fall by the wayside. Still standing on Pick a Presidential Candidate are the pretty young gay boy with a husband, the earnest Obama look-alike who still lives in a bad neighborhood, the black, tough-talking, rhymes-with-witch who nobody likes, the rich Asian businessman promising to give you $1,000 a month if you elect him, the pasty-faced unknown billionaire, the old rabbinical Jew spewing fire and brimstone, and the former VP who looks like Death only with a facelift. And let's not forget the shrill-as-Hillary-Clinton clone and the smart, pretty one from Hawaii.

Who will rise to the top? Who will be kicked off the island? More importantly, who gives a  damn? Not me any longer. They're all the same, just wrapped up in different packages, kind of like shampoo or toilet bowl cleaner. One of them will win or lose to Trump next Election Day. Until then, it's all just theater. And bad theater at that.

A New Me

Before women could drive, hair was a method of transportation.

This morning I have an appointment for a haircut and possibly some new color. I go through this pointless ritual periodically, for reasons that remain unclear to me, especially since I find the whole thing rather unpleasant.

If I were living back in caveman days, my hair would just grow any which way and nobody would care, as long as it was long enough for my mate to grab a hank and drag me around by it, seeing as cars had not yet been invented. Looks didn't matter; everyone kept busy just staying alive. But today, with survival pretty much in the bag, hair is a big deal and has been for my entire life, causing me to spend untold thousands on how it looks.

Naturally this lapse in judgment is directly attributable to my mother, since everything we do as adults is traceable to what we saw our parents doing during our formative years. My mother went to the "beauty parlor" every Friday where a pudgy stylist named Harvey shaped her hair into a red helmet and sprayed it liberally with that gluey stuff called "hairspray." She then didn't touch it all week, and neither did anyone else, and was judicious in keeping it from getting wet in the shower and at the beach.

I rejected almost all of that behavior, except for the coloring part. My hair has been black, blond, red, streaked, striped, brown, auburn and whatever since I was about 13. This seems normal to me. And of course now it's boring, seeing as how it could be orange, green, purple, blue, magenta, yellow or any combination of those. (Kids today hop on the hair-changing wagon early.)

Somehow new hair helps me feel good, or at the very least different, if only for about a day or two. And who among us doesn't yearn to be different?

If You're Not Woke, Are You Sleep?

Suddenly, it seems, my standard-issue down coat that I bought two winters ago is a Puffer Coat. That's the term everyone uses, and if you don't you are simply not woke. You are sleep.

I guess I was asleep when the change happened, and when a friend asked me if I had a puffer coat I said no, what is it? Then I put on my down coat, and she said, "You do have one after all!" I'd better get with the program or else suffer the consequences, which could be dire. For example, saying "colored people" makes you a racist pig who favors lynchings, slavery, the Klan and Jim Crow laws, but saying "people of color" makes you woke. You don't want to make that mistake, trust me.

What I want to know is who decides these things. Is there a building somewhere that houses distinguished linguists who determine what's okay to say and what's outdated, or worse -- just plain wrong? Where is this building? Who are these people? Are they responsible for the moronic, "It is what it is" and "At the end of the day?" If so, it's best they remain in hiding.

BTW, I hate that whole woke business. It's clearly the wrong tense. Shouldn't it be awake? And what about word? I don't get that one at all.

Why Santa's So Fat

Yesterday I attended a holiday party at the home of some very generous people. Not only had they provided enough food to feed a small African nation, but many of the attendees brought offerings of their own. The result was a feast for the ages, of which I partook with abandon. Not only that, but a hired bartender was passing out special cranberry juice "holiday drinks" that were lovely to look at, garnished with a festive toothpick holding bright red cranberries coated with pink sugar. Who could resist? Not I, certainly.

Turns out that besides juice, those cranberries were floating in lots of vodka and triple sec, an orange liqueur that is anywhere from 15% to 40% alcohol. Added to the wide  array of foods I inhaled (none of them vegetables), I got home just in time to down some Pepto-Bismol before passing out cold. Happy holidays, I guess.

And that was just the opening salvo to the approaching season of giving, drinking, and stuffing one's face at office parties, art gallery openings, school fairs, neighborhood gatherings, family celebrations and the usual 14 Days Of Baked Goods laid out at our local post office. If I continue down this path without doing something drastic like having my teeth wired shut, my entire wardrobe could be obsolete by January 1.

If only the holidays ushered in a period of fasting. Now that would be something to celebrate.

Suddenly, and Without Warning

I want to kill half myself. Is that possible? Just take half a dose of lethal pills? Cut only one wrist? How does one go about it? It's just that one of me is great and the other one sucks. And the one that sucks is ruining everything for the one that's great.

It's too boring to go into, and besides, everyone has the same problem. All those pathetic souls who say they're giving up smoking, but then they buy a pack of cigarettes. Or they're going on a strict diet right now and then go out for pizza and ice cream.

I wonder why. Is it Adam and Eve getting kicked out of the Garden? Are we still feeling guilty for that one? I certainly can't think of anything else that would make so many people with such potential, i.e. almost everybody, settle for lives half-lived, and at their own doing.

We all think we have so much time to do the things we say we want to do. But then it ends. 

Trump Is Not the Problem

Yesterday a 16-year-old boy in California killed two classmates and wounded three others before shooting himself in the head, on his birthday. Meanwhile, every last one of our elected officials is focused on how to kick our president out of office, a subject that has occupied them for the last three years and which nets nothing.

It’s time we impeach every last one of the dodos currently in office and start over with people who are not imbeciles. Maybe then we can work on finding ways to end teenage drug addiction and depression and keep our kids, also known as tomorrow’s adults, from ruining our country.

I Know the Whistleblower

My computer died yesterday, right in the middle of a sentence. I took it to the Apple store to see one of those geniuses they have there, but there weren’t any around. Apparently my situation required the attention of a Texan Specialist and will be gone for at least a week. Sad news as I am stuck with this inferior thing called an iPad on which to write my blog. This takes all the fun out of it, especially since there’s such a fun topic available to write about: The impeachment proceedings concerning our president, a.k.a. Democrats

Democrats talking on the phone to the whistleblower.

Gone Wild.

It’s not as sexy as College Girls Gone Wild but a lot funnier. For example, the head guy behind the whole thing swore that he did not know the identity of the so-called whistleblower, but somehow I do. That cracked me up.

Beware of 5G

It's snowing here in Maine today and ice covers everything, keeping me inside. Amazingly, it feels like just a few days  ago it was hot as hell with mosquitoes everywhere, keeping me inside. Things are going faster and faster, too fast if you ask me, and yet not fast enough for some people.

Today's Wall Street Journal has a special section all about 5G and how it will speed everything up. And despite reading as much of it as as I could stand, I remain virtually clueless about what the heck it is and why we need it, except that China has it and we want to beat them at their game. All I know is that it's really, really fast.

Shorthand for "the fifth generation" of cellular network technology, the application of 5G will make every device work faster and enable geeky tech types to discover cool things, like new beer flavors. And hackers will be able to hack your accounts more quickly. Really, I learned that.

I already hate 5G and want nothing to do with it. Heck, I don't even drink beer.

Eating Outside the Box

My husband and I spent this past weekend out of my comfort zone and it was indeed a jolt to my system, lulled as I am by the slow pace of Maine. Pittsburgh is a lot bigger than Portland, so naturally there was a ton of traffic everywhere, much of it either going up a hill or down a hill or over a bridge, crossing one of the three rivers that meet in that city. There were also a ton more people than I am used to, hundreds and hundreds, or maybe thousands of them dressed in various arrangements of black and gold pants, shirts and hats in preparation for Sunday's big football game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the LA Rams. Team spirit wafted through the downtown streets, getting thicker and thicker the closer you got to the stadium.

Alas, it was not on the menu.....

One experience I shall long remember involved dinner out. Our friends had gone to great lengths to book a table at Poulet Bleu, "Pittsburgh's hottest new restaurant." They were diligent enough to score a reservation on a Saturday night. I was excited to try one of their allegedly superb chicken dishes, especially the exotic blue chicken, which is what the restaurant name means in English. Now that would be something to write home about!

Turns out there was no blue chicken, or chicken of any kind, on the menu -- not even in the standard white. And our 8:00 pm reservation got us seated at a table at precisely 8:50, a.k.a. ten minutes to nine, better known as "almost bedtime." There was a table for us, it's just that the people who occupied it before us were still in residence. They had finished their meal and paid the bill, yet remained, sitting around gabbing and oblivious to the huddle of hungry patrons waiting in the vestibule, staring into the dining room longingly like orphans in a Dickens novel. According to the restaurant's host,  suggesting they leave would be "rude." (I thought making us wait almost an hour to be seated was rude, but hey, that's just me.)

Now we're back in Maine with winter approaching, and since all the tourists have fled we can get into any restaurant at any time, no problem. Alas, nobody offers blue chicken here, so fulfilling that dream will have to wait. Oh well, there's always plain old dependable red lobster.

Aging Disgracefully

I just saw a picture on Facebook of a friend from high school who had a facelift. Naturally she looks fabulous and a lot younger than I do. All the comments are about how great she looks. Nobody mentions why, including her. That's stupid; do people think she sold her soul to the Devil, or maybe started some new kind of juice fast or diet regimen?

Despite the transparent duplicity, I'm jealous. My husband says I can have one any time I want. This is his way of saying I am turning into an old bag and he's willing to pay dearly for it to cease. Since he's 11 years younger than me, one can sympathize.

But I can't do it. Not only could I die during surgery, and what a dumb way to go, but it seems so frivolous, especially since my own sister is gravely ill in the hospital after having her entire colon removed in a midnight emergency surgery.

I guess I'll just have to shrivel, wrinkle and wither until the end. Although that rubber cement idea isn't half bad. (See illustration)

Why People Kill

Like most people, things drive me crazy. Ordinary things that happen all the time. It's a wonder I haven't yet gone on one of those shooting sprees they have these days, except I don't have a gun and wouldn't know the first thing to do with one if I did, and besides I cry bitter tears when I kill a bug which I do only when absolutely necessary, like it's right there in plain sight on my pillow as I'm getting into bed at night and my husband is out of town. (This happens more than you might imagine since our house seems to be the chosen destination for ladybugs and crickets looking to escape Maine's harsh winters.)

Anyway, the thing that drove me crazy most recently was a simple trip to the grocery store. I was in good spirits when I arrived but a raving lunatic half an hour later when I left. The problem was that other people were in the store, and as we all know, many of them can be total assholes. Today the Bow Street Market was rife with them.

There was the grown man who actually slammed into my shopping cart, repeatedly, so as to alert me to his presence. Apparently he could not get past me, and rather than saying something he resorted to brute force. I looked up from studying the kinds of tea available -- sadly they were out of Tension Tamer -- to see this Cro-Magnon just standing there, pushing his cart into mine again and again. "Are you mute?" I asked him. He shook his head no. Not exactly proof although apparently he was not deaf. Whatever, I pulled my cart over to let him pass, but my lighthearted mood had been darkened considerably.

What is it with people? Why not say a pleasant, "Excuse me?" instead of just standing silently while I'm lost in thought and oblivious to your presence, waiting for me to look up and then expecting an apology -- like I'm the one who did something wrong? I mean really, doesn't everyone have a larynx?

The same exact thing happened two more times while I was shopping. Seriously. Not the cart crashing but the standing silently with a pained expression, expecting me to have eyes in the back of my head. By the time I was leaving the store I was fit to be tied, whatever that means, so I was immediately livid when an old lady (and by that I mean older than me with white hair and old lady clothes and especially old lady shoes) suddenly stopped dead in her tracks to put on her gloves, and believe me it was not glove weather today, it was actually quite balmy, but anyway she stopped right in the doorway of the store so nobody could enter or exit until she was done. What is that? I wanted to hit her over the head with my umbrella, which I did not have with me, it being a nice day as I mentioned earlier, and probably wouldn't have even if I did. But I wanted to. Instead I got safely inside my car, locked the doors and screamed for a few minutes.

People. They're the worst. I tell you, it's a wonder more random shootings don't occur.

When Hell Freezes Over

Many people look forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's, but I'm looking forward to what I call Hell Freezing Over, since a lot of things promised to me will happen then. Just today a couple more things went on the list.

Our health insurance company suddenly wants documentation of four specific claims before they will be covered by our benefits card, which has been temporarily suspended. One of the disputed claims is for the amount of $2.17, originating in the office of my dermatologist. WTF? Was I charged for the rubber gloves he wore during the examination? No way of knowing, yet I spent about an hour on the phone this afternoon trying to get written clarification that whatever happened did indeed happen so my benefits can be restored. (If you are confused at this point, that's good; that means I've done an adequate job in conveying the situation.)

Anyway, after talking to a woman in Medical Records who said I clearly needed to talk to Billing, where another woman assured me in no uncertain terms that I needed to speak with Medical Records and happily re-connected me, I was eventually promised that someone would be getting back to me shortly, if not sooner, which I interpreted to mean When Hell Freezes Over.

That's when I will also be getting a call back from the theater director concerning the volunteer position I applied for months ago, and the local politician who swore last year that she really needed my help and would be calling me "ASAP." I know she meant WHFO, but somehow she got her letters mixed up.

Believe me, it's going to be a busy time when it happens.

Read It and Weep

I am currently re-reading the ground-breaking dystopian novel 1984 by George Orwell, written in 1949 as a prediction of the future. I remember reading it in the actual year of 1984 and thinking things were nothing like in the book. Now it's 2019 and it's spot on. In fact, I'd like to raise Orwell from the dead and get his permission to change the title.

The following aspects of daily life as described in the novel are happening right this minute, and if a Democrat gets elected in 2020, things will only get worse::

The Two-Minute Hate: The citizens are forced to vent their pent-up anger and rage daily and direct it towards the country's much-hated leader. (This is seen nightly on MSNBC and CNN.)
Big Brother Is Watching: Surveillance cameras installed everywhere see and record every movement of the citizenry. (Just take a look around.)
Thought Police: They are out in full force, with the goal of regulating your thoughts. You'd better not think for yourself and stick to the approved script, or else. (Punishment is most obvious on Facebook, Twitter, and in fact the entire Internet.)
Thoughtcrime: You could be arrested simply for what you are thinking. (No kidding, especially if you dare to wear a MAGA hat.)

Rockabye Theybe?

Is there anything worse than being a racist? How about a body-shamer? A serial murderer? A child rapist? What could top someone who refuses to bake a wedding cake for a gay couple? It's hard to imagine. Oh wait, I thought of something: Parents who let their children decide their own gender when they're old enough to even know what gender means. Until then they are neither here nor there, by which I mean neither he nor she.

This abusive psychotic practice is actually growing in popularity. According to news reports found online, "A Brooklyn couple's blog about their 2-year-old, Zoomer, offers advice on how to navigate the world while raising a “theyby.” Meanwhile, others with the same mental illness share photos of the kiddies on Instagram and seek support from the genderless baby community.

Oddly enough in other news, gender reveal parties continue at a fever pitch, with ever more elaborate goings-on. Last week a 56-year-old Iowa grandmother was killed at one of those celebrations when a homemade device meant to discharge colored powder instead exploded like a pipe bomb, spewing debris that hit her in the head and, well, goodbye Granny. So yes, there are worse things than being a racist. Go ahead and dislike anyone you want, just don't kill anyone or screw up your kids for life.

Capitol Hill Loonies

Even worse than having Donald Trump as president is having much of the Democratic congressmen and senators do nothing for the last three years but blah, blah, blah all day long, trying to impeach him. Is this what their constituents elected them to do?

It's all so tiring, childish and embarrassing. And so what if he is impeached? It is meaningless since it will be voted down in a heartbeat by the Republicans in the Senate. Talk about a waste of time!

Sometimes it seems that our leaders are the worst among us. And sadly, that may be true. According to a pair of British neurologists, many people in positions of power are actually suffering from something called “Hubris syndrome,” defined thusly in a 2009 article published in Brain: “A disorder of the possession of power, particularly power which has been associated with overwhelming success, held for a period of years and with minimal constraint on the leader.”

Hubris syndrome is notable for 14 clinical features that include manifest contempt for others, loss of contact with reality, restless or reckless actions, and displays of incompetence. Sounds to me like the whole bunch up on Capitol Hill.